"We doing this shit or what? I got shit to do, I 'ain't got all day, ya bunch of fucks." Slamming the door behind him and drowning out the similarly colourful yells of the men on the other side, Sebastian Moran runs a hand along his stubble-flecked jaw and drops into the wooden chair placed in the centre of the white-washed room, shoving his hands into his pockets and making a crude hand gesture in the general direction of the guys in the other room. His silver-grey eyes flick back to the camera resting on the tripod in front of him and he raises an eyebrow, running his tongue along his teeth and commencing the show with a loud click from the roof of his mouth.

"You know who I am. Names don't mean shit, so I 'ain't giving you none of that. It's all bullshit. Fuck society and normalcy, who gives a shit about all that." His hands emerge from his pockets with a cigarette and a lighter, and holding the cigarette between his teeth, he lights it with a speed that shows he's had years of practice, the lighter back in his pocket along with his hand before he's even taken a single breath. A plume of smoke escaped his lips and pools around his head, blending with the greying tone his blonde hair is starting to take on. His stubble might as well be a cloud of smoke ghosting over his chin. He blows the smoke out in a thin line.

"I'm here to tell you about how I met a guy, right? What a guy. What a fantastic little piece of shit. I'd say I'd never met a greater motherfucker in my fucking life, but that would be bullshit, so I 'ain't gonna say that. What I am gonna say, is that that little slut made my fucking year. 'Ain't no one gonna take that year away from me, or I'll blow their fucking brains out, ya hear me?" Moran laughs, an echo of happiness. It's low, gruff and cracked, and his mouth turns up at one corner as he grins, the other corner holding up the cigarette. Shaking his head and pursing his lips, he glances back up at the camera, his eyes becoming fierce and angry once more.

"You want me to tell you the end, the finale to this entire piece of crap, of course you do. But that 'ain't the way I'm gonna tell ya, 'cause I'm a fucking sniper, and if you wanna tell me you give a shit about how I'm gonna tell this, I'll put a fucking bullet in your head, you got that? So I'm gonna start from the start, the way it should be done. Just like every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain. But listen, you 'ain't here to listen to that shit, and I 'ain't here to tell it, so let's just fuck on with it and get past all the intro crap." Seb straightens up slightly in the chair, falling back into his original slouched position just seconds later, narrows his eyes, and tilts his chin up a little, as if studying the camera in suspicion. Eventually he clicks his neck both ways. "First person, present tense, just in case some of you motherfuckers in the other room didn't go to college."

He begins.

"June fourth, twenty twelve. That's one month after all the crap, after the shittiest day I've ever been through in my entire fucking life. Don't fuck around with me and pretend like you don't know what goddamn day I'm talking about, 'cause that's crap. And I'm not gonna say it, so don't fucking request it, right?

So I'm on my way to work, and I get on the train and then I realise the date. So then my day starts to get a bit crap, 'cause it's been a month, and the king left the building thirty one fucking days ago, which is shit in itself.

So I'm sitting there in the train with all these naive little motherfuckers sitting around me, talking about worthless pieces of shit, bullshit that doesn't even fucking matter, and I'm thinking, how the fuck do they not even realise that he's gone? This brilliant little fuck has just taken a bullet to the brain, and these bitches sitting around me, they don't even have a fucking clue. They don't fucking know what it fucking feels like, and let me fucking tell you, it feels like fuck. Fuck! So I'm all but ready to pull the gun out of my gym bag right there and just gun every single one of them down where they stand.

But just as I'm reaching for the zip, this guy comes and sits right down next to me. A million fucking seats in the carriage, and he chooses to sit there. And as I'm eyeing up this piece of shit, I think to myself, this guy's depressed as hell, he's got some fucking body bags under his eyes, and he looks ready to die right where he's sitting next to me. And just as I'm thinking, I might as well get the gun out and put the fucker out of his misery, it gets worse.

He pulls a fucking picture out of his pocket and starts to look at it. A. Fucking. Photo. Like some fucking wallet photo you get of your kids or some shit like that, I don't really give a fuck. And he's staring at this picture, and I'm staring at him staring at the picture 'cause he's all but ready to slit his fucking wrists with it, and then suddenly he tears his eyes away from it and looks right at me. Staring me right in the fucking eyes, and in that one second...I know he knows how I feel. He is me. The fucking image, on the inside, anyway. Fucker's killed someone, too, I can see it in his eyes, in his expression. Depressed as fuck, but when he looks right into me, it just clicks, and I see that fury, that goddamn rage and passion that keeps me fucking on every fucking day of my fucking life, and he just nods at me once, then looks back at this fucking picture in his hand.

