I listened to this song on my way to work the other day. Well, this is the result. It was better in my head, but I guess it's still okay.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or its characters. They belong to ACD and the BBC. I don't own Snow on the Sahara either. It belongs to Anggun. I'm not making any profit from either of these, so please don't sue me. Bold and Italic parts are Lyrics. And I don't own The Hunger Games or their tributes.

Warnings: mentions of torture, general sadness, character death, character "death".

Snow on the Sahara

Sebastian Moran woke up when he felt the wind caressing his face. He moaned quietly, wiped the sleep off his face, and turned his head to look at Jim, who was lying next to him. Or, supposed to. He wasn't there anymore. Sebastian propped himself into a sitting position and looked around. The door to the balcony was open, so Jim was probably out there. Sebastian sighed deeply. It was still dark outside, why the heck was Jim awake? He got out of the bed and joined his boss on the balcony. Jim's mobile phone was lying on the floor, he himself had his eyes closed, a cigarette between his lips. That was odd; Jim only ever smoked when he was… nervous? Anxious? Excited? It was always hard to tell with Jim. Everything was hard with Jim. Except falling in love with him. That had been too easy.

Jim finally acknowledged Sebastian's presence, "It's gonna end soon, Bastian."

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock just texted me. He's waiting for me. The roof of St. Bart's." he murmured.

"Are you going?"

"Of course I am."

"Do you want me to join you?"

Only tell me that you still want me here
When you wander off out there

"No, I'll be fine. I need you to watch Watson for me."

"Why?"

"So many questions, Sebastian." Jim smiled, "I need a back-up plan, in case Sherlock doesn't dance the routine I planned for him."

"And that plan involves me offing the doctor?"

"Just so. And some other people offing some other people. But you are the best. You deserve the shot at Watson."

"I'm very flattered." Sebastian snatched a cigarette from the half-empty pack (when did Jim smoke all these?) lying on the floor. "I guess there's no way to stop you going there, is there?"

"No. I will go. And I expect you to accept that, and do your job."

To those hills of dust and hard winds that blow
In that dry white ocean alone

Sebastian nodded, "Of course I will, Jim. You know you can count on me. It's just… I have a bad feeling about this. You know I don't trust Holmes. What if his brother is involved? I… I would hate for you to be in his hands again."

"Don't worry about that. I have been reliably informed that Watson found out who spilled the beans about Sherlock to me… that's to say, to Richard Brook. Sherlock must know by now…" The fingers of Jim's left hand brushed against his right wrist, his eyes resting on the scars that still, after so many months, stood out against his generally pale skin.

Lost out in the desert
You are lost out in the desert

"But I wish I could have gotten someone close to Mycroft Holmes as well. It would have been great to pay him back. Plant a bullet in his skull. I would even have done it myself, to be honest. What better way is there to get your hands dirty than with the blood of Mycroft Holmes?"

"I volunteer to get him in if you don't go to St. Bart's." Sebastian said.

To stand with you in a ring of fire
I'll forget the days gone by

Jim chuckled, "I know, Sebby. And I appreciate the offer. But unfortunately, Mycroft will survive this. As much as I hate it."

Sebastian reached out to touch Jim's wrist, "It doesn't have to be like this, you know? I know I can get him in. He's only human after all. Even he needs to let his guard down sometimes. And should that moment come, I will be there, I'll get him in, and you can repay him for every single thing he's done to you. And once you're done, I'll do some more."

He gently rubbed his thumb over the scars, trying to show what he couldn't put into words. That he hated Mycroft Holmes. He hated the man so much that no method of torture he learned during his military days could ever be enough to show his hatred. If he could, he would break every single bone, tear every single muscle, burn away every inch of Mycroft's skin. And it still wouldn't be remotely enough. What this man had done to Jim was so terrible, so beyond everything Sebastian thought human beings capable of doing, that nothing could be done to quench the hatred in Sebastian that surfaced at the sole mention of Mycroft's name. Because, whatever people did to Jim, they did it to Sebastian too. Not physically. But the pain Sebastian felt, even now, at not having been able to help his boss, was more than the sniper ever had to endure.

I'll protect your body and guard your soul
From mirages in your sight

Jim shook Sebastian's hand off, "Sebastian, please, let us not get sentimental here. It doesn't suit you."

"I know. I just… I wish I had been there, you know? Do like they do in the movies, go, 'No, please, don't do this to him, do it to me, I'll volunteer as tribute!', you know, that sort of thing. Protect you. I feel like a failure. And I know it's silly because you're the one whom it happened to, but I feel really bad about it."

"That's silly, indeed." Jim lit himself another cigarette. "You have protected me all those times before. If it weren't for you, I'd have died like… what, at least five times. And besides, I made every precaution so you wouldn't find me. You did what I wanted you to do."

"Be honest, Jim: If you had known what awaited you, would you have done the same?"

