The second a spark of consciousness lit inside Jim's mind, it ignited him into action. He was suddenly wide awake; every nerve in his body active and ready to respond at the slightest possibility of a threat. The criminal was already on his feet before he saw that Holmes was lying on the ground in front of him, seemingly dead to the world. All of this happened in the course of a few seconds, before the pain hit, making Moriarty bite his lip to keep from making a sound.
God, his fucking head hurt. Not to mention his hand. What the Hell was Sherlock playing at? Jim hadn't seen a syringe, so that eliminated the possibility of poison injection, but then why did his hand hurt so badly? His palm burned and tingled in a strange but painful combination of what felt like sunburn and pins and needles.
Actually…there was one explanation that made sense.
Slowly, Moriarty lifted his right palm, spreading his fingers. They stood out starkly against the backdrop of London, but what really captured Jim's full, undivided attention, was the silvery Mark that seemed to have twisted and curled its way from the center of his palm, extending all the way to the bases of his fingers.
The criminal felt a sudden urge to vomit. No, this wasn't happening. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Sherlock was supposed to die. Jim was supposed to die. But now if Jim shot himself, Sherlock could die while unconscious. Oh, no, that wouldn't do. It had to be done properly. Jim wanted to see Sherlock awake, in front of him when he died. He'd been so close. So close to escaping this godforsaken Earth, and now the whole damn plan was ruined. Because now he couldn't die shaking hands with Sherlock. Now Moriarty would never get that chance again. Because now, he and Sherlock Holmes were Mated.
This was wrong. This was all wrong. Jim wanted to scream and cry and take a knife to this fucking Mark and cut it out of him. He needed it off. This was weakness. This wasn't how he'd wanted to know Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was a threat. A beautiful, perfect threat. And Jim needed to maintain that relationship. Not one where they would want to be around each other constantly. Not one where he'd have to talk and comfort and do pathetic ordinary things with the detective. That wasn't how this worked. God, Jim was so sickened.
Maybe…maybe he could sever the Bond. It had been what? A minute? He'd only been out for 30 seconds at the very most. Jim was no expert on the medical aspect of Soulmates but perhaps, given how recently the connection had developed, it could be worn down and eventually broken. Usually, new Soulmates had to stay ridiculously close for the first 24 hours or so after their Bond first developed, to allow it to mature and form correctly. But if Jim ran, if he avoided Holmes, the Bond would never have a chance to mature. Maybe it would eventually become frail from the lack of contact, and break. It was all a matter of waiting, but if there was one thing Moriarty was good at, it was that. He would bide his time and start planning a new game; a new way out for both himself and Sherlock. But right now, that had to be put aside.
Sherlock would likely be waking up at any moment, which meant Jim had to get out of there, and fast. Without another moment's hesitation, the criminal started towards the door to get onto the rooftop, taking his phone out of sleep mode as he did so. He'd send a text to Jo, tell her everything was off. No sense causing a fuss for no real reason.
Jim winced as he made his way down the ground floor of the hospital. God, it felt like his headache was getting worse. He actually felt a little bit nauseous, now that he thought about it. No matter. He'd had far worse. Far, far worse.
Everything is off. –JM
Approximately half a second later, a reply came.
Alright, Boss. –JA
Alright. That was taken care of. Jim didn't doubt that she'd tell the others about it—such things were a part of being the mastermind's second in command. Now he just had to get out of here and…fuck.
Suddenly, the pressure on Jim's head seemed to increase tenfold. The criminal wheezed at the sudden pain, and he was thankful this hallway was empty at the moment. There were only two more he needed to walk down before he was out. He could handle this. He could handle…
Moriarty mentally cursed again as another wave of pain hit him. He had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat and bite his lip hard enough that he tasted iron to keep himself from showing how much it affected him. Was Sherlock waking up? Was that why he kept feeling worse? If so, he was running out of time quickly. Otherwise, if this was just the bond breaking…well, at least it was breaking.
Jim wiggled the fingers on his right hand, trying to ignore the fact that, as his headache got worse, the burning of his Mark was also getting more intense. It was difficult to bear, but Moriarty could see the door he was looking for, which would lead him out the back of the hospital. He could step into an alley and get to one of his more remote flats, wait out the breaking of the bond. If worse came to worst he could always arrange to have it broken illegally, though that would be a last resort. The idea of having his mind in the hands of an ordinary person was…unnerving.
Finally, the criminal reached the door, slipping out into the crisp morning air and promptly into an alleyway. He had hoped that the cold air might help his headache or the burning in his hand, but no such luck. Instead of disappointment, however, Jim felt…alarmed. His heartbeat hammered so that he could hear it in his ears, even above the noises of morning city traffic. Moriarty was so confused…he couldn't think…everything was so disorienting.
What was happening to him?
