(AN: This is my first attempt at writing MorMor and it is a work in progress, so if anything seems out of place or out of character, be a dear and let me know? Also, I am always open to constructive criticism, so fire away! Enjoy!)
Sebastian's perch in the stairwell allowed him to see only the edge of the St. Bart's. He kept his keen eyes trained there, watching Jim mess about with his phone. Moriarty caught the glare off the glass of Moran's scope as he pulled his disassembled rifle out of his bag, piece by piece. Jim looked toward him, rolling his eyes and smirking before fixing his attention on his phone again.
Minutes passed as the two of them waited for Sherlock in their own ways. Moran built his rifle up with care, his eyes never leaving his boss. Jim scrolled through files and messages on his mobile, deleting and replying and forwarding as necessary. When he was through, he began streaming music; Moran's lips twitched up, recognizing a few notes as they reached him.
On cue, Sherlock arrived. Sebastian could tell only by how Jim reacted. The quick twitch of a smile reserved for the things that made him truly happy—blood and knives and guns, booze and suits and Sherlock—that smile Sebastian loved played on the man's lips for the briefest of moments.
Moran waited patiently, straining his ears in an effort to follow the conversation the two of them were having, but he was simply too far away. He could only catch every other word and the occasional outburst of Jim's. But he didn't need to hear them, the plan was working brilliantly; Sherlock had just stepped up to the ledge. A sick grin spread on the sniper's lips, and he bit his bottom one to contain his excitement and to steady himself.
But something in Holmes' stance and expression changed; his shoulders began to shake, but not with the emotion Moran had been expecting. Sherlock was laughing, grinning like a moron and laughing.
He turned toward Jim with his smile still in place, and hopped down from the edge. The two of them were too far from the edge for Sebastian to see what was going on, but he trusted Jim.
He did. But that didn't mean he had to trust Sherlock. Surely the detective had his own plan, if Jim had one. They were eerily similar when it came to intellect; they were both sly and cunning and brilliant, even if Sebastian hated to admit it to himself.
He didn't see Jim shoot himself; didn't see the blood spray or the bone and tissue fragments fly, fall. Sebastian had expected Jim to come home, and had no reason not to. He'd been told the final problem was "Stayin' Alive," and had assumed Moriarty had every intention to do just that.
Jim had been due back to their flat before dusk.
But the gunshot… The familiar shockwave given off by the gun Sebastian had given Jim two Christmases ago, after the man had all but begged for it in his hinting rang clear in Sebastian's ears. Moran had shown Jim the ins and outs of that gun, how to field strip and rebuild it in seconds, how to clean it and keep it pristine. But he never did. He took awful care of it—he never oiled it or cleaned it; he tried to rebuild it better than it had been an broke many parts that way, he dropped it and threw it around
But he'd started caring for it after the incident at the pool with that prick of a dectective and that pushover army doctor. Moran had insisted, threatened even, as stupid as that was.
He should have been worried when Moriarty obliged, keeping the gun well cleaned and oiled, practising with it regularly. But Sebastian had simply thought the man had decided it was a good idea to finally start taking care of it. It had, stupidly, given Moran some sort of hope that maybe the man would start taking more care of himself as well. That sure as hell hadn't happened.
