Sebastian was not the hand holding type.

And even if he was, it's not like he should be expected to coddle his boss with such meaningless gestures.

Jim wouldn't even know that Sebastian was holding his hand. Hell, Jim wouldn't even know if Sebastian were to jump up on his bed and start dancing the macarena. Which was why Sebastian was going to neither of those things. Jim wouldn't know, and wouldn't care, and would likely have pissed himself laughing at Sebastian if he had done either.

But really, if Sebastian was being honest with himself, the fact that Jim wouldn't know was what made the idea seem so enticing. Oh sure, Jim could probably figure out what Sebastian had been doing by gauging the temperature difference in his hand once he woke up, but that was later. Now, Jim was oblivious and vulnerable; a state which Sebastian rarely had opportunity to exploit.

Besides, Watson had said that Jim would be disoriented for a few days after he woke up from the chemically induced coma. That would be plenty of time for any residual temperature disparities to have sorted themselves out.

His eyes darted warily over the room before he quietly slipped his hand under the covers to enclose Jim's in his grasp.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sebastian calmly nestled on the rooftop, silently adjusting the sight on his rifle and the stand beneath it. He peered through his scope before making some final adjustments and settling down to wait. That was really the only drawback to his job, the mindless waiting during which you couldn't allow yourself to be distracted from your target. Many thought that it was the ability to take a life without a second thought that made a good sniper; they were wrong. It was the ability to sit for hours, sometimes longer, knowing that sometime, eventually, in the near future, you were going to take a life. That was the part that drove most assassins batty.

Sebastian didn't mind it much. He just got bored. Sure, the military and other such training had worn down his restless youthful energy, but he was still a man of action by nature. Sitting on his thumbs had never been an option for Sebastian, hence his initial enlistment in the service. But even that had proven too tedious for his tastes. Too many superiors, too many orders, too many regulations. So he "went rogue" as it was so finely described by his current employer.

Sebastian grunted and wriggled himself more comfortably against the stone beneath himself. His target still hadn't arrived at the train station, but that wasn't completely unexpected. They weren't scheduled to be on location for another fifteen minutes. Although Sebastian wouldn't have been surprised if they showed up ten minutes early just to throw him. His employer had made a point of noting that the target had a habit of being a bit unpredictable.

Speaking of unpredictable, Sebastian's eyes were slowly being drawn from the platform he was supposed to be monitoring to a lone figure weaving through the street, picking its way ever so slowly towards the station. He flicked his scope over to get a better look at the man, just to make sure that he wouldn't cause problems. The man was thoroughly inebriated, so much so that when he tipped his bottle up to take another long gulp half the liquid spilled down his shabby suit front. Sebastian snorted derisively and turned his attention back on his original focal point. At worst, the drunk would cause an unpleasant scene after the shooting. At best, he would help act as a distraction while Sebastian made his escape. The police would be dense enough to accuse the first alcoholic on the scene of being the shooter.

The minutes ticked by. Sebastian's finger curled more firmly over the trigger of his rifle when the gentleman he was meant to kill walked through the station doors. He stood at the ticket booth, exchanging meaningless pleasantries with the employee within. Sebastian slowly exhaled, sharp eyes glued firmly on his target as the man dragged his luggage onto the platform. He licked his lips, tasting the adrenaline shooting through his system. He adjusted the aim of his rifle a fraction, pointing it directly at his target's chest. He crooked his finger, the familiar hum of anticipation running down his spine as the inner mechanisms of the rifle clicked into place, and the-

The drunk flung his arm around his target's shoulder, making the man stumble out of Sebastian's line of fire. Sebastian froze, gritting his teeth and readjusting his sight to compensate. He frowned as he watched the scene unfolding below. The drunk half-slumped against the mark, talking into his ear as if they were good friends. Scowling, Sebastian pulled out a mic and an ear piece, setting them up so he could hear what was going on.

Static crackled for a moment before the mic calibrated itself and picked up the conversation. "What in bloody hell is wrong with you?"

A heavy Irish accent responded, thick with drink and slightly slurred. "Well, see, it's probably none of my business, really. I do hate to get involved in affairs that are not my own, but I figured that you looked a nice enough fellow, so I thought to myself, I thought, "Ah hell, Jimmy boy, you might as well tell the bloke he's about to get his chest blown open. It's not every day you get an opportunity to be a hero." So's I did. Well, more or less. Anyway, I'm telling you now. Sort of. But now that I'm thinking about it, I probably shouldn't've bothered. People with assassins out to shoot them aren't very often very nice people. Are you a nice person? I suppose it doesn't really matter. Nobody's as nice as they like to pretend. Me, I'm a bloody saint by most standards. I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"

The target's face had paled as he pieced together what the drunk was getting at. His eyes darted furtively around the station, searching for the gunman. Sebastian simply held steady, knowing that he couldn't be sighted from where he was hiding.

