Sitting Pretty in my Brand New Scars

by Galysh

While on a routine mission Moran is taken captive.

12

Sitting pretty in my brand new scars

Prompt 4: Dead on your feet

They catch him off guard. There's no other way to explain it, no excuse to give — he'd been momentarily distracted by Bond and his stupidly flashy high kicks — and the next, he'd heard the unmistakable click of a gun. Followed by the feeling of cold metal pressing against the soft skin of his neck. He'd frozen, air stuttering in his lungs, expecting that to be the end of it. He's come so far, fought for so many years, but this is how he will die, gunned down from behind because he was fool enough to let his attention lapse. His fingers flex around his rifle, an instinctive response, but they don't take it as such. Something heavy and unforgiving connects with his side, and he releases a strangled wheeze. The gun clatters to the ground. The little blue tooth in his ear goes eerily silent, and for a time all he can hear is his rough pants. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can just make out the shape of several dark boots. There are ten of them in total, covered with reddish mud, and he would be flattered, but he's mostly just pissed that he didn't hear five people stomping their way up a very loud staircase.

"Moran?"

Bond's voice is in his ear, his usual upbeat tone threaded through with concern. Sebastian makes himself breathe especially loudly; there's no way that he can risk talking while they have a gun pointed his way still, but it's painfully clear that these men are not professionals. They haven't restrained him, left him with only the threat of immediate death should he move while they paw through his stuff. He rolls his shoulders, curious to see how much shifting they'll allow him and the retribution is swift. Pain blossoms in his right shoulder, arcing out in waves until his entire arm has numbed, tingling like he's been zapped with electricity. He must make some sort of noise, low and wounded because the bastard who zapped him lets out a pleased laugh. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe through the discomfort; the electricity is still buzzing through his arm, restarting the unpleasant jolts each time it comes into contact with the electrodes in his hand.

"Understood." Bond's voice comes again, still radiating worry, and Sebastian supposes that he can't blame their newbie. He'd be worried, too if he'd asked for a status update and all he'd received was groaning. "We're on our way; just sit tight." Hilarious, as if he has anything else to do, Sebastian thinks, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he swallows another pained noise. Realizes belatedly that he probably should have let it out, if only to reassure Bond that he's still listening. Bond seemingly takes his silence as agreement, and a moment later, he hears him snapping orders to Fred. Sebastian relaxes slightly, confident in their abilities to stage a rescue mission without getting themselves blown up. He glances at his gun, wondering if it would be worth it to try and fight back. Getting off a shot is likely, but as it's equally possible that he'd be the one pissing blood, better to let the others come and do the rescuing. He's man enough to know when it's better to sit out a fight.

His assailants, however, appear to not have gotten the memo for they abandon their search of his gear, exchanging frustrated words in a language he doesn't know before congregating around him. Hands grab his shirt and haul him upright until he's kneeling awkwardly. The gun returns, a familiar presence against his skin. One of them, taller than the others by a good head and weighing at least three stones heavier than Sebastian himself, takes a knee before him, his jaw working a moment before he speaks heavily accented English. "Where iz it?"

Sebastian blinks and then blinks again when that does little to clarify the question. The man growls, a deep and threatening roar, or at least it would be if he hadn't immediately turned and asked something in his native tongue. One of the other men inches forward a step and says quietly, "Where is he, Boss." He shuffles back a step again. The man repeats the question loudly as if to make up for his momentarily lapse of linguistical skills.

Oh. Sebastian thinks, and then again, oh. There's a thought wriggling around in the back of his mind, and he's pretty sure that he has an idea of what's going on, but if these fools think that they're going to get information out of him — well, the idea alone is ridiculous, and he lets that be known in a burst of laughter. "Yeah, no," he says, still chuckling. "Just no."

The Boss' face takes on an ugly puce coloration, his nostrils flaring as he exhales roughly. "Tell me. I make pain less long," he says insistently. "You no like pain."

"I don't," Sebastian agrees because that at least is truthful, "but I'm still not telling you where he is." There's a startled inhale in his ear, and he knows that Bond has received his message loud and clear. "Sorry," he says, although the words are not meant for his assailants but for the noise Bond and Fred are surely about to hear. He wishes there was a way to kill it, but as much as he doesn't like them bearing witness to his pain, cutting off his only means of communication would be the height of stupidity.

"You fool," the Boss says, meaty fingers forming fists. "You break though. Everyone breaks."

"I've never broken," Sebastian replies because he's never learned to leave well enough alone, and he's not about to start now. Besides, it's mostly true the world had taken everything he loved away from him, yet here he stands still, breathing and alive.

