For Victoria because you better believe we've figured you out, Sebastian Moran.
Unusuality.
Seb Moran was Jim Moriarty's best friend, but they didn't really get along.
"Pick your fucking shoes up off the floor, you lazy, Irish twat!" Seb would yell and then snicker as the tea towel whacked off the Consulting Criminal's head with a painful sounding thuwrp, before being replaced it to its rightful position over the Sniper's shoulder.
This wasn't unusual.
"Jesus, motherfu-" Jim would cry out in agony as he stepped on yet another one of Seb's cat's toys. "I'm going to kill that son of a-" But he would fall silent as his nose came into contact with the barrel of the Sniper's favourite gun. "You think you're so tough." Jim would mutter, and Seb would laugh menacingly, twirl the gun around expertly and then place it against Jim's temple. Jim had quick reflexes, but Seb's were unmatched.
"You. Me. Bedroom. Now." The Sniper's voice was low and gravely and made Jim shiver. "Or I shoot."
This wasn't unusual.
Jim would sit for hours, sometimes days, just staring into space, occasionally muttering the words: "Sherlock" or "The Game" and then he'd fall silent again, his mind never in one place for too long. He would only be broken from his reverie when calloused fingers would trail their way down his chest, their tips red raw from the latest kill.
"You missed it today," A voice would whisper and Jim would have to close his eyes so as not to shake from the desire. Concentration around his best friend was key. It was also impossible. But that never really bothered either of them. "It was a good one." And then the craving would become too much for him, and Jim would find himself handcuffed to a best post, naked and red-faced and so much worse for the wear but happy.
This wasn't unusual.
Jim liked to laugh at Seb's name. "It's not my fault I had horrible parents." A British voice would whine.
"It's just hilarious," Jim's Irish one always sounded rather peasant-like around Seb's. It made Jim's blood boil, but never long enough to do anything about it because Seb's accent did things to Jim. "Because you're-"
"Fucking shut up." Accompanied by a punch in the jaw would be Jim's comeuppance.
"Christ!" Jim would shout, but then he'd start laughing and punch Seb in the gut. It always started like that. It always ended on top of the piano.
This wasn't unusual.
"You never sing for me." Jim would mumble, his fingers caressing Seb's bare arm. "It's not fair. You sing for the corpses."
"I sing because I'm bored." The Sniper's eyes would roll. "You always get all the fun," The Sniper's lips would pull into a pout and Jim would scoff. "Let's go after Sherlock Holmes" Seb mocked Jim's accent. It was a bad job, but it made Jim smile so he didn't complain. "It'll be fun." Another eye-roll from Seb and another scoff from Jim.
"It is fun." Jim would nudge Seb in the side and Seb's eyes would narrow dangerously at him. That both scared and excited Jim, so he'd do it again.
"Fun?" This time it was The Sniper's turn to scoff. "I haven't even gotten to shoot anyone yet. I'm having withdrawal symptoms."
"All in good time, beautiful." Jim would mutter, and kiss his best friend's lips.
"I think maybe I'll just shoot you." Seb would deadpan, but then kiss Jim back anyway.
This wasn't unusual.
"YOU IRISH BOLLOCKS!" Jim would wake to fist to the balls.
He couldn't even mutter the string of bad words that had found their way to his tongue because the wind had been so easily knocked out of him by the black-belt that loomed over him with menacing eyes. "I'm late for work; you shut off the alarm!"
Jim could only grin as Seb had to search the floor for underwear, socks, anything that could be thrown on in a hurry. "Fuck your whole fucking heritage, you paddy asshole!" A shoe would fling in Jim's direction and he'd dodge it, laughing and pulling the covers up around him. It was the only time he ever got any. Covers, that is.
"Hijo de puta," Another shoe. "You better wipe that estupido smirk of your goddamn face, or I swear on my father's grave-you poco merida-give me my fucking shoes back!"
"I love it when you talk dirty in Spanish." Jim would smirk, hiding the shoes under the covers.
"I don't know what you're smirking at, dumbass, you're late for work too; Jim from IT." Seb would say, grabbing the white lab coat from the back of a chair.
"FUCK!" Jim's face would contort in horror, and he would leap from the bed as though it were on fire. "This is your fault!" He'd yell, throwing the shoes back in his companion's direction.
"My fault?" Seb would laugh, arching an eyebrow as she pulled the lab coat on over her plain clothes. "I'm not the one who wanted to go four motherfucking times last night!"
"Shut up, you enjoyed every second of it." Jim would sniff arrogantly. "And I didn't turn off the alarm; you broke it when you knocked over the nightstand." He pulled a pair of grey Westwood boxers on, and then a pair of Calvin Kline jeans, his eyes scanning the area for his other Converse.
"I knocked over the nightstand because you threw me the fuck into it." She huffed, sitting on the side of the bed and pulling on a sock.
"You had it coming." Jim muttered, viciously. "Where the fuck is my-"
Seb arched an eyebrow, holding the shoe up by her finger. He went to grab it, and she pulled it away, sticking out her tongue with a defiant smirk. Jim shook his head, straddling her so she couldn't move and covering her mouth with his, biting down on her tongue, hard, until he could taste her blood. She moaned, her hands sliding up underneath his shirt and she dug her nails into his chest as hard as she could, scraping his skin and he shuddered at the contact.
"Oh, I hate you." He muttered, pulling back. "C'mon, Molly Hooper." He held out a hand to her and she took it, allowing him to pull her up. "We've got jobs to get to."
And she would smile viciously, kissing a bruise on his jaw and dropping the shoe to the ground.
Seb Moran was Jim Moriarty's best friend, but they didn't really get along.
This was not unusual.
Shut up, it's not totally unbelievable. (Yeah, okay, it is. But a girl can dream.)
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