Disclaimer: I own nothing. I found a post on tumblr telling that our fandom is the oldest of all, claiming that we were the ones who invented fanfiction. My dear friend KnightFury said we were probably trying to cope with Reichenbach feels at the start. I ran away with that idea.
How it all began
Sebastian had been so sure that he'd escape. When they arrested him, he had believed that it would be only a momentary setback. Because it didn't matter if they condemned him to life in prison for a number of murders (not even all he'd committed – actually, he didn't know why they hadn't killed him – must be some lasting influence of Moriarty's web after all), he was a tiger that wouldn't let himself be caged. He'd find a way to run free.
He was, after all, a man on a mission. The detective couldn't be allowed to live. True, Moran had been pitifully inadequate in fulfilling that duty of his until now, but that didn't mean he'd given up on it simply because he'd been caught.
He was a straightforward kind of man, so fighting the too clever for his own good sleuth on his own had naturally been hard. He'd need the Professor's brain for that. But Moriarty wasn't here anymore to be counted upon, and that was exactly the reason Sebastian needed to * kill Holmes * with such a bitter, burning intensity.
It turned out that organising his daring escape from prison was much harder than he had first surmised. If the Professor had been alive, he wouldn't have left his best man languishing there – and Moran could without bragging say he had indeed been Moriarty's most dangerous and faithful minion. But once again, the Professor wasn't there – and remembering it never failed to squeeze the sniper's heart in a painful vice, leaving him breathless with grief for a moment, no matter how many years had gone by.
And then suddenly – it certainly seemed so – twenty five years had gone by and Moran was turning seventy and his joints creaked, his sight was half gone and if he had managed to escape he probably wouldn't even be able to aim properly.
So who was he kidding with his vengeful dreams? Only one thing he had really wanted in his life (well, maybe three) and he had failed at it. At all of them, in the end, if he thought about it. He'd never been as high on the Professor's regard as he'd dreamed of becoming – but he didn't deserve it anyway, and he'd made his peace with that. Sort of. And as far as being the man's perfect associate went…yes, he'd been the best of the lot, but far from perfect. He'd always obeyed his orders, mind you, but that was exactly the reason he'd failed the Professor at the supreme moment.
All around, Moran wasn't that one big failure. He was on the brink of despair, but still something kept him from offing himself. That was the cowards' way out, and he wasn't going to die a coward on top of everything else.
But now that his fantasies of slow murder and torture towards the hated sleuth felt ridiculous, because in no way he'd be able to realize them, with what was he supposed to occupy his mind in order not to go completely barmy? It was while he thumbed his own well-loved copy of The Valley of Fear that he got an idea. (The book had been a thoughtful gift of a fan who'd discovered him through the doctor's writing and decided that the sniper was the man of her dreams. Only jail kept him from dealing with such idiots the way he'd undoubtedly do were he a free man.)
They were similar, he'd often thought – or more accurately, the doctor was to Holmes everything he'd always dreamt of becoming for the Professor (if he wasn't grossly mistaken). And what had the doctor done during the Hiatus, besides fighting with Moriarty the eldest? He'd kept up his writing, in a way that looked more compulsive than ordinary. Maybe he could do so, too. When he asked for pen and paper, the guards procured both for him without much grumbling.
But he wouldn't be writing his memories. Oh, no. Because there was only one possible ending for that, and one that hurt far too much to recount. Another gift from that fan of his had been Wells' book, and he thought fiction was a better option for his pastimes. How things should have gone. How things would have gone if he'd stumbled on a time machine and managed to persuade Moriarty that only death awaited him at the end of his mad plan. Confronting the younger man alone. With Sebastian in such a ridiculous position that, while he had a clear view of everything that happened, he didn't have a decent angle to shoot the bastard down.
Sometimes he wondered if the Professor's actions had indeed amounted to suicide…well, helped suicide. No, the man would certainly have never – would he? What did Moran really know about him? Almost nothing of his thoughts, to be honest. He just obeyed. Not just because he was beaten, Moran didn't want to think that of the Professor, but if he'd been ill – maybe – but he'd have noticed
Afterwards, during their hunting down the sleuth together if the man was ill, wouldn't he? Oh, who was he kidding. They might have been similar at the core, but he was no doctor.
And he needed to stop his mind from continuing down this trail. Only madness lay down these kind of what ifs. As if the truth of what had happened, as far as Moran knew, wasn't heartbreaking enough. No, no, his writings were meant to put things finally right, not make matters even worse.