"You will break," The Boss says again, and then his fist appears in Sebastian's vision, blocking everything else from sight. Pain blossoms in his jaw. He loses the threads of events after that.

Consciousness returns what might have been hours or minutes later; he has no accurate way of telling other than that he's still in the same position. On his knees, arms cuffed behind his back, forced to keep somewhat upright by the chains attached. There's a heavy weight around his neck, pulling his head downwards, so his body is constantly in discomfort from being dragged in two separate directions. His ankles have also been weighed down by metal cuffs, and Sebastian revises his mental assessments of the assailants' capabilities; clearly, they know enough about him to keep him adequately pinned down. Even with his skill, it would be impossible for him to shift out of his predicament. Something rattles to his left, and he glances in that direction. A metallic grate greets his eyes. He looks to the right, just to be sure, and then sighs heavily at the irony of being placed in a dog cage. Through the grate, he can barely make out the shapes of the men sitting next to each other, but there's no sign of his companions, and for that, he can't help but be grateful. The surrounding sways abruptly, and he's painfully jostled as the transport truck continues down an increasingly bumpy road. Sebastian closes his eyes and wishes for the peaceful oblivion of the void with such fervor that God has no choice but to comply.

It's the last bit of uninterrupted rest he'll have.

Time passes in a sickening blur. Flashes of dazzling light and grey stone invade his senses in turn. His body is in a constant flux between motion and stillness, more often than not in ways that are out of his control. His eyes burn with an unrelenting ache that he is incapable of relieving. There is a cotton-like feeling to his mouth as if he hasn't had a drink in days, and perhaps he hasn't because he can't remember the last few days. His head feels as it does in the wake of excess drinking, but he knows with certainty that he hasn't touched the bottle in a while. There has to be a reason for that, something he'd been doing which prevented him from drinking. The Boss is a constant visitor in his delirium, always with the same questions. "Who is he? Where is he?" Sebastian wonders if he's aware of how counter-productive his abuse is. How can he tell him anything about the man when he can barely form two words without coughing up phlegm. Then he loses the ability to even wonder. At some point, they must let him sleep for a while because he goes from being unable to see to seeing everything with painful clarity in the span of a confusing series of hours.

It doesn't help.

All the more so when they introduce his head to a bucket of water. He stops counting seconds after the third time they do it and focuses only on gathering in as much air as possible before he goes under again. Voices gather around him then, loud and angry, that crowd against his overwhelmed senses and probe at his fragile grasp on consciousness. Instinctively, he tries to lash out at them, but they only grow louder in response. Something heavy strikes the side of his head, and just as abruptly, his vision is filled with the sight of dirt. He hears laughter. Something grabs him by his neck like he's a disobedient pup being picked up by its mother, and then he's been shaken hard. His feet drag helplessly at the ground, unable to open his eyes for long enough to view his assaulters. There's a voice in his ear again asking questions for which he doesn't have the answer. And even if he could string together enough coherence to make words, he wouldn't. He'd willingly eat a bullet before he betrays him. He tries his best not to think it either, doesn't trust himself enough to not let something slip. Zach used to say that his tongue was at its loosest when he was afflicted with a fever.

"You become almost sweet, Commander," he'd say, safe in the knowledge that Sebastian could not tousle his hair while he was bedridden. "Maybe you should catch a cold more often; the men could certainly use the boost to their egos!"

The memory bubbles to the surface, unbidden and unwelcome, for there is no solace to be found in a past as blood-stained as his. Thinking of Zach inevitably brings forth images of his end, a smile on bloodied lips as he'd begged for one last favor. It was a request that Sebastian had never been able to see fulfilled. So he bites his tongue and keeps that man's name out of his thoughts; he won't betray him. He won't break, Sebastian swears, no matter what they do to him. He will not fail. His stubbornness is rewarded with more pain, bruises upon bruises, until not a single inch of flesh does not ache in some fashion. There is no way of telling how long he's been here, the scent of fresh air just a distant memory, but eventually, he notices that he spends more time in his cell than out of it. The Boss also becomes an infrequent visitor, and with their lapse of attention, Sebastian begins to feel some clarity returning to his thoughts. He still spends most of his day hovering between the unconscious and consciousness, but it is less of a trial to blink his eyes open now.

