Okay, the first thing I would like to say is I am so sorry for how long it has taken me to update and finish this story. I know it sounds like a poor excuse but I have truthfully been incredibly busy: I've had exams, a heck of a lot of school work, and due to the worsening of a member of my family's arthritis, I've been helping a lot round the house. On top of that, I'm also working on my own novel, but at long last I found inspiration for this story and finished the final chapter. I'll admit, I'm not exactly overjoyed with it but I like it (:
So to anyone who's still watching this, I hope you enjoy this and I sincerely hope it at least partially makes up for the long hiatus. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed and favourited this story: your support means a lot!
And without further ado, the final chapter of Priorities. Several months late... Sorry. /:
The morning dawned quietly, rather than with a bang and with a body part on the pillow as he was accustomed to, and Sebastian rather preferred this awakening. The flat felt peaceful, like some restful spirits had finally been exorcised: it was strange and yet at the same time it made perfect sense, not that he could explain it to you. Later on, he would realize that restless spirit had been Jim all along, Jim who cared for no one but himself and the game.
He shuffled through to the kitchen, made himself a coffee, contemplated the half eaten Chinese still sitting there, wrinkled his nose at the sight and then tossed it in the bin. And then, he thought.
Jim drugged him; Jim only drugged him when he was doing something he knew Seb would disapprove of and wanted him out of the way. Conclusion, Jim was hiding something, though that was a no brainer. A quick scan of his phone revealed one text message, cryptic as always: Guess who won.
It made perfect sense.
The coffee was bitter against his throat, slipping down with a cringe and a grimace – far too strong but it was what he would need if his assumptions were correct and that call was indeed coming, not that he wanted to answer it. Everything felt... detached, unreal, a false reality into which he had been thrust and his head was spinning with memories of the other night, of brutal thrusts and dead eyes staring into his home, a languid voice drawling "This is what you want, isn't it? Or is it really? Are you sure? I don't think you are; I think you're looking for something else, huh Sebby? Wanting something normal, aren't we?"
He cut the voice off. In a way, that had been a confirmation of some previously unknown idea, not quite a mistake but not exactly a good decision either. It was the exorcism of the restless ghouls, he realized, the ritual cleansing of a past that had never been properly confronted. And now that he looked at it, he knew that he had been correct all along, that all of his doubts and his concerns and every single niggling thought that whispered something wasn't quite right were the truth he had blinded himself to.
There was never anything more than Jim, the Game and Sherlock – no one else registered upon that playing board other than as pawns, mindless creatures to used and abused, sacrificed in the name of war. And despite having known it all along, that didn't make any easier.
Nor did it make it hurt any less.
~~~linebreak~~~
He went out for a walk after that, not wanting to face the news or the radio or, godforbid, that phone call just yet, and his treacherous feet led him places he neither wanted to see nor wanted to be. St. Barts, with the cordons of police tape, swarm of journalists and the blood stains across the pavement; Scotland Yard where yet more reporters had made camp, ruthlessly ambushing any police officer brave enough to venture outside; Baker Street where a sad faced man answered the door and invited him in and then asked him just what he was doing here.
He didn't know either.
They shared a pot of tea in silence, taking delicate sips and staring out of the window in favour of meeting each other's eye, both determinedly ignoring the elephant in the room. No conversation, no acknowledgement, nothing but quiet thoughts. It was almost the same as sitting with Jim, Seb mused.
But not quite, and he liked that, liked the difference, this moment of utter normality, so different from what he was used to. He thought of his guns back home, of the various weapons he had stashed away in safehouses all across the country, of the faded bloodstains in the carpet barely concealed by an assortment of rugs. And then he looked at the world John had build up around him and compared the two.
"What are you going to do now?" John asked, raising a shrug out of Sebastian.
"Dunno: go somewhere else probably. Find someone else in need of a hired gun or hire some myself: I don't know. Maybe one day you'll find me and bring me to justice." His lips quirk into a smirk at the thought and he can see John doing the same before the older man' eyes grow abruptly, though not unexpectedly, sad.
"Ha, no. You'll be free to roam: I'm putting all of that behind me,"
Ah of course, he was forgetting the freak, the virgin, Sherlock:Sebastian wasn't the only one to have lost that which up until now had made up his life. John was looking away again.
"Why are you here?"The doctor repeated his unanswered question from earlier, though his voice was now resigned, as if he already knew the answer, an answer Seb now knew too or at least he thought he did.
"To say goodbye?"
"So you're definitely leaving. then."
"Seems like it: we don't have to go through the whole 'there's nothing. left for me here'conversation, do we? Besides, Jim's probably left something incriminating concerning me for the police to find -he'd have thought it funny." Sebastian stood up, laying down his drained cup and holding out a hand. "Nice meeting you and sorry about, well, everything."A slightly sheepish grin that he knew fell dead short of his eyes. John raised himself to meet Seb's hand, the shake firm and concise but impersonal.
"Bye then,"
Perhaps Sebastian was imagining it but he fancied he could hear the hidden 'stay'within those words: however John never said anything else and Sebastian made no suggestions. And that was that.
~~~linebreak~~~
He never settled, at least not like he did with Jim, instead floating from one job to another, a drifting feather on which information was lacking. He made enough money to get by, he stayed away from the big stuff -it wasn't perfect but it would do.
A few years after, he heard of the prodigal detective's glorious return from his latest haunt near the Anglo-Scottish border and laughed because it was so typical. Always a happy ending, or near enough, for the good guys whilst the baddie was left to slink off into the shadows, never to be seen again.
It was funny what three years of your own twisting thoughts did, how they changed and warped into something new but perhaps it was just Jim, perhaps that psychopath had succeeded in rubbing off on him. But either way, news of Sherlock's resurrection filled him with elation, with a drive to do something spectacular, something to utterly outdo all of Jim's work. Of course, the chances of success were slim -he would be hard pressed to ever mastermind that such as Jim did, to ever make the freak look at him in the same way, as an equal. But he would do it.
Sebastian Moran was determined to make himself the top of someone's ones priorities.
Well, it's taken a while but it's finally finished, the story that was initially only supposed to be a oneshot but instead evolved into this. I hope you enjoyed it and thank you again for reading. I'm going to hopefully try and reply to every reviewer (:
And now, my inner fangirl and I are going to go and sob in a corner whilst we try to find something new to pour our creativity (and incessant need to inflict pain upon fictional characters) into.
Over and out and merry christmas!