Lost out in the desert

Jim thought about it for a while before he answered, "No, probably not." He watched Sebastian from the corner of his eye. Jim might have been through all the torture, but the effect of it on Sebastian had been just as big as it had been on him. Bigger, maybe. Or was it because Jim was used to bury his true feelings deep inside his soul, contrary to Sebastian, who was a very emotional man, that the sniper seemed more devastated than Jim? Anyways, Sebastian needed support now. Or the opportunity to shoot Mycroft Holmes. Jim couldn't give him the latter. And as he felt his time ticking away (because deep inside he knew he wouldn't make it home tomorrow), he knew he couldn't provide the former, either. So he did something he had never done before.

He lied to Sebastian, "Don't worry. When I'll get home tomorrow, it'll be over. No more Holmes." The smile he got back from Sebastian hurt him more than Mycroft ever could.

If your hopes scatter like the dust across your track
I'll be the moon that shines on your path

"Good. Cause, really, I was starting to think your obsession with Sherlock could be a bit unhealthy."

"Only now. You're even thicker than I thought." Jim chuckled. "Go back to bed, Seb. I'll need you to be focused when you shoot Watson."

"I'm not tired. We can sleep in tomorrow."

Jim nodded, slowly, "Alright. Sounds like a good plan. Sleep in." Maybe, maybe, it would come to that. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't even put up a fight, but just go and throw himself off the roof. Just leave in silence, without trying to drag Jim with him into hell. And everything would be alright.

The sun may blind our eyes, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

"So, any last minute things you want me to know? About how you want to be buried?" Sebastian suddenly asked.

Jim smiled weakly, "I cannot hide anything from you, can I?"

"Not anymore, Jim."

"I doubt you'll even get a body to bury, to be honest… But I'd say nice and simple. Just the way I was."

Sebastian laughed, "Okay, I'll try and remember that." But as the smile vanished from his face, he lowered his head, "Please come back, Jim. I've never asked you for anything, but here you see me begging. Come back."

"Sebastian, I can't promise you. I'll do my best to come back, but I might not be able to. You'll have to understand that."

"I don't. I don't know why winning against Sherlock Holmes is so much more important than your own life. Jim, honestly, you fought for so long to stay alive, against all odds you managed to come such a long way from the dirt of Dublin to the lights of London. Why would you want to throw it all away because of this silly battle between you and Sherlock?" Sebastian wasn't screaming, nor was he crying. He was just wondering.

Jim turned his head away from his sniper, taking in the lights of London, "Because I've come this long way, Bastian. You know, when I was young, nobody believed in me. I feel like this is the thing I need to do to finally convince myself I'm not just a fake." He chuckled. "Oh, the irony. But, you know, I often think that, despite my intelligence and all, despite the fact that I rule over this country as I do, that I only can be as great as I want to if I win this final battle. That I need to beat Sherlock Holmes to finally convince myself that everybody was wrong about me when they said I was a failure. I don't expect you to understand me, since you've started out completely different. Just believe me."

Jim barely talked about his feelings; the fact that he let Sebastian in like this right now convinced the sniper that this was in fact what Jim felt, that he was for real this time.

If that's the only place where you can leave your doubts
I'll hold you up, and be your way out

"We can do this together, Jim. You don't have to… die. We're a team, remember? I mean, of course, you're my boss. But we work in sync, don't we? I mean, I… oh gosh, I don't know how I can put this. You're the brain, I'm the arm."

"And you wonder why you never published that poetry book of yours…" Jim grinned. "Sebastian. I will do this alone. I appreciate your help, and your offer to stand by me in this fight. But I need you to shoot Watson for me, if Sherlock doesn't kill himself." There was another reason why Jim didn't want Sebastian with him on the roof, yet close enough to watch what would happen.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't an idiot. He offered this exchange on the rooftop, so there was a chance he would be prepared, because, he was smart, and he would probably know what was expected of him. And if this was the case, there was the possibility that he wouldn't come alone. That, even before Jim could make his final threat to shoot everyone dear to Sherlock, he would be overpowered. Taken into custody again. This time without any chance of escape. Execution would await him, because they couldn't afford letting him live another time. And if this were to happen, he wanted Sebastian out of the crossfire. Sebastian had to live. Jim didn't care for many people, but he cared deeply for Sebastian Moran. And on his life, he would do anything to protect him. If Sebastian was with him should things go wrong on the rooftop, he would die too, be it right there, right then, or later, at Jim's side, when the Government would kill them. That couldn't happen. And Jim would make sure of that.

And if we burn away, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

Sebastian nodded, "Consider it done, Jim." There was no way to convince his boss to change his plans. So he would follow this probably last order he would receive. "Let's go to bed, Jim. There's still time."

Jim smiled, "You're right. A bit of sleep won't hurt." The last dream he ever was going to dream. He knew it. Sebastian knew it.

