The world was gray. A sick monochrome tint was cast over the colors that used to make up his life. It bit at the back of his eyes and filled his ears with buzzing. He finally understood what grief was; the pulling cold that permeated everything and slowly made it brittle and dry; the heated anger that came between in waves and shattered everything the cold had touched. Everything was gray, then red, then black. It left him paralyzed. He had spent three days on the adjacent rooftop staring at the smear of blood, watching it turn from red to brown and then be washed away by the rain. He only moved to light another cigarette.

The final problem Jim had called it. He had used so many metaphors. Only now did Sebastian realize that survival had never been part of the plan. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He had been naïve to think that Jim would live in a world without an equal, without a challenge. Sebastian knew that he had only ever been a toy for the sociopath. The death of Sherlock Holmes had been the death of James Moriarty; and although Sebastian hated to admit it but Jim had defined him and now he was lost.

The body was removed to be hidden away and disposed of. He would never see it again never get the chance to say goodbye. The rain washed away the blood and Moran left the roof to walk the streets of London. He didn't know where he was going and didn't care. Some part of him, the sentimental part that Jim had always been so quick to admonish and tear to shreds, hoped that some higher power of coincidence would lead him to where he needed to be. He kept walking even though he knew that the thought was ridiculous but some small shriveled part of him hoped.

Three hours later lost in some slum he hailed a cab. He gave the cabbie the address to the flat he had shared with Jim and watched the streets and alleyways roll by in three second blurs.

The flat was painfully quiet. What had been minimalistic intimidation while Jim was alive had morphed in to skeletal vacancy. No one lived here anymore. Sebastian began to wonder if anyone ever had. Five rooms, three weapons hidden in each, bulletproof glass in the window panes; yet, he didn't feel safe here, this was Jim's home. The reek of the flashy power Jim had always appreciated exuded from the walls. Quick wit and aces had always been the norm. Sebastian had never understood the need for that kind of show. He had always preferred stealth, the grip of a gun pressed in to his side as he walked. He went in to his room and tried to clear his head of those thoughts to no avail. The memories stabbed in to his lungs. Whispers of him lying on the bed covered in sweat nails digging in to Jim's back seeped and billowed like cold smoke. He looked away from the rumple bed only to have his eyes find another spot of color drained passion. He quickly realized staying here was not a viable option. He threw a few useful things into a duffel bag and walked out. The weight of his gun pressed against his spine. He wished he had the courage to look back.

His hours were measured in steps; days in the weight his gun seemed to gain. He counted minutes in his pulse, felt most prominently in his trigger finger. When he found himself in large crowds he would reach in to his pocket and trace his finger along the machined planes of his pistol and contemplate emptying the magazine into the crowd. Jim would appreciate the randomness of it. He would be gone before the authorities arrived. They would put the world's best and brightest up to finding him but he would be gone. No, not the best he would think before he slowly unhanded the piece. He could feel the pressure in his throat; characteristic of what he did not know. Guilt, regret, sympathy? He knew what it was like to have your world bleed out and be left in the frigid desert that remained. The randomness of the act would kill him, the choice of the victims so misguided and meaningless. Who would he doom to a fate so like his own? What was this lurid solution that filled his lungs and effused throughout his body until it hit his brain? It crippled everything and left him with only the ability to walk misshapen steps around this malevolent city.

At some point, 52,181 steps later, Sebastian acknowledged the streaks of gray playing across his vision, almost like rain, 52,203. He painted them red in his mind, exactly like blood. The streaks swirled in to Jim's blood painted on the concrete. There were already discrepancies glaring in his mind. Memory was not a machine but an organic painting subject to the erosion of grief and time. Slowly it got washed away by the rain; all it left him with was haunted dreams and empty veins. This was a different pain than he had ever known. Tears blurred his vision and collected against his nose, 52,815. He slouched in to the metal chair of an outdoor café and said something to the server. He didn't know what but it must have made sense because she walked away after giving him a sad smile.

The bustle of the street polluted his thoughts. The noise was basic against his ear drum; it slicked and burned never quite in focus. He could almost hear Jim's voice beginning the game that they always played when they went out.

'Tell me Sebbie that woman two tables down how many ways could you kill her without anyone noticing?'

"Twelve" he said. He looked up to see the smirk that would play across Jim's lips. No one was there yet the acidic whisper remained.

'Without standing up.'

"Three"

'Really? I counted Four' Sebastian could imagine the tsk-ing noise that would come from his pale lips and the swish of silk as his moved slightly when he shook his head. His fingers would bridge over his nose and he would flash teeth.

"Her wallet is in her pocket, yet she also carries a small purse. Three." Jim would smile.

'Very good my pet'

Heavy steps broke through his musings, steps that tried to be in the strict measure that military 2/4 time set but couldn't due to a limp. Variance inconsistent: psychosomatic. Boots entered his field of vision. Afghanistan. The story was too familiar, Sebastian didn't dare look up.

The man let out a sigh and in it Sebastian heard the cracking of the delicate glass pane that kept incontrollable anger and inescapable grief separate. Slowly he raised his eyes to the form of John Watson hunched over a table gripping his cane hard enough to press a bruise into the palm of his hand. He ordered his coffee black with two sugars and stared blankly at the table as if he had forgotten how to do anything but breathe.

'How about him? I bet you could think of at least fifty … I'll even let you use silverware this time.'

Even under the layers of grief John's persona screamed a military career that was well acquainted with the front lines and the ice in his veins that came with that instinctive cool though abandonment shrieked and tried to claw its way to the surface. The server brought John his drink and he thanked her without looking up. As he stared Sebastian caught a glimpse of longing unrequited love?

"You don't need to, he's already dead" Moran said under his breath. He ran a hand over his face and winced as the salt crystals around his eyes rubbed at his skin.

'That's not part of the game, tell me.'

"No. I wouldn't I couldn't."

'Moran…' The voice was threatening but he knew the tone was devoid of meaning.

"Haven't you already done enough?" he asked. Resignation was not a pleasant taste.

After drinking his coffee John paid and left. Sebastian Watched him walk away for a few seconds before he stood up and followed him home like a lost dog.

The flat across from 221B's lock was incredibly easy to pick, it didn't even require a kit, just a basic bump key and he was in. The rooms were up for rent. A thin layer of dust coated the floors. The sun rose and illuminated the windows of the now infamous flat. Sebastian could see a single sleeping form in the upstairs bedroom. John was thrashing in a war crazed dream. Sebastian knew the feeling well, the panic, the inability to act, the sting of wounds that had long since healed over and left scars. The fits continued for several minutes, then the doctor froze; his arm reached out for something in an all too familiar scene. Sebastian's fists clenched, his nails drew blood. He was sure he could see the scene playing out in his head as clear as John could.

Shots fired, rolling echo, not blanks. It was over.

A single tear dripped on to the dusty floor and left a ragged circle.

'Twenty seven ways from here'

"No."