Shaking his head, the criminal decided it was better, in his current state, to catch a ride with Jo than to drive himself home. He leaned against a wall, the dizziness that was starting to cloud his vision and weaken his legs winning out over his love of Westwood.
Require assistance. B81. –JM
Moriarty watched the screen for 5, 10, 30 seconds, growing two parts panicked and irritated for each one that passed. Where the fuck was Jo? Did she think that because the job was off that she didn't need to bother watching for texts? Anger flared up in Jim's chest as he waited another 15 seconds. This was how his second in command acted? Was this a fucking sabotage?
The criminal winced as the pain in his head intensified once more. It felt like someone was taking his brain and stretching it. He bit his lip, suddenly afraid. He needed to get out of here. Jim was weak; exposed. This was dangerous.
But if Jo wasn't answering, who was to say his other two favorites would? He'd trusted Jo to tell them the operation was off, and if he couldn't trust Jo now, he certainly couldn't trust anyone that'd been fed information by him. If he texted them, then all three gunmen would know he was vulnerable. And that simply wouldn't do. No, Jim was much better off getting help from one of the new recruits. One that had the tales of all Moriarty had done fresh in his mind. They would be less likely to cross him.
On a whim, the criminal hit Sebastian Moran's name. Hastily, and fighting to stay conscious through the throbbing pain in his head, he typed out a message and hit send before slumping back against the wall.
Require assistance. B81. –JM
(o0o0o0o0)
Sebastian's head snapped over to where his phone lay, heart thumping loudly. He forced himself to take a breath. It wouldn't do to be nervous for his first real job with Moriarty.
A few years ago, Sebastian had received a Dishonorable Discharge from the United States military. It didn't matter that he hadn't been the one to start the drunken brawl—all that mattered was that his opponent had ended up dead at his feet, bleeding out onto the dirt floor as Sebastian passed out into an unknown soldier's hands.
It had been the worst night of his life. Sebastian had regretted it every single day since it happened and yet, there was absolutely nothing he could do to take it back. The douche had had it coming, but the courts didn't care about that. All they knew was that one man had ended up with a knife in his stomach, and Sebastian had been the one to put it there. So he was discharged. It didn't matter that they'd all been shocked at how young he'd completed training, or how much he'd exceeded expectations until that point. It didn't matter that sniping was the only thing that really came naturally to him. They'd kicked him out; a 19 year old with no high school degree, no other experience, nothing but the clothes on his back.
What was a man to do, in that situation? Sebastian had spent two months homeless, in the sweltering heat of summer, swatting mosquitos away from his arms as he tried to sleep and daydreaming about a time when things had been simpler. At home with Mom and Dad, before he'd learned that it wasn't normal for your parents to make you feel like you were worthless, like nothing about you was good enough, and then say they love you a few minutes later. He'd left his air conditioned, suburban home at 18 and never looked back. Well, until he was discharged. That changed everything.
Jobs were a thing of daydreams for Sebastian during that time. How much would he have loved to snag a part time shift at McDonald's, or Home Depot, or even a Barnes and Noble. But it just so happened that most places weren't interested in hiring ex army snipers that only showered twice a week and didn't have the money to buy a suit for an interview.
Most places.
One night, as Sebastian lay awake, swatting at bugs as usual, he'd overheard a whispered conversation. The sort of thing that, before the army, would have made his hair stand on end. Now, it just gave him something to focus on other than the rumbling in his stomach.
"I told you! 30 bucks a gram, no less."
"Man, no one's got the shit to pay for that!"
"Then no one's getting any crack tonight!"
"Fuck off, I need this."
"If you needed it, you'd have the fucking money to pay for it."
"But-"
Sebastian heard a very familiar sounding click.
"Woah woah woah, I don't want no trouble…"
"Any other night I'd just wait for you to leave," the dealer said, "But tonight, I can't deal with your shit. Back the fuck off."
"Are you still gonna deal or-?"
A shot rang out, and Sebastian heard someone running. He'd just begun to wonder what would make a dealer chase away their customers until he heard a voice, shockingly close to where he lie.
"That was embarrassing to watch."
Sebastian heard the dealer turn to face the newcomer, "Sorry you had to see that."
"No problem. I needed a laugh. Still can't find any new recruits for you know who."
"Damn, I'm sorry, man."
"Yeah, according to Danny I'm definitely gonna be sorry if I can't get any soon. You got my money?"
"Yeah…"
There was some rustling. They had a lot of dough. No wonder the dealer had been nervous.
"Thanks man. You know the drill."
"Haha. Of course I do."
"This guy sleeping or what?"
Sebastian's heartbeat spiked. He heard footsteps coming closer to where he lie, and had to fight to keep his eyes shut. If he was 'sleeping', maybe they would leave him alone.