Twenty-four hours later, Sebastian was on the balcony again. Alone this time. There were no tears. Sebastian refused to shed tears. Jim wouldn't have wanted him to cry. He would have wanted him to stay strong, stay in control. What had happened on the roof was what Jim wanted. So, why cry? Jim had made his last wish come true. He had beaten Sherlock Holmes. Sebastian had no idea what the two had been talking about. But he had seen that Sherlock had been ready to jump. Sebastian's heart had skipped a beat. So close… But then, he had turned around, hopped off the edge of the roof on the wrong side. Circled around Jim. And Sebastian had noticed the sudden change in Jim. The way his body had frozen, only for a couple of seconds, but Sebastian knew Jim so well... That moment something had gone wrong. A flaw in Jim's plan, and Sherlock had discovered it. And left Jim with no choice but to kill himself. Why Jim had done it, Sebastian didn't know, and he would never find out, since the only one who could tell him, Sherlock, was dead as well. Jim… Sebastian shook his head. He wasn't sure he could live without knowing what had happened. But the truth would probably kill him, too. He smoked the last of the cigarettes from Jim's pack. It was of no use. Nothing he could do would give him any relief from the dull ache he felt all over his body. He cursed Jim, "Bloody idiot. Fool-proof plan. We were so close, Jim, so darn close. We could have won this. And live happily ever after, that sort of shit."

Just a wish and I will cover your shoulders
With veils of silk and gold

"We could have had the world at your bloody feet. I would have laid it there. Just imagine all the things we could have done to it. Burn it. Or, at the very least, we could have gone to hell together. Lucifer would have liked us, you know. But no. You had to leave me here. Alone, with no one to… oh, to hell with it, with no one to love. What am I gonna do now? If you had at least given me an order to shoot Watson no matter how this ends. And Lestrade. And… Mycroft Holmes. You know what, I'll probably go and shoot him anyways, even though you didn't want me to. I didn't want you to die, and you still did, so I guess we will be even if I kill that prat. And then I off myself, come down to see you and kick your arse for doing this to me."

When the shadows come and darken your heart
Leaving you with regrets so cold

"I should have never let you go. But you managed to convince me, talking about your feelings and all. You always had a way with words. You actually convinced me to let you walk straight into Sherlock's arms, even though I knew how it would end, and you knew it too, and you still did. It's a fucking nightmare, Jim. And I am left now with nothing, nothing to take away that pain. How could you do this to me? And you know what the funny thing is? You were right: I don't even have a body to bury."

Lost out in the desert

If James Moriarty could hear Sebastian Moran's laments now, he would not be annoyed. He would be deeply moved. He knew he could cause pain to other people; it came with his jobs. Consulting people usually ended in somebody's death, and, as a result, pain for those left behind. It had happened many times.

But never before had Jim caused pain to somebody like this. Sebastian Moran was feeling pain because he lost someone dear to him too, yes. But never before had Jim Moriarty been the one mourned about. People wished for him to be dead on a daily basis. He would have never even considered that somebody would be so desperate because he was gone. And left Sebastian without anything. Anything but the memories.

If your hopes scatter like the dust across your track
I'll be the moon that shines on your path
The sun may blind our eyes, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

If Jim could hear Sebastian Moran now, he would reach out his hand and place it on Sebastian's shoulder, comforting him. But as it was, Jim was dead. And nothing could be done to reverse that. It's the side effect of a bullet to the brain; in most cases, it's fatal. And death was never beaten. He had come, pointed his long, bony finger at Jim, and Jim had followed him. Protecting Sebastian. For as long as Jim was alive, Sebastian was in danger. Sherlock might have been able to get him to call off the killers. But it wouldn't have come to that: If he had started torturing Jim right there on the roof (and Jim was sure he would. Protecting his friends. Jim would have done the same thing in this situation. Sebastian…), Sebastian would have come to his help, never mind the order. And risked his own life. That was out of the question. So, Jim did the only thing he could to guarantee Sebastian would survive: he took his own life.

Which is why James Moriarty couldn't hear Sebastian Moran's lament. He was dead. Died to protect Sebastian Moran. And it was the only good thing he had ever done in his life. He was burning in hell now, but he had protected the one thing he… loved. And he knew people had never been right. He wasn't a failure.

If that's the only place where you can leave your doubts
I'll hold you up, and be your way out
And if we burn away, I'll pray the skies above
For snow to fall on the Sahara

James Moriarty didn't hear Sebastian Moran's lament. But someone else did. Sherlock Holmes. Alive. Standing on the corner of the street. But Moran's voice was loud enough. He could hear everything. And he was happy that it was Moran mourning. Moran in pain. Not John. He turned away, walked down the street, knowing that his "death" had saved John's life.

Sebastian raised his head at the movement on the corner of the street. He only caught a glimpse of the figure walking away. But Sebastian Moran was a soldier, trained to take in everything about every person he saw. And the way this person moved, walked… Sherlock Holmes. Alive.

It had been in vain.

For snow to fall on the Sahara…. For snow to fall on the Sahara….. For snow to fall on the Sahara

Reviews are of course highly appreciated.