"Where? Where's the gunman? How do you know all this?"

The drunk let out a shrill giggle, leaning even more heavily on the other man. "Oh, that's so easy. I can't believe you haven't seen him yet. He's so obvious. No, I don't think I'll tell you. Things will be more interesting that way. Well, for me anyway. I suppose it won't be terribly interesting for you, having a bullet in you and all that. 'Course, the bullet's not likely to stay in your body. I suppose I should stand farther away..." He stumbled to the side, his suit jacket falling half off his shoulder as he disentangled himself from the other man.

"Please, tell me where he's at. Where's the marksman at? I'll pay you. I'll pay you whatever sum you want. Just tell me where he's hiding." The man's eyes were darting nervously in every direction as he spun on the spot, frantically searching for Sebastian.

"Um...No. No, I don't think I will. I'd rather not have an assassin coming after me next. No, they seem so tedious. Always hiding in the most obvious places with their special little guns and special little microphones. Hello up there, by the way," The drunk pulled a lopsided grin and waved, not quite in Sebastian's direction, but close enough to make Sebastian's heart to stutter and freeze at the thought of being caught. "God, I miss the good old days when you assassinated people in style. A dollop of cyanide in a tea cup. A dash of arsenic on the roast. So much more simple back then. No, I don't suppose I much fancy getting targeted by Mr. Ex-Military-Marksman up there, thank you very much. I think I'd better be off now, before he gets angry with me."

"Up? Up where? Where do you see him, you bastard?" The man grabbed the drunk's lapels, practically hauling him up on his toes as he shook him, begging for answers.

"Oh dear, I've said too much, haven't I? Pity. I was having a rather good night. I suppose I should've known I couldn't enjoy a pint or two without stumbling into a murder plot. I do have the worst luck. Not as bad as yours, I guess. Oh, look, he's taking aim. How precious."

Sebastian was not, in fact, taking aim. But he supposed the drunk's lie worked to his advantage because the target dropped him and began frantically searching for the shooter once again. Sebastian didn't much want to kill the drunk. Not right at the moment, at least; he had some questions he wanted answered before disposing of the man.

The drunk shifted in his clothes, trying to put them back in their proper order. The target stared at him dully while he pulled at his tie and tugged his lapels flat once again. "Ralph Lauren," he said, brushing off his sleeve as if it were a posh designer suit.

"Are you pulling my leg? This isn't a joke, is it? For the love of god, just tell me where he is and I'll do anything. I'll buy you an entire pub if you bloody well want one! I'll buy you a fucking Westwood suit! Just tell me. Please."

"Ooooh, Westwood..." The drunk's eyes lit up for a moment, but then he shook his head. "No, I'd just steal one if I wanted it that badly. Nope, I don't think I'll tell you."

"Now listen to me you skinny little sod-"

His words were cut off as bullet tore its way through his skull. Sebastian smiled, pleased at a job well done despite the drunken man's interference. He quickly began packing up his equipment while the man below peered at the corpse then began sauntering away, strolling as if he didn't have another man's blood splattered across the front of his shirt. Sebastian kept an eye on him, tracking his movements so that he could intercept him later. He really was quite curious.

He disappeared from the scene long before the police arrived. After quietly stowing his rifle away in his pre-determined hidey hole, Sebastian set out in the direction he had seen the drunk disappear. He set out at a brisk walk, eager to catch him before he got terribly far away. He was glad to find the man not far beyond the station, balancing atop the tracks and singing to himself as he walked along. Sebastian slipped into the shadows, quietly watching the man as he tottered atop the steel girders. He was surprised that, inebriated as he was, the drunk could even walk, let alone do so while balanced on train tracks and singing.

He snorted as the little man finished his song, promptly toppling off the tracks and landing on the ground with a soft "oof." The man didn't seem too concerned, however, and merely straightened himself out, laying flat across the tracks with his head cushioned on one side as if it were a pillow. He then contentedly passed out.

Seeing his chance, Sebastian stepped from the shadows and dragged the man up, hauling him off towards his car. Up close, the man looked even more diminutive; his suit hung off his frame, barely concealing a too-prominent collarbone and sickly toned skin. He weighed hardly anything, being easily hefted into Sebastian's arms and over his shoulder. "Man" even seemed too strong a word to describe him; he looked more childish, maybe in his early twenties at best. Probably just got kicked out of uni or some other such nonsense. Just another punk kid with too much money in his pocket. Not that he looked terribly wealthy either, though.