They must be trying a new form of torture, he thinks, when two meals have gone by, and no guard has been sent in to fetch him. Or perhaps they've given up on pulling information from him. He hopes it's not the latter, if only because that will mean they've found another way to get to him. He has all the faith that they'll be able to protect themselves, but Bond is still new to their fold, and the thought of the young man being in his position fills Sebastian with nausea. He presses his face into his knees and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing raggedly. Better not to even imagine it because if he goes down that route, he doesn't think he'll be able to climb back out. Bond is fine. Fred is fine. He thinks desperately. They'll be fine. They made it back to the house safely, and nothing — clang.

The familiar sound of his cell door swinging open rips him out of his thoughts. Clearly, thinking that the guards had decided to let him rot in peace was a flimsy dream. Instinctively, he curls himself into a tighter ball, trying to shield his damaged arm. Since they'd discovered his prosthetic hand, the guards had taken joy in torturing that limb. Now it remains limp and useless, a constant throbbing source that he cannot soothe. Vibrations reach his ears. Minute particles of dust move in response to the approaching feet. Only one, Sebastian notes tiredly; they must think him too weakened to need more. And perhaps, they are correct, for Sebastian cannot even fathom uncurling, much less work up the energy to lash out. He closes his eyes tighter and pretends to be unconscious.

"Mr. Moran?"

Against his will, a shocked twitch runs through his frame. That voice sounded like Fred's, but that was simply impossible. There was no way that the kid could be here; more than likely, the guards had sent a young man in to make him lower his own guard.

"Moran?"

A young man who apparently knew his name? Sebastian swallows hoarsely. There's no way, his brain hisses at him, it's impossible but — but if there was a chance. For the first time in an eternity, he allows a hint of his animal instincts to drift to the front and takes a deep inhale. Immediately, his senses are assaulted with the scent of his blood and pain. The room is practically rancid with it, and his stomach roils unpleasantly in response. He fights back the instinctive urge to dampen his senses and focuses on the one that most stands out. It's the smell of wet earth and flowers, almost cloying in intensity but utterly, painfully familiar. Fred, he thinks. Fred is here. The relief of such a thought is so intense that it nearly sends him crashing straight over the edge.

"Sebastian please," the boy says, which ultimately keeps Sebastian conscious. The fear in his voice sets off every warning bell in Sebastian's already ringing head. If there is one thing that Fred does not refer to him by, it is his given name. No one in their little collective does unless it is the eldest Moriarty, and even then, he speaks it with such derision that Sebastian thinks it hardly qualifies.

"Sebastian," spoken softly, and yet with such tenderness that Sebastian is confident he must have ascended to some other realm because Albert did not speak to him in such a manner. He simply did not. "Thank you."

The memory takes him by surprise; for a moment, he wishes it were Albert who was here instead of Fred. Albert would not be afraid; he would be cold and teasing and know just how to turn a blind eye so that Sebastian wouldn't need to appear brave. He can be weak and pathetic in front of Albert in ways he can never be around others. The others might not realize it, but Sebastian knows his place in the chain of command, and above all else, he knows his duties. So when he hears the minute tremble in Fred's voice, he gathers his strength and opens his eyes. In the gloom of his cell, he can make out the slim form of the boy crouched beside him. His hair is hidden underneath a cap and his frame is dwarfed by an ill-fitting guard's uniform. He looks terribly out of place, with none of his usual skills in infiltration and disguises currently present.

"Hi," Sebastian says, or attempts to, for all that emerges from his mouth is a series of garbled sounds. Fred looks relieved to hear them all the same and gives an awkward little head bob. "Hello," he says back and shuffles closer, "We're here to rescue you." He reaches out, hands hovering almost nervously in the air between them before he lowers them back to his knees. "Um, Mister Moran?"

Sebastian manages a questioning noise in response and another when Fred only gives him an uncomfortable glance. "I'm going to touch you, alright? Not for very long, just for the chains." Sebastian isn't sure why he's telling him this, but perhaps the kid is even more scared than he'd initially thought, so he gives a nod of encouragement. If anything, Fred looks even more worried, but he reaches out again. This time Fred doesn't hesitate as his hands make swift work of the cuffs around Sebastian's ankles. He hears them unlock, but they do not immediately fall away; instead, Fred takes a deep breath as if fortifying himself. Sebastian tries to tell him that it's all right, but his throat is raw from screaming and talking takes far too much effort. He lets the moment pass by. A hand settles firmly on his leg. He flinches away from it, drawing a murmured apology, and then there is a terrible noise as if something has ripped free. His ankle is swallowed up by burning flames. Pain flaring out of the wounds left by the metal cuff and licking its way up his calf. The terrible noise hasn't stopped; it continues ringing through his ears and turning his throat even rawer. There's a voice speaking to him, but he can't hear it through that sound, and then his other ankle is aflame as well.

