Chapter seven-Endings
Sebastian Moran had nowhere to go. This thought had whacked him over the head several times, as he walked to the bar. Then, the fact that he had no money. That drove him out, onto the street, where he considered his situation.
He could steal, that was certain. He could try and get a job, which might work. Or he could go back to Jim, which he knew would end in disaster. So he walked.
He walked and waked, until he didn't recognize the town anymore. He walked until the night fell, and the streets were bathed in darkness. Then he went down an alleyway, found a nice, secluded corner, behind a dumpster, and lay down to sleep.
Jim had woken the next morning, and insisted upon doing some shopping for Kitty. As soon as he got out of her flat, Jim called a cab, and drove to his house. He walked inside, feeling its emptiness, a weight, pressing down upon Moriarty.
Sebastian wasn't here.
Jim felt like crying. And so he did, freely, standing here in his empty house, with an empty heart.
He had nothing.
He wiped his face, and quickly got a cab back to Kitty's flat.
He got back to the flat, turned his key in the lock, opened the door, slipping seamlessly back into the role of Richard Brook, and walked towards where he knew Kitty would be waiting.
He entered the room, muttering a rehearsed excuse for not bringing anything back, when he saw who was in the room.
Jim froze.
He thanked his lucky stars later, for being able to stay perfectly in character, as he and Kitty tried to convince John of Sherlock being a fraud.
As Jim knew he would, John remained loyal, shouting at the consulting criminal alongside Sherlock.
Jim needed to wrap this up soon. Sherlock was getting too close to violent.
And so, as the detective advanced, Jim yelled, and turned to run to the back of Kitty's flat, into the small room at the back, and out the single window.
Sebastian had woken up, cold and uncomfortable on the ground. He needed a drink. The only problem was that he didn't know where he was. So, he did the sensible thing, and stole a car. Well, not stole stole; more like found, and um borrowed.
And it was thus, that as the engine of his hotwired Jaguar purred as he drove down a familiar street, that Sebastian saw something that made him nearly swerve off the road.
James Moriarty was running up the street, straight towards him.
Jim had hit the ground running, naturally. And didn't even hesitate as he ran up to the rumbling Jaguar, and leapt agilely into the passenger seat, beside the man who had just reached over to open the door for him.
Sebastian had his foot on the gas pedal as soon as Jim's feet left the ground. He had gone a block before Jim was seated properly, and another four in the time it took Jim to close his door. Sebastian floored it, watching the little red needle slide past 100 kilometers.
He drove faster and faster, swerving expertly between cars, up streets and down avenues, until he came to a sudden halt in front of a very familiar-looking mansion.
Sebastian sat back, breathing heavily. Jim wouldn't look at him, and stared straight ahead, his chest rising and falling softly.
Sebastian decided to start the conversation. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and spoke with and extremely annoyed air,
"Jim. What. The. Fuck?"
Jim drew in a shaky breath.
"I'm sorry, Sebastian." It came out as less than a whisper, lost in the pounding rage that Sebastian felt against his brain.
The sniper left his eyes shut, raising his other hand, to wave it aimlessly around in the air as he spoke, "I'm not about to put up with you again, so you can just get the fuck out of my car, and leave me the fuck alone."
"I said I'm fucking sorry, Moran!" Jim screamed at him, shaking with emotion, "don't expect me to ever repeat myself again."
Sebastian opened his eyes. Jim was looking over at him, his beautiful brown eyes brimming with tears, and shaking with suppressed sobs.
"I...I need you, Sebastian. I really do."
Sebastian nearly gave in. he almost reached over, and kissed his lover, accepting his apology, forgiving him completely. But his common sense spoke for him.
"Need me, do you? And what about later; when you don't?"
The dam broke, and all of Sebastian's fury washed over Jim in a cold flood of words,
"What about when you decide to leave, or find something more entertaining than me? Or when you feel like I'm not enough anymore? You sent me away, and I took my leave, but now you want me back?
"Well, I have one thing to say to you, Moriarty," Jim flinched at this use of his surname, "I am so fucking done with you."
Jim froze, and then Sebastian watched as a cold fury distorted the criminal mastermind's face.
Jim drew a hand back, and slapped Sebastian with such a force that Sebastian saw stars.
"Bastard," Jim choked, tears pouring down his furious face as he pulled the door open, got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and ran up the steps to the large house.
Sebastian sat in the car, trembling with rage.
Shit. ShitshitshitshitSHIT!
Now what?
Now where would he go?
There was nothing left for him anymore. Nothing.
Sebastian couldn't think. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was overwhelmed by an overflowing cascade of emotions, piling on top of each other, smothering him.
