Spider.
Sebastian watched through the sight of his rifle as Jim clicked the safety off and aimed the barrel into his mouth. Time seemed to slow, moving like the ticking of a bomb, quiet, but loud and piercing through the silence. A carefully manicured finger tensed around the cool metal of the trigger.
This hadn't been the plan. This had never been the plan. The gun was simply a rash survival tactic in case all else failed. If Jim, or somehow, all his men, became compromised. If Sherlock refused to jump.
Sebastian was ready to shoot, he had a clean target; a shot between Holmes' eyes would put him out in a millisecond, just another drop of waste metal embedded in flesh he could add to his already metres long list. But if he was nothing else, he was a man who took his orders and kept to them.
No compromise.
The shot rang out, echoing through the dirt and grime and pollution of London City, and Sebastian didn't flinch, didn't falter as his boss crumpled to the ground, dark, glossy blood pooling around his temple. He calmly dismantled his gun and walked down the stairwell. A few moments later, as if no time had passed at all, he was stepping onto the roof of St Barts, lighting a cigarette as he loomed over the corpse, the carcass of Jim Moriarty.
He stood there for a while, he wasn't quite sure how long. Long enough for it to start raining. For the blood to seep into every crack and crevice as though it was trying to escape. Long enough for the blood to dry and clot, looking more like rust than something that had been pumping through Jim's veins just a little while ago. Eventually, Sebastian refocused, lighting another cigarette and crouching down, removing Jim's tie pin; a little diamond fox, and dropping it into his pocket.
He turned and walked, refusing himself the temptation of turning back.