Something touches his shoulder, and he strikes out. Feels his hand hit flesh, and whatever it is reels back with a cry. Sebastian doesn't care. The sound has finally ceased, and in its wake, he hears something far worse. The repetitive thudding of feet against hard ground. He recoils. Scrambles to get away from the figure approaching him and the door, only to be brought to a halt as the chain on his collar goes taut. He heaves, the air suddenly cut short by its merciless presence, and barely has the foresight to fling himself closer to the wall so he can choke out a less obstructed exhale. He presses his palm against one eye and then the other, blinking away the burn of tears as best he can. When he manages to look up, he sees that it is Fred who is standing several feet away, looking guilt-stricken. He's lost the jacket and hat and now looks once more like the little brother Sebastian has grown fond of over their years of forced acquaintance. He also looks like he might start crying any second now.

"That fucking hurt," Sebastian says, wincing at the sound of his own voice. He wipes at his mouth, smearing away the blood that insists on bubbling up out of it.

"Y-yes." Fred's gaze drops to the ground. "The cuffs were so tight they'd split your skin, but the blood had already become stuck, so I had to rip them off. I'm sorry, I tried to warn you."

That would explain why his ankles feel like they've been dipped in salt water, Sebastian thinks dryly. "I should be thanking you; that hurt so much I feel like I can think clearly now." It's not even remotely true; even keeping his gaze focused on Fred when all he wants to do is sleep is pure torture.

"Um, the collar," Fred starts and then trails off, no doubt having received his answer from the full-body flinch that Moran releases. He doesn't want to be reminded of the heavy metal collar resting around his throat, of how tight it is, almost to the point of constricting his breathing. He presses his face against his knees instead and takes a slow breath, holding it for a few seconds and then rereleasing it; it's the best he can do right now. Mercifully, Fred gives him a few minutes before he stands up, slipping back into his jacket. "We need to go."

"Yeah," Sebastian forces himself to say, wondering if he'd even be able to make it to his feet but now isn't the time for that. He inhales and shoves himself upright with all the force of will he can gather. It turns out to be a terrible idea. One moment he's standing, swaying but upright. The next, his vision has gone black, and when it clears, all he sees are the filthy concrete blocks of the jail floor. Bile burns the back of his throat and he coughs raggedly, nearly collapsing from the force of them alone, his arm shaking like a leaf in the wind. Inhales only to feel his stomach rebel and slump further forwards, trying not to faceplant the mess he's just made. A hand touches his back, light and flitting, but even that is too much, and Sebastian recoils from it with a pained noise. It disappears immediately, and he hears the sound of voices, alarmed and loud. The guards, Sebastian thinks, followed by shit. "Fred," he gasps out.

"I'm here."

"Fred, go." Lifts his head, but his vision is still terribly blurry and he can't make out much other than the fuzzy grey shape of Fred crouched beside him. "Guards," Sebastian hisses as loudly as he can, his throat continuing its rebellious streak. Sees Fred sway in place a little, and then rather than running, he shifts closer to Sebastian. And while usually, Sebastian would enjoy the boy's rare usage of his backbone and stubbornness, he doesn't want to see it now when he's trying to save his life. "Go!" He repeats angrily and shoves at him. To Sebastian's embarrassment, Fred hardly moves as if Sebastian's hand is nothing more than the swipe of a kitten's paw.

"Leave no one behind," he says in a soft but firm tone, "that's one of Lord William's primary rules. We're not abandoning you."

"Don't be stupid is also one of his rules," Sebastian retorts, exasperated, but that brief burst of anger is all he seems to be able to muster, and he slumps back down soon after, breathing raggedly. Glares at the boy weakly, and Fred blinks back with utmost solemnity before he lifts a hand and presses against something in his ear. Whatever he hears on the other side has him relaxing slightly. Sebastian coughs encouragingly, but when all that gives him is a concerned look, he's forced to vocalize his question. "What the fuck are you plotting?"

"Oh," Fred says, "didn't I tell you earlier?"

