Her phone rang just as she set her bowl of cereal down on the table. "Who the hell…" she muttered, taking the device out of her jeans pocket. "Hello? Do you know it's bloody six in the mor-"
"Quin?" It was Sebastian Moran, predictably. Her father's faithful little sniper, always ready to do the dirty work.
"Yes?" she snapped, picking up a spoonful of cereal. The spoon had just pass through her lips when he said, "He's dead."
"Who? Sherlock?"
"Yes, but…"
"So my father succeeded. Congratulate him for me, will you?" The girl swallowed, ate another spoonful. Silence on the other end of the line. "Seb?"
"Quin… Jim's dead too."
The spoon fell from her hand, hitting the table with a clatter. The flat suddenly was deathly quiet, and very, very cold.
"If you're fucking kidding me, I swear to God…" she threatened, but received no reply.
"Look," Sebastian said, finally. "I'll meet you at a café I frequent. Text you the address. Eight sharp, I'll see you there."
The sniper hung up, and Harlequin put the phone back into her pocket. It felt strange. It was like a part of her had been cut out, somewhere in her stomach, and her thoughts were frozen in her mind. Slowly, she stood, leaving her breakfast unfinished, and walked into her bedroom to prepare to meet Sebastian.
Weak sunlight filtered in through the window, and she went over to the toy chest at the foot of her bed, opening it. Inside was an array of "toys": Guns, throwing knives, a sniper rifle Sebastian had given her for her tenth birthday, her dog tags, even a whip, courtesy of a certain Dominatrix. She selected a gun, two knives, and slipped on her dog tags, tucking them up the sleeves of her hoodie, and the gun into her pocket. Emotions. How she hated them. Usually, she'd feel whole after wielding her weapons, but now she felt… wrong. She hadn't even felt like this when her mother died. Then, of course, she was the one who put the bullet in the woman's brain.
~Ten minutes later~
The café she'd agreed to meet Sebastian at was small, cozy, and apparently served the best food in town. Harlequin couldn't have cared less, going inside and being assaulted by the aroma of food. It made her want to throw up. "Quin!" someone called, she looked around, saw the sniper by the window and joined him.
"How did he die?" The words tasted sour in her mouth.
It had to be a sick joke.
The man bit his lip, and she saw how tired he looked, as though he'd aged ten years. His eyes didn't meet hers. "The whole I'm-going-to-make-Sherlock-kill-himself plan had a flaw. As long as Jim was alive, the plan wouldn't succeed. So…" He used his fingers to form a gun, putting them to his lips.
She almost laughed. Almost. "Fuck off, Seb. He's alive."
"No, he's not."
"HE IS!" she screamed, and everyone turned to stare at her. She returned their gazes until they turned away, before glaring at the sniper. He shook his head, sadly.
"Jim Moriarty's dead. I saw it with my own fucking eyes."
Silence fell, abruptly, leaving them sitting there, staring at each other. Then, she spoke: "You're such a liar. He's not dead, and I'm going to finish whatever the fuck he started."