So what the fuck else could I do? I was pissed off, he was pissed off. So I start to laugh. He looks back up at me, and that sends me into fucking hysterics, and I'm pissing myself laughing on this train, and now he's got the fucking devil in his eyes, and I just keep the fuck on going 'cause I'm actually getting somewhere here, even if I don't have a shitting clue where. Finally he puts the picture back in his pocket and just sits there glaring at me while I've got tears rolling down my face like some fucking Niagara Falls or shit. So I calm down, and I shake my head at him, and I just say 'Fuck, you're a happy one, 'ain't ya?' And he just fucking stares at me like I'm some fucking mental hospital patient, so I just stare right back at him, and we stare the crap out of each other 'til the corner of his mouth turns up and he chuckles, and I'm thinking, thank the fucking Lord, I'm fucking getting somewhere here.

I don't have a shitload of fucking family photos stashed away in my pockets, I'm not some fucking domestic. But then I think, wait a fucking second, I don't need a fucking photo, I've got a fucking voice. So I say 'What's in the photo?' And he raises an eyebrow, and then with this little smirk on his face, he has the shit to ask me 'What's in the bag?'

So I think, well, shit, it's worth a shot, so I pull the bag up and open it. And he doesn't look a bit surprised, all these bullets, guns and crap in this bag in front of him, and he doesn't bat a fucking eyelash. So then I just raise my eyebrow and look down at his pocket where this photo is, and he just tilts his head disapprovingly, the little shit. Like he's never heard of fair play, crafty motherfucker. But who really gives a fuck, 'cause he doesn't care about the bullshit in the bag, so I don't give a fuck about the photo in his pocket. So I just shrug, and catch his eye again. But this time, there's a different sort of fire, right, less of a 'the devil's coming for you, bitch, you better run or he'll rip your fucking head off', and more 'fucker's alright, let's give him a chance'. So I take it.

'Well, I 'ain't getting anything about whoever the fuck's in that picture, so I'll have to do with you. Ya got a name?' I say, and he purses his lips and folds his hands in his lap, and just says 'John Watson. And you are?' And I'm thinking, well, shit, he's a well spoken little bugger, isn't he? So I say to him, fucking smart alec I am, 'It's a pleasure to meet you Mister Watson, you can call me Sebastian Moran.' And I hold out my hand, and he just laughs, which is a fucking relief, 'cause shaking someone's hand at that angle is fucking ridiculous. And we've got a fucking connection already, so we don't need a fucking physical one to seal the deal. Like I said, society and normalcy, it's all complete bullshit. Crap.

'So what poor bugger is cold in the ground 'cause of you, Watson?' I ask, 'cause I know that with a rage like that, you're not just gonna give up on someone 'cause they annoy the shit out of you. 'I don't know,' he answers, not in the fucking least surprised, which actually surprises the crap out of me. 'Cause with a question like that, you're not gonna be used to it, and this guy's just answered it straight away. So I'm thinking, well, fuck, either he's a fucking mass murderer or he's a veteran. Either way, my sort of guy, you get my shit here? So I just assume that some guy's pushing up daisies 'cause this guy's doing his bit for Queen and Country and all that bullshit, so I just say, 'Iraq or Afghanistan?' And for a second, this guy, John Watson, he's got an expression on his face like Abraham fucking Lincoln has just come up and given him a French kiss or shit, and I think, well, shit, I've lost this conversation now, time to get the fuck out of there.

But as I reach for my bag, he fucking grabs my shoulder and pulls me back to look at him, and that look is still plastered all over his face like a fucking strip of wallpaper, but there's something else as well, some other piece of background shit that I'm not getting, which is fucking frustrating. And as if his brow can get any lower, he just says, quieter than anything I've ever heard 'Where did you hear that?' So I just frown right back at him, 'cause I don't fucking know what bullshit he's on about, and I say 'I didn't hear from anywhere, I could see it. I get it. I'm the same. You've lost someone, I see it. In your eyes, like some fucking wildfire or something. You just burn, every single fucking day of your fucking life, and every time it hits you, every time you wake up, it fucking burns the heart out of you.'

And when I say that last bit, he jumps like I've just brought a fucking gun to his head, and now he's got the most paranoid, frustrated and depressed expression on his face, even out of all the shit I've ever seen, and I don't fucking know why this guy seems so familiar, because I've never been more certain that I've never met him. And then I realise, he's not the one who's familiar, it's just 'cause he is you. He is you, so his shit is your shit, and right now he's putting up with the same amount of shit as you are, so you both gotta help lighten the fucking load, you know? So I say to him 'Watson, I think you'd better give me a call, alright, 'cause there's a shitload of stuff we gotta talk about, by the looks of things.' And he just nods, and it's my stop so I get up and raise an eyebrow at him. And then I'm gone like the fucking wind."

Moran raises his eyebrow in time with the story, and at the end, he removes the cigarette butt from the corner of his mouth and blows out the last of the smoke, before throwing the butt into the corner of the room. He rubs a hand along the back of his neck, the other arm resting on his leg, the fingers twitching due to the lack of a cigarette or a gun. He growls and pushes himself to his feet, walking a few steps forward towards the camera and leaning down to look right into it. His startling eyes pierce the lens and don't falter.

The screen goes blank as he reaches over and switches off the camera.