Sebastian stares at him. Deadpan and exasperated, but before Fred can explain his no doubt complex and genius plan, the sound of a door opening catches his attention. Sebastian moves on instinct alone, powers his way to his feet and steps in front of Fred, using his mass to hide the boy from sight. He's not about to let another one of his men perish in front of his eyes. Not again. A figure steps into the room. Sebastian lurches forward with a snarl. Once more, the chain attached to his collar goes taunt, but at the same time, hands grip the back of his shirt, and he feels himself being tugged backward. He stumbles, flailing, but then there are arms around his chest and a voice in his ear. He struggles harder. Sees a flash of golden hair as the guard ducks away from his pitiful blows. He tries again, body-checking Fred behind him, and kicks out at them, only to overbalance as a leg meets his in a stalemate that he has no hope of winning. Wide blue eyes meet his gaze. The scent of perfume joins the amassing aromas already filling the room. Sebastian lowers his leg, stumbling forwards, and James Bond catches him. Lowers him to the ground when it becomes clear that Sebastian's legs will not support his weight.

"I'm losing my mind," he says, dazed and confused. "First Fred, and now you? What the fuck?"

Bond gives him a look that is part concerned and part irate glower as he gesticulates. "Honestly, is that any way to thank the people who've come to rescue you? Since you're clearly fine, perhaps you ought to break yourself out!"

"Sorry," Sebastian says automatically, thoughts still churning in confusion. I didn't think you'd come for me. Bond stops mid-yell, his mouth falling open before it snaps shut again, eyes narrowing. The look that he exchanges with Fred speaks volumes, and even in his dazed state Sebastian knows that he's let slip something he shouldn't have. "Said that out loud, did I?" He asks dryly.

"You're an idiot," Bond retorts, but gentleness is seeping into his voice now. "Come on, get up. I took care of the guards closest to us, but who knows if there are more further in." He stands easily and withdraws two new wrist cuffs from his pocket. Sebastian's blood runs cold. Oblivious, Bond holds them out to him. "We'll do it just as planned. Fred and I will walk you two out, prisoner transfer and all that. We'll get in the car, and then it's scotch free." He smiles brightly as if every word he'd just said wasn't the highest degree of insanity. As if Sebastian is letting them put him in chains again.

"Mister Moran," Fred says softly, and Sebastian knows he's fucked because the boy looks up at him sadly. "It's just for a little bit, I swear." He says with all the conviction of someone not used to plans blowing up in his face. Sebastian envies his innocence. Glaring at them, however, won't make swallowing the pill any easier, so he holds out his left wrist and tries not to flinch when the cold metal presses against his sensitive skin.

"Okay!" Bond chirps cheerfully. "Other hand now." Sebastian stares at him. Bond stares back non-plussed, his head tilting bird-like to the side. "Two cuffs, two wrists?" He says slowly as if talking to a small child. Sebastian debates kicking him again then gives it up as a lost cause and gestures at his right arm. He's been keeping it tucked against his chest ever since Fred freed him, the stump pressed against his stomach, hoping to not jostle it too much. He's not been very successful so far. Bond's face goes through a series of complicated facial expressions, from open shock to dismay and horror, and then finally settling on pure unadulterated rage. Sebastian wouldn't consider himself a man easily scared; he's fought in India, has served as William Moriarty's second in command for years, has killed in cold blood and has nearly been killed more times than he can count. Very few tangible things can still scare him; Bond's anger — something he'd never considered before — sky-rockets to the top of that list in the span of heartbeats.

"Who." The word is spoken flatly. Coldly. No intonation to the question as Bond crouches and reaches out for his arm. Sebastian wants to tell him that the injury isn't a recent one, that it doesn't need to be fretted over, and that the person who did it is likely dead, but he can't make a sound. Bond's fingers are incredibly gentle when they trace over the stump, inspecting the decade-old scarring, freshly highlighted by new bruises and spilled blood. Sebastian winces, more so from having his arm moved than Bond's touch, but the man releases his wrist like it's a lump of burning coal. Breathing becomes easier now that Bond isn't unwittingly digging his fingers into all the sensitive parts of Sebastian's psyche. Blue eyes flicker to his face and settle there, seemingly searching for something.

"It's alright, it was a long time ago," Sebastian says, because the last thing he wants or needs is the other man wasting emotions on him. "Really, if you haven't noticed before now it's because my prosthetic is of amazing make."

"You never take your glove off," Bond replies quietly, thoughtfully. "You're always wearing it. You didn't join us when we went swimming in the lake either." He looks like there's more he would like to say, but then he winces and touches his ear, listening to something on the other side. "Right, sorry sir." He shakes himself, and just like that smug confident Bond is back, the anger replaced by a broad smirk. "I guess I can't cuff something that ain't there, eh?"