So, if only Moriarty would have agreed to hear his future self out, what would have happened then? The Professor would still have faced Holmes. He was dead set on that. He would have kept Sebastian close, though. Just a few steps behind, hidden among the trees at the side of the path. Moriarty would have ordered the sleuth to give up this one-sided war if he wanted to live. Holmes' only answer would have been a proud sneer.
And then…then Moriarty would have snapped these long fingers of his, and Sebastian would have smiled while he put a bullet right between the detective's silver eyes, like he'd always wanted to do.
And the Professor would have called him close with a crooked finger, telling him, "Well done, Bast." (This was his fantasy, and in it Moriarty had a pet name for him – one none of the others had ever used).
They would wait a bit there – they didn't want to risk going from hunters to hunted. When the doctor came back, running and calling the sleuth's name hoarsely, Moran wouldn't have left him even come close – or even clearly see Holmes' corpse slumped near the edge of the waterfall. It would be a mercy killing, in a sense. Not another bullet in the head, though. He'd put it right in the good doctor's heart. (Good? 'Good' was relative anyways.) It seemed more fitting. The Professor would have liked that too, and he would have smiled at his Bast.
Afterwards, it depended on the mood Moriarty would be in at the time. If he wanted a clean thing, Sebastian would have thrown the two bodies in the roaring waterfall, never to come up again. If instead he wanted to make an example out of the bastards, they'd leave the bodies there, to birds and beasts and the discovery of the next tourists who would be tempted by the majestic landscapes. Seb liked better the first option, though. Leave the two bodies to the fish.
And then…oh, then they'd wait for the whole trap the detective had set up to exhaust itself. They might lose a few minions, but that'd be of no consequence. They'd take a long holiday somewhere warm – like Greece, Moran was sure that the Professor would have loved Greece – and go back when things were calmer, playing the outraged, much maligned, innocent genius. And if some cops were too insistent, Seb would have taken care of them. A clean job. Efficient. And maybe gained another, "Good job, pet," from the man he worshipped.
Once that story was drawn to its natural conclusion, Sebastian found out that he couldn't stop toying with – and writing down – other what if scenarios. What if, like the doctor, he'd been allowed to share his boss' living space? Smiling at him over coffee in the morning. Having a stroll together without the pressure of fleeing or hunting anyone. Feeding the pigeons in the park. Quiet as a mouse, observing the Professor while he got lost in his calculations. Admiring the stars with him, while he explained the finer points of astronomy to his faithful companion and sniper. Just living by Moriarty's side. Existing in his general vicinity. Sebastian would have gladly given fifty years of his life to have that. At least, he could still dream. Bittersweet fantasies that, in some sort of ideal universe, would have been true. If only. If only.
Then, one day, someone – not the Strand, they were quite content with doctor Watson's accounts, thank you very much – came to interview him about his version of what happened at Reichenbach and after it. On a whim, he offered what he'd already written instead, with the title, "How it should have gone." He didn't really think it would be accepted, but it was.
What's more, they challenged their readers to offer their own contributions with the same title. Moran didn't know – neither he cared – but that became a wondrous success. So much so that they had to extend the deadline of it. and extend it. and finally give up and let what was supposed to be a two page article, with the villain's point of view, entirely take over the new magazine, with so many what ifs and alternate timelines and so on and so forth – and a great success of public, at that. And then, other people started to follow their example about different works…
In the meantime, in his cell, Sebastian Moran kept writing. Things that would be published and things that couldn't be. He wouldn't publicly slander the Professor. And in this insensate world, insinuating that he could reciprocate the exact depth of Moran's regard for him would indeed be most insulting towards the man.
But those writings were his wish fulfilment, as much as or more than actual dreams, and so he wrote just for himself. He wrote of lazy kisses in the mornings. Of being rewarded for a particularly successful job by being allowed to worship the Professor's body the way it deserved – the way he'd always ached to do. Of challenges that included no weaponry, but only self-control and his own eagerness to obey the man in everything. One would think that at his age Moran was past such dreams, but he would never, ever get over the need to express his love.
There – he had written it. He loved James Moriarty, would always love him with the burning intensity of a dozen fiery hells – and he hoped to join him soon in one. The sniper had no delusion – heaven was not for people like them. It wouldn't surprise him at all to arrive down there and find out that the Professor had taken over hell and now ruled the place, though. Maybe they could continue their endeavours. Moran smiled to himself. That sounded heavenly indeed.