He mentally uttered a long string of profanities when a shoe kicked his side. Unconsciously, he held his breath, waiting for his fate to be decided.
"I say shoot him. Who's gonna miss him?"
"Yeah, who knows how much the cops are paying these days to any bum who'll-"
Sebastian heard the click of a gun again, and shot upright, making his inspector jump back about a foot.
"Shit!" the man cursed loudly, quickly regaining his bearings to narrow his eyes at the ex army sniper, who, still on his knees, had his hands up above his head. Sebastian took in the scene in front of him. The dealer, who stood a few feet away, wide eyed, didn't look older than 15. Though admittedly there was a glint in his blue eyes that made him seem at least a little bit formidable. His hair was blond, standing out against tan skin that made him look like a stereotypical California surfer. The other man, the one who had taken the money, was still pointing a gun at Sebastian. His dark skinned hands were steady, the former sniper noted with disappointment, and he appeared tall enough that, if both of them stood up, he'd still have a few inches on Sebastian. Damn. The kid would have been probably easy to disarm and take out, but now that the two of them were in the equation…Sebastian didn't think if this came to a fight that it would go his way.
"How much did you hear?" the black asked smoothly.
Sebastian kept his voice steady, "Enough to know you're recruiting."
"Oh," he grinned, clearly amused, "That so? Lemme tell you, friend, this is probably not your sort of job."
"I'm an ex army sniper," Moran blurted out.
The gun was lowered, "What's your name, sniper?"
Sebastian hesitated, not sure whether or not to use his real name. He supposed Moran wasn't such an uncommon name. And it wasn't like he cared about whether or not he brought shame onto his parents.
"Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, sir."
"Hear that, Taylor?" the black turned to face the young dealer, "This one calls me sir. A common bum's got better manners than you."
The blond only glared at Sebastian in response, as though having manners was his fault.
"Tell me, Sebastian," he turned back to the former sniper, "You a man of the law?"
Moran hesitated again, "I," he said slowly, "am a man who will obey the highest bidder."
"That's what I like to hear."
Sebastian's first hit had taken place a week later, and that had been the start of his decent into crime. Or, should he say ascent. He was definitely living more comfortably than when he'd had no home at all. Carefully, he'd made his way up through the ranks, and eventually had determined that the center of crime was currently living in London. London, of all places! However strange it had sounded at the time, Sebastian had saved his money and moved across the Atlantic as soon as he could. He had already been high on the ladder at this time—certainly not near the top, but close enough that he noticed he stopped seeing his boss's faces so often. Eventually, he'd stopped seeing them completely, and had started to hear whispers about Moriarty.
His names were many. To some he was just 'M', to others he was 'The Magpie', to some he was 'The King', and, finally, to the lower ranking, he was just 'You Know Who'. According to some, he had bombs planted in every major government building on Earth. Others said that he lived in a mansion in the countryside, with a personal staff of over 200 slaves. A few went far enough to say that if you paid him enough, he'd hook you up with your own nuclear warheads. Moran thought this was all rubbish. If there was one thing Sebastian had learned while working his way through the criminal empire, it was that fear was used to keep people from moving up. He took no head of these rumors, and perhaps that was how, eventually, three months ago, he'd found a letter shoved under his door, offering a position.
Sebastian hadn't known precisely what he was signing up for when he had returned the message to the suggested location. He certainly hadn't expected to instantly be put under, gagged, and tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. The former sniper had gone through interrogation after interrogation, to which he'd always answered the same question, "Where does your loyalty lie?" Eventually, he'd learned that the right answer was 'Moriarty.'
And so, finally, after months of test jobs and interrogation, at age 21, Sebastian was…in. He'd done a few small hits for Moriarty already, but was still waiting to get assigned something bigger, and this…this could be it, he realized.
Require assistance. B81. –JM
He read the code with ease. In the months he'd spent preparing for employment with the criminal mastermind, he'd been given a series of codes he needed to memorize. Nothing in them really stood for anything—they just each had an individual, specific meaning, which was what made them so hard to decipher. They each had to be individually identified; there was no decoding possible because…well, there was nothing to decode. Sebastian was about to text back when another came through, catching him off guard.
That's a getaway, if you can't read it. Don't dress obvious. –JM
Shit. Shit shit shit. He was in a bad mood. Despite himself, the sniper's heart hammered. Hopefully this first real job wouldn't be the end of his job. And…the end of him. His fingers raced across his phone's keyboard.
Sure thing Boss. Be right there. –SM
Sebastian decided he'd better not wait much longer. Checking that he'd read the location correctly once more, he stuffed a small firearm in his pocket, and was out the door.
A/N: Hope you guys don't mind the way I write Sebastian. I thought the idea of him being a little younger was interesting. Anyway, reviews let you give Jim a hug.