"I'll donate your entire chocolate stash to charity," Sebastian says flatly, and Bond laughs. Instead of his wrist, he reaches out for the buckle of Sebastian's collar, which isn't remotely better, but at least he has an arm free. Sebastian swallows down the urge to bite his hand, but then the chain previously attached to his collar is gone, and he can breathe again. The metal is still a heavy weight, a looming terror in the back of his mind, but at least he's no longer attached to a wall that smells of urine and blood. Bond gives him a quick look over, an encouraging smile on his face, before he turns towards the door. Sebastian reminds himself to breathe and follows him out the door. Keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, doing his best to hide how his legs are trembling in tune with the growing desire to once again expunge his stomach content all over the floor. Closing his eyes helps little and, in fact, makes things worse, so he opens them again and focuses on not passing out. It's his only job; he knows that he'd been more than dead-weight in a fight, but they're royally fucked if he collapses. Bond and Fred simply do not have the mass necessary to haul him anywhere. Jack might, but he's older than dirt, and Sebastian doesn't want to embarrass himself like that in front of his mentor. He'd never live it down.

Bond stops abruptly, and Sebastian nearly runs into him before he manages to halt. He feels a light hand on his back — Fred — and it steadies him somewhat. Bond steps forwards, hand extended to keep Sebastian back and glances around a doorway ahead before skittering back to them. "Don't stop," he hisses, and they keep moving. Sebastian does his best to tune out the screams of whatever unfortunate bastard is having his turn under the guard's tender attention. He's been there and would rather not do it again. After that, they don't stop again until Bond opens a side door and ushers them through. For the first time in days, Sebastian smells fresh air, feels coarse grass under his feet, can look around without seeing the claustrophobic walls of the prison. It's incredible, amazing even, and would be doubly so if he wasn't on the verge of passing out. It's all he can do to keep his eyes open, an internal mantra of 'don't fall' running rampant through his head.

"We're almost there," Bond murmurs, giving an impatient little tug on the chain, "keep moving." Sebastian stumbles across the grass, and it soon loses its pleasure when each stalk feels like it's trying to squirm its way into the cuts on his feet. Up ahead, he sees a familiar black car, almost indistinguishable from every other black vehicle parked in the street, were it not for the silver-haired man sitting in the driver's seat taking a smoke. Fred darts ahead and opens the door before returning to his post behind Sebastian, keeping an eye on their rear. Bond climbs in next, and Sebastian does his best to follow him in a civilized and controlled manner. That is to say, he goes to step up and his leg immediately buckles sending him crashing down on the floor of the sedan. Bond curses loudly and rushes to him, helping haul him inside as Fred scrambles in afterward. Jack doesn't wait for orders; he merely locks the door and guns it.

Sebastian blinks blearily up at the car's roof, struggling to ground himself on anything that isn't the pain currently running rampant through his body. But it's hard, it's incredibly difficult to think past the overwhelming pain, and before he knows it, he's drifting under. Startles awake seconds later as a hand shakes his shoulder roughly. "Don't sleep!" Bond's eyes are filling his vision again. "You can't go to sleep yet!"

Sebastian wants to tell him to go to hell. He's made it out of prison, hasn't he? Surely he can rest now, but Bond's face has gone white with fear, and his grip on Sebastian's shoulder is painful. He manages a dizzying nod instead and tries to remember how to breathe in a manner that doesn't make his stomach slosh unpleasantly.

"Don't sleep," Bond repeats, his grip loosening and turning into an almost nervous stroking of Sebastian's shoulder instead. He wants to tell him to stop that as well, but even opening his mouth is too much effort. His eyes start to close of their own volition again, but Bond shouts and he forces them open. "Fred, help me," Bond says urgently, and the boy slides out of his seat to join them on the ground.

"Mister Moran," he says with great gravitas, "Lord William will be disappointed if you go to sleep." Fuck. Sebastian thinks; with all the effort he can muster, he lifts his hand and offers Fred his middle finger. Fred smiles back.

"Answer something," Sebastian whispers after a bit. The question had been churning in the back of his brain ever since Fred had first appeared in his jail, but matters had been such that he wasn't willing to spare the energy to ask it. But now that his only job is to stay conscious… He swallows weakly, accepting the drops of water that Bond drips into his mouth with relief. "Why?"

Identical looks of confusion are his response before the two look at each other and then back at him. "Why did it take so long to find you?" Bond asks uncertainly, not looking remotely reassured when Sebastian nods. "Oh. It's a little embarrassing. We went after you immediately, of course, but they hit us with some sort of smoke capsule and knocked me out when I breathed it in. Fred too. By the time we got on our feet, you were long gone. Lord Moriarty had to do some serious digging to find out anything about this group."

