The Reichenbach Fall. Suicide of a Fake Genius. It was in all the papers, you probably remember it yourself. Right after all those break ins, the Master Criminal, James Moriarty who turned out to be just an actor, Richard Brook. Rich Brook. Reichenbach. Well that was three years ago now, publicity has died down a lot since then and only a few remember the truth. Sebastian Moran knows the most, or so he thinks. And he can't bear it any longer.
Sebastian Moran walked towards the marble tombstone in front of him, his face contorted as he read the flowery writing 'Richard Brook.' Even in death Jim couldn't be himself, it couldn't have even said 'Jim' could it? He shook his head to himself and sat down on the dirt in front of it, neatening up the flowers that sat there, much in the same fashion as when he used to straighten his Boss's tie.
"Fuck... I'm getting so sentimental, Boss." He said with a sad, empty eyed smirk. "At least you're not here to see it." He muttered, wiping a hand through his short, unkempt hair before wiping it across his scratchy, stubbled jaw.
"It get's worse... I wrote a...well I wrote a poem." If Sebastian closed his eyes he could imagine his Boss's laugh, the way he would mock him, those dark eyes that would light up with glee and he'd look like a cross between Death itself and an adorable excited kitten.
"I'm not going to read it out because I'd feel like an idiot." He muttered. "But I'll leave it here, and imagine you could read it, imagine you laughing at me, quoting bits from it in a mocking voice... Maybe I'll be lucky, maybe all those times I jokingly asked you about the afterlife...maybe you were wrong... for once. Maybe I'll see you again." His eyes started to water and he coughed gruffly, putting the paper down on the ground before getting up and forcing himself to walk away.
Remembering You.
Jim Moriarty.
Where do I begin?
Where do we begin?
I will always remember that first day...
Back when money was the most important thing to me,
Back when nothing was important to you,
Instructed to kill you,
Take down the Moriarty Empire,
'You can't monopolise crime.', they said.
Oh how wrong they were.
I surprised you,
I think that's what first drew you to me,
The ability to be surprised,
I really am honoured,
I stood there, holding the gun,
Truly the man with the power,
But I wasn't, was I?
I was helpless when it came to you.
Always have been.
Still am.
You spoke to me in that calm,
That soothing voice,
Gave me a choice,
A life,
And despite my gut instinct,
An instinct I had been conditioned to trust,
I agreed.
When did the lines blur, Boss?
When did I become more than a sniper? You, more than a Boss?
The Faceless man and his Tiger,
All those men...
All those people...
I was the only one who ever got to you.
And I'm so glad I did.
That I could sample your beauty.
The mind that never stopped,
Never stilled.
The face that could be perfectly stoic,
Perfectly still,
Or fiercely animate.
The way you could switch between the two.
'I'm sooo changeable.'
That night at the pool,
The beginning of the end.
All those snipers, always trained on John,
I knew better,
Always trained on Holmes,
I saw something in John,
The same thing I see in myself,
A fierce loyalty,
The willingness to die for the man he loved.
And that smile,
Oh that smile that graced your lips as you saw,
You always see, don't you?
That red light,
In the centre of Holmes' forehead.
And you knew,
You always know.
'One more job, Tiger, One more job and we can rest.'
That's what you told me,
Told me after I voiced my concerns over your descent into obsession,
And there was that glint in your eye,
You knew.
And I think, so did I,
And that kills me,
It rips me apart.
Did you ever think of me?
Think of what you were leaving behind?
No, I don't suppose you did.
You never questioned my loyalty.
Knew I would always be by your side,
I'll be there again soon, Boss,
There's space next to you,
For your right hand man,
Your tiger,
One bullet and I'm yours.
Always,
Always yours.
The gaze of Jim's usually emotionless, deep, unbelievably dark brown eyes. Eyes that almost seemed black at first sight, were now slowly losing their sharp, omniscient sparkle when the dark-haired Irishman took in the sight a few meters away from him. The once strong, fearless and merciless gunman sitting,kneeling in front of his alleged cold, motionless marble tombstone all soft, broken and sentimental. It caused a smile to tug at the corners of his lips and at the same time it made him take a deep, slow breath.
"Oh, my good old Sebastian." The words rolled over his tongue and left his mouth almost noiselessly. Of course, it had to be done. These three years of disappearance. Jim was aware of what it would do to Sebastian. What he would do. He watched the taller man talking to his grave, placing a note onto the soil before slowly standing up and slouching away. Even his usual prowl had left his walk. He no longer looked like a tiger stalking it's prey. The fight had left him.
It took Jim a moment, waiting for Sebastian to completely leave the cemetery, before he stepped forward from his position, hidden behind a large weeping willow. He walked towards his 'grave' and bent down to pick up the piece of paper, brushing the soil from it.
Quickly, his gaze darted over the paper. Letter for letter. Word for word. And the words slowly sank in deeper with each second spent focusing on it. Jim knew it would end like this if he didn't show up. Loyal, always, even after death. His tongue flicked out in order to wet his lips. It was time.