Hello.
Once again, thank you for actually reading this. This is my first Moriarty/Moran fanfic so it may not be brilliant. I've just got into that ship and I have to admit- I love them both. The fic isn't that long, and each chapter was created to show a change in time. I hope it isn't that complicated and awful. I also do not own any of the Sherlock characters.
Enjoy!
-Phoebe
One thing I've learnt and held onto throughout my military past is not to develop sentiment; it only distracts you and stops you moving forward. However, another thing I learnt is that over the course of your life, a few people will try to rekindle the forgotten feeling of that forbidden emotion, and when they do, everything changes.
The rain bounces off my dark, dripping hair and trickles down my forehead, gliding over the creases in my furrowed brow. I pull the khaki collar of my camouflage jacket up around my neck and chin, protecting the red raw and sliced skin from the icy northern wind. I don't know who I'm meeting, but apparently he's important. My heavy leather boots pound the cracked concrete of the industrial building, sending off echoes that ricochet off the crumbling walls. The site is poorly lit, and with barely any natural light seeping through the aged cracks, almost every corner is engulfed by the darkness.
I come to a halt when I catch the first glimpse of the apparent employer. He holds himself with an air of dignity, as if he knows and believes that he is the superior being. His navy blue suit melts away from the shadows and suddenly his face is clearly visible. A part of him seems to radiate smugness and the hunger for power, and is portrayed by his wide, gleaming, almost childlike grin that could easily put the Joker to shame. His penetrating eyes are a chocolaty brown colour and his pupils, which currently seem to resemble black holes, are dilated. He takes a small step forward, the Italian leather of his expensive looking shoes creaking in the process. "Sebastian Moran?" he asked while taking another step towards my stationary body, his distinctive Irish accent rang beautifully through the dusty air.
"Yes?" My voice caught on my dry thorax, still weak and croaky from the effort and shouting my last assassination had required. My calloused fingers slid around the barrel of the gun pressed against my thigh. He noticed my slight movement and chuckled lightly to himself.
"People like you never lose their fighting instincts. So, Mr Moran, what do you say to putting that gun to good use?" The thrill of a potential target and mission swept over my muscular figure, triggering my military instincts. Soon enough, nothing else mattered- my mind was already set firmly into sniper mode. His patronising facial expression seemed to imply that he demanded an answer, preferably one that suited his request. A harsh sigh escaped from my pursed, chapped lips.
"Who do you want dead?"