"Albert?"

It's Fred who answers. "Yes. He wanted to come with us, but Lord William talked him out of it."

Sebastian falls silent, turning that answer over and over in his head. It doesn't make any sense. Albert wanting to come? It's simply ludicrous; the Moriarty brothers are known for their cold-heartedness regarding vital decisions. If anything, he'd expected William to be the one most invested, but to hear that Albert had — "That's stupid," is what he says out loud.

"How so? We didn't know what we were getting into, or who was behind the attack or —"

"It's stupid for Albert to get involved," Sebastian interrupts, full of confidence in his assessment. "If he has that much free time, he should be working towards the next step of the plan." There's a noise that sounds an awful lot like a scoff from the front seat, but Sebastian knows himself, and he knows Albert; there's simply no way that that man could give a flying fuck about his well-being. They aren't friends, are only acquaintances in the loosest sense of the term, and Albert has disliked him since the day that William brought his broken self in from the cold.

"Moran," said with such amused exasperation, lips curling into a smug smile. And again, "Moran." His name is a collection of white mist curling up into the sky. Eyes so green that they shone brighter than the most bedazzling jewel. And again, "Sebastian fucking Moran, you absolute crack shot." Followed by breathless laughter and oh — Oh. Perhaps, he's looking at this the wrong way. Sebastian presses a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the sunlight that insists on piercing through the window. He swallows, throat rebelling in pain, but that is nothing next to the confusion churning in his heart. "What a fucking idiot," he murmurs, ignoring the confused sounds from his juniors; they can discern for themselves if he is talking about himself or Albert.

"That's rich coming from you," Bond starts huffily, but when Sebastian only blinks tiredly, he settles back into concerned silence once more. Satisfied, Sebastian turns his attention inwards, drawing solace in an old counting method he'd learned from his first tutor. When he was still a child, too young to understand the cruelty of the world in which he was fated to grow up, his tutor taught him how to count the stars. Or at least, that was what he called it. In reality, it was a simple grounding trick involving classifying different types of gemstones. He'd used it often in the military when hunting could not soothe the turmoil of his mind, and it serves the same purpose now. By the time he reaches the S stones, the car is rolling to a stop in front of Moriarty Estate. After that, things grow more blurry as he's unceremoniously hauled to his feet and dragged to the door. Barely has a moment to do little other than groan in pain before Bond's fist hammers at the door. It swings open swiftly.

"Brother! Lord Albert!" Louis' voice is far too loud in the early morning hours, like the strident blaring of an ambulance; it summons the other two Moriartys to the door. Sebastian tries to push away from Jack, to regain some semblance of dignity, but the old man tightens his grip on his waist and hauls him in closer. It's embarrassing, all the more so when he feels the weight of Louis' judgmental eyes landing on his bruised and battered body. "Well, you'd best come in," the youngest Moriarty says as he steps back.

'It's like we don't even live here,' Sebastian says plaintively, but his tongue is still heavy within his mouth, and it emerges more as "slike…even…live." Bond's sympathetic shoulder pat is as unwelcome as it is oddly comforting. He slips past them and then leads the way into the living room, carefully helping Jack lower Sebastian down onto it. The couch, Sebastian decides, truly is far more comfortable than that moldy floor. His eyes are slipping closed again against his will, but he forces them open once more; there's something he's supposed to do. Something he needs to tell William. Gets a hand under himself and tries to push upright, but immediately his efforts are foiled by Bond gently pushing down on his chest. "Easy there, Tiger," he says, "William's on his way."

Sebastian groans and slumps again, a hand restlessly pawing at his eyes, but doing so only causes the pain to worsen, so he stops. He must have drifted off at some point because when he next becomes aware, there's a cool cloth resting over his eyes and the quiet drone of voices. "Will…?" It's embarrassing how needy his voice emerges as, broken and scared, he can't remember the last time he called out so pitifully for someone. Not since the last of his friends met the business end of a grenade.

"I'm here, ."

He feels the faintest brush of fingers against his arm, and it shouldn't feel as soothing as it does, but his lungs loosen, and he feels like he can breathe properly again. Reaches out for that sensation, but even moving his arm causes something to flare with pain, so he lets it drop again, wheezing faintly. "Will." The name slips out, half prayer and half plea for mercy, though he hasn't the faintest idea what it is that he's asking for. An unfamiliar hand touches him then, and though there is nothing cruel or even devious in the act, Sebastian reacts accordingly, already addled by his trials. Lashes out with his most minorly injured limb, his foot, and attempts to kick the assaulter aside, ignoring the screaming in his back. He hears a startled huff, then a shout, and tracks it to its source, hauling the attacker in close and pinning him to the ground. The cloth falls from his eyes, and he squints down at the figure, seeing an unfamiliar russet head of hair. Someone is yelling something, but Sebastian is tired, tired of being touched and hurt, of the guards injuring him for the sheer fun of it. They've made the mistake of unchaining him; he won't let them live long to regret it.

