"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock's eyes shot open.
Good morning.
Sherlock had been here all night.
As he shuffled to reposition himself, he discovered that the voice teasing him from the shadows hadn't let him sleep peacefully. He raised a hesitant hand to his face and winced as his fingertips grazed against the shades of black and blue embellishing his cheek. Ropes made their presence known as they dug into his chest.
A figure watched him from the dark. His silhouette illuminated by the daylight filtering through the dust speckled windows, as the corners of his lips curled into a smirk.
"You tried to trick me."
He slowly emerged from the shadows in a casual stroll, one hand falling to his side gripping hold of a gun while his other tussled his hair.
"He did too. Told me to come up to the roof and get him."
His heavy footfalls were brought to a stop.
"Didn't tell me to bring a body bag."
An uneasy laugh followed as his hand tightened around the weapon.
"Moriarty?" Sherlock mustered, his tongue heavy and unfamiliar.
"He's really dead, you know. I found him. Lying in a pool of his own blood."
Anger furrowed the man's brows as he spat.
"He was so obsessed with you. To see you burn."
Sherlock swallowed, his throat coarse. He decided upon leaving the witty remarks unsaid. He realised that they'd only be followed by an array of bullets puncturing his skin.
"And you tricked him, actually, I don't think that's possible. He probably knew. The bastard."
The gun swayed back and forth as his free hand was thrown wide into the air.
Sherlock's mind was already riddled with the possibilities of who this man could be, battling against the disorientated haze that threatened to blur his vision and conduct the painful drumming on his temples.
"You still tricked me! You're supposed to be dead! Buried in the ground! Rotting!"
"I tricked you..." Sherlock interjected with a whisper before his voice was raised in question, "You were one of the snipers, weren't you?"
The man snapped to attention at the sound of Sherlock's voice this time. A piercing gaze locking onto Sherlock as he and his gun composed themselves before replying.
"I was close enough to hear the gunshot."
"You were to shoot John then. If I didn't jump."
The man nodded and a smile crept over his lips.
"Moran?" Sherlock tried.
"Sebastian. I'm sure your brother warned you, or at least that little pet of yours."
"You were his best man."
Sebastian fell stern. "I still am."
Sebastian took a steady step forward, his knuckles white as he secured his clutch of the gun.
"This isn't for him though. This is for me."
Sherlock glanced up at the barrel of the gun, it's stare positioned on his forehead.
Sherlock was already dead to the world. And the people who had helped him earn that status hadn't heard from him since. That's what Sherlock told himself.
Sebastian eased his second hand onto the gun, bringing it to a steady stance before it's target.
Everything was eerily quiet for a while. No sound apart from the quivering breaths of both men and the sharp click of the gun readying itself.
Then, the gunshot broke through. Punctuated by the thump of Sherlock's body as all life drained from him.
Sebastian watched as the blood trickled down the detective's pale features. And he didn't feel empty. The crooked curve of his lips returned.