He couldn't do anything, so he drove. Sebastian Moran drove and drove, wondering vaguely where he was and what he should do.
And knowing none of the answers to his questions, because that part of him was gone.
For good.
James Moriarty was positively livid. And a livid madman boiling over with emotion can be very dangerous.
This was no ordinary temper tantrum.
This was an explosion.
Jim had only just shut the door of his expansive house behind him when it began.
Jim screamed.
He screamed so loudly that birds on the roof of neighboring houses took flight.
He dropped to the ground, screaming his lungs out, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his face.
Jim threw his head back, and screamed to the ceiling, pounding his fists on anything he could reach.
He stood up, only after running out of breath, and reached out with both hands, shoving, ripping, yanking, not caring what crashed to the ground, or shattered in his grip.
He growled and shrieked like a tiger, ripping his way through the house.
Cushions were torn open, their soft contents littering the rooms, glasses and china were shattered, leaving thousands of sharp pieces everywhere, end tables were snapped, surfaces cracked and scarred by the consulting criminal's rage.
Jim fell to the ground, hands now bloody bruised and broken, hanging at his sides.
This wasn't okay.
Nothing was okay!
Jim couldn't get him back, he tried, but he couldn't!
What should he do now?!
For once in his life, James Moriarty had no idea what to do next.
So he cried.
And that disgusted him.
Jim clawed at his eyes, only causing the tears to flow faster as he staggered to his feet.
Nothing left to break but himself; he began throwing his body against the walls, pounding on his limbs and torso until they were thoroughly bruised.
He picked up a shard of china, and carved into himself, sweeping strokes across his wrist; SM.
Blood began gushing from the cuts, and Jim laughed.
He laughed and laughed, running around the ruined house, finally coming across what he had been looking for; a bottle of vodka.
He held the bottle laughing until he cried again, and musing over what to do.
He could try and kill himself this way. Drink until he died, when his liver just couldn't handle it anymore. He could drench himself, and burn. That would be a more elegant way to do it, but Jim wanted to make a statement.
Opening the bottle, he took a sip of the strong alcohol, to clear his head, and thought.
Sherlock needed to die, that was certain.
And Jim wanted to die as well.
But how?
He would need to find a way to do it, a way where the whole world could see.
The answer came to him in the most ironic way.
Jim's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket, considering smashing it as well, before he saw the new text message he had.
Come and play. St. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH
Jim grinned.
This was perfect!
He skipped to his room, got into his closet, and pulled out a good Westwood suit. He quickly washed himself, wrapped his wrist, and styled his hair. He got dressed, humming to himself, before shoving his phone into one pocket, and Sebastian's loaded revolver into the other.
He quickly exited the house, trailing the vodka bottle behind him, drawing a liquid path from the front door, up the stairs, to the soft master bed. He snagged a lighter out of one of the coats by the door, flicked it open, and dropped it onto the trail of alcohol.
Jim squealed as he watched it ignite, clapping his hands gleefully as he watched the fire ascend the stairs, towards the bedroom.
He turned back around, smiling to himself, and quickly hailed a cab.
Sebastian didn't want to live.
His life was already over, so it seemed comfortably conclusive that he floored the gas pedal, and sped straight into one of the old, cracked pillars that held up a bridge somewhere in the countryside that Sebastian had wandered into.
Sebastian let go of the wheel, closing his eyes, and crashed into the stone, letting his mind go blank.
Jim reached the hospital in minutes, sneaking up to the roof, and texted Sherlock.
I'm waiting… JM
He sat on the ledge, pulling out his phone, and began listening to 'Stayin' alive', the best and most ironic music to begin this event.
He heard the door open, saw the consulting detective step out, onto the roof.
He had texted three of his second-best assassins, and made sure they were in position to ruin Sherlock's life just as much as Jim's was at the moment.
He cherished the look on the detective's face as he revealed his plan, and loved the way Sherlock obediently got up onto the ledge, preparing to kill himself.
Jim would write a letter to Sebastian once this was done. He would write, explaining how his death was because he was alone. He would shoot himself later, in the midst of his burning house, and leave the note where Sebastian could find it.
Jim almost missed the sound of Sherlock's laughter behind him, and spun around angrily, "What? What'd I miss?!"
Sherlock laughed, and explained how he thought he would be able to stop Jim's snipers from destroying everything he held dear, so long as Jim himself was alive.
Well. Thought Jim. This complicates things. But it'll be better this way.
"Well good luck with that," he told the detective, before reaching into his pocket, pulling out the gun, and shooting himself through the mouth, and out the back of his head.
And Sherlock jumped.
~?~