"Stand down, soldier!"

William's shout cuts through the ruckus, the fog in his brain, and when he blinks again, the room is no longer swimming in and out of focus. The red-haired man is still pinned beneath him, struggling weakly, and Bond is a few feet away, looking torn. Louis is nearer, slowly setting back onto his feet as if he'd been about to interfere. But it is the one directly in front of him that captures his attention. He releases his captive without a thought, though he can't quite bring himself to move off him, never looking away from those crimson eyes. "Let him go," William says quieter, softer.

Sebastian considers it. Rolls the idea around in his head as he observes it from all of its angles and decides that he really doesn't like it, but William is the one asking, and he knows he'll comply in the end. "He was touching me," he says half-heartedly before awkwardly shuffling backward until his back encounters the hardwood of the sofa. "I don't like being touched."

"He's a doctor," is the calm answer. Sebastian chances a quick glance upwards, and yes, William's angry; he can see the faint pinch to his lips and the tension in his jaw. It makes something cold and slimy blossom in his gut, pain mingling with guilt because if there's a doctor here, it must be that William called for one. This means someone requires medical services, and he's likely ruined their chances by attacking said, medical provider. Fuck, he thinks, pressing his fingers against his nose bridge.

All he says out loud, however, is a strangled "sorry."

"It's alright, young man; I've dealt with soldiers before," the doctor replies, dusting himself off with great gusto. "I should have warned you first; my apologies." Sebastian eyes him through his fingers and then looks down again; there's something he needs to do. His mind is needling at him, a near-constant pressure, but he can't remember what it is until it clicks. The reminder provided by the doctor commenting on the state of his injuries, "I would say the pain was the goal. They clearly wanted something from him."

"Will." Winces belatedly and tacks on the rest of his name. "Liam." The second try doesn't sound any better, but William sighs and thanks the doctor before he steps closer, some coolness fading from his gaze. You're scary, Sebastian thinks, then remembers that he's not supposed to think such things until he's better at controlling his tongue.

"You're delirious," William replies, and yeah, Sebastian thinks dryly; he really needs to stop talking. "Come on, back up on the couch; the floor can't be comfortable." He makes no move to come closer, however, nor does anyone else, and it takes Sebastian a moment to realize that it's because they're afraid of setting him off again. Hot shame floods his system. He would never hurt them, but hadn't he already when he'd struck Fred in prison? And just now, attacking a doctor like that. Everyone knew that medical officers were off-limits. He swallows roughly, then shakes his head in response, hiding his face again. William says nothing for a moment, and his footsteps become audible as he steps closer. "Come on," he says, softer almost gentle, hands just skimming over Moran's shoulder. "You're too big for me to lift; help me out a little here."

With great control, Sebastian bites down on his tongue and his traitorous mind with its runaway thoughts and manages to hoist himself onto the couch. Arm trembling, he starts to lie down, but Bond is there to support him, shoving a pillow under his back as well. It helps, and he gives him a small smile of gratitude. Bond grins back. Like this, he feels a little calmer with his leg once more elevated and adrenaline no longer running through his body. The thing that he needs to say, he knows it now, so he turns his head to look up at William. "They wanted you," he says as steadily as he can. "Not the Lord of Crimes, you. But I didn't," has to stop there, swallowing roughly as the memories threaten to return with a vengeance. "I gave them nothing, I swear."

William blinks slowly, processing this information at his own pace and time, as was his wont. To his left, however, Louis is far less calm and the deluge of questions he unleashes is positively overwhelming. Sebastian weathers them as best he can, struggling to force out coherent answers, but when Louis asks after the manner in which they tried to get this information, the words dry up in his throat. Louis must see this, for he calms somewhat, and offers an apologetic look. It's the closest he'll come to an apology when his brother's safety is concerned, but Sebastian can understand that, so he doesn't take offense.

"Thank you." William's voice is still chilly, but his eyes are warmer than they have been in years. "Rest now, Moran."

"Sir," Sebastian returns with the last of his fading strength and closes his eyes. With the last weight lifted from his shoulders, sleep comes swiftly.