All the chips had fallen into place. And it was no thanks to me; that much I was sure of. When I went to coerce someone in Jim's web, damn, they had changed their minds. I would go to try and pull the wool over the government's eyes. Bam! It was already taken care of. And it wasn't my doing. Hell, I was pretty much just sitting on my ass and calling people to see where Jim was. I'd get hints, yeah. And occasionally a picture of him would surface up. And I would tack it up on the corkboard the boss had in his room. I had a map of the world on it, tracing everywhere credible hits had come in about his appearances. I knew he was alive. I mean, shit, it wasn't like he'd just leave his web to go to waste. No. I knew him better than to believe that he would just ditch everything.
And yet every time I look at my… our goddamn bed, I feel this thing in my chest. It makes my heart beat funny. And I don't know what the hell it is. Thanks boss, you're giving me a heart-attack even after you're dead and gone. I bet he knows that. And he's getting off on it right now, laughing his fucking ass off at the stupid kid in his flat trying to piece together the pieces of a too-hard jigsaw. I'm pretty sure that was what he thought of me. Another kid. Some stupid pawn to screw with… Fuck, the only person who was special enough for him was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock fucking Holmes. And god, did I hate the bastard.
I stared through the sight on my rifle, aiming for the left window of 221B Baker Street. I was out for blood. I had walked up to the roof, wondering what was taking the boss so long. And what did I find? A pool of blood and drag marks along the roof, like someone had stolen the body. After that, there was no real trace of my boss. I had checked, the blood was his, but he was gone. And so I sat on the roof, smiling like a fucking kid and aiming at the door to the flat. When the door opened, I already had my finger on the trigger. And I was going to shoot. I was a second away from blowing someone's brains out.
But there was the army doctor, clutching that stupid black coat that the detective always wore and walking in, like he was in a daze. And I pulled my hand away from the trigger. I had one of Jim's sweaters on at the point in time. I had walked back to our flat without a thought going through my mind. I walked back, half expecting the boss to jump out from a corner with a knife or something, covered in blood, and yell, "Seb!" in his usual, sing-song voice. But I was screwed over. It was just an empty flat. And I saw the army doctor thinking all of that. I pulled back, pulled the rifle apart, packed it up, and left, pulling a cigarette out from my pocket and lighting it up. I almost heard Jim saying, "You're going to die from those." And in response to the imaginary man I said, "Fuck off." But he wasn't there. And I was left talking to mid-fucking-air. Again.
Was I crazy? Hell, I've been crazy for a while now- to live with a psychopath (and enjoy it), to kill people for money (and love it), and to have a mildly unhealthy obsession for putting my life at risk (always) made me pretty damn sure I was more screwed up that I'd led myself to believe. And here I was, sitting in the flat I'd shared with my psychopathic boss, drunk off my ass, and chain smoking cigarettes, staring at the dead body on the other side of the couch.
"I mean, fuck, you think he could have at least said goodbye, or something." I told the corpse. He had a hole in his head and a thin red smile on his neck from where I'd sliced it open. His face was all slack, like he was bored. I pulled my handgun out and shot him in the chest. "Don't look so GODDAMN BORED! It's the same fucking look Jim always had! You know, Jim, the man who fucked me senseless every day of the week that he could! Yeah, the bastard who ditched me. I fucking hate him!" I roared, shooting another bullet into the man and chugging more fine wine that the boss'd had stored away. I paused, watching the blood slowly ooze from the mangle corpse.
"I fucking love him…"