Sebastian took the drunk back to his flat and tied him in a chair before calling his employer to notify him of a job completed. After being assured that the necessary funds would be deposited into his account by the next morning, Sebastian turned back to his guest and began rummaging through his pockets. He found a wallet loaded with credit cards, each with a different name on them. Besides those, there were also three different IDs, a new name on each one of these, too. Sebastian was growing increasingly more curious about this funny little man, and tried shaking him awake to try and get some answers. He merely got a snore in response. Frustrated, but knowing that he couldn't do much with a man this drunk, Sebastian settled onto the sofa and into a light doze.

He was jarred awake in the early dawn light by the sound of a thunk issuing from the middle of the room. His eyes fell on his guest whom was currently leaned back in his chair, causing the front legs to pick up off the ground. He balanced there for a moment before letting them crash back to the floor, hence the thunking.

"Awake, are you then?"

"Mm." The man's eyes darted around the room, peering curiously about before stopping on his captor. "I suppose you're the owner of this fine dwelling?"

"More or less."

"Funny, I don't remember propositioning any fine young ex-army men with a bondage fetish. Then again, I was rather drunk, so it's possible that it slipped my mind."

"Your accent's different today."

"Oh?" The man's eyebrows arched in curiosity. "I'm sorry. I suppose that you prefer the Irish lilt, then?" He slipped back into as easily as if it were putting on a glove.

"No, I was just pointing it out. Just another oddity to be added to the list of other oddities I've gathered."

"Well, it seems that you've rather gotten me in quite the bind here. I suppose that I'm in no position to deny you answers to whatever questions you have."

"And what are the odds of you actually answering honestly, Mr. Smith-O'Connor-Franklin-Potter-Dickson?"

The man's eyes lit up as he was addressed by all his pseudonyms, as if he were sharing in on a joke. "The last one's a bit of a laugh, isn't it? I mean, Richard Dickson. Dick Dickson. I'm surprised people are dense enough to fall for that one. You have a point, though. I suppose you can't really trust me."

"Right." Sebastian's eyes wondered over the man in the ill-fitting suit, trying to find the weak spot in his facade. "Been kicked out of uni then?"

"Just graduated, actually. Got my doctorate."

Sebastian scoffed, knowing when he was being taken for a fool. "Please, you're what? Twenty-one, tops?"

"Twenty-three, actually," the man sniffed. "Graduated early."

''Okay..." Sebastian hesitated, not quite sure where to go from there. He was even more confused than before their conversation had started.

"For an abductor, you're rather boring. I was expecting some attempts at non-consensual sexual gratification, not a homey sit-down. Then again, I guess that shooting is more your thing."

"Alright, tell me this then, how did you see me last night at the train station?"

"Oh, now you're asking the interesting questions! Well, I didn't see you, per se. I saw where the tip of your gun cast a shadow below, and at one point the light caught on your scope and made a dull flash. That, and an arrogant git carrying luggage that costs several thousand pounds should be shot. If I'd been wrong, which was high unlikely given his reaction to the threat, it still would have been amusing to watch him suffer through the paranoia."

"But you were completely hammered! How could you have seen all that?"

"Please. We've already established that I'm a genius; do you really think that alcohol is going to interfere too terribly with my perceptions? Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not an idiot."

"Yes, you are, but it's okay. Most everyone is."

"And passing out on train tracks doesn't make you an idiot?"

"Certainly not. It's just a little game I play with the trains. Thus far, I've won every time."

"Playing Russian roulette with an express doesn't sound terribly intelligent to me."

"That's because you don't have to listen to people like you- idiots, that is- speak about your dull, pedestrian lives all day long. Trust me, you would understand after a while."

Sebastian was quickly becoming more uncomfortable. He didn't fully believe all that the man was saying, but his eyes looked so dead, so utterly impenetrable that he was starting to think that maybe he'd gotten in over his head with this one. "So what's your name, then? I mean, your real name?"

"James. James Moriarty. But you can call me Jim. Most everyone does. Nice to meet you, Sebastian Moran."

"I didn't introduce myself."

"Oh for the love of god, it must be so boring to be you people. It's written right there, right on that letter from the nice young lady asking you to kill her cheating husband. Honestly, I can't believe that you're giving your real name out to these people. Rookie mistake, you know."

"You know, I was thinking about letting you live after I got my questions answered, but considering how much seem to know already, maybe it would be better if I didn't take that chance." Sebastian pulled out a pistol, leveling it at Jim's head.

The bastard just blinked up at him, his dark brown eyes betraying absolutely no emotion except, well, boredom. "Oh, sorry, is this the point where I'm supposed to become all terrified and beg you for my life? Damn. Sorry, I do hate to miss cues."

He screwed his face up, and for a moment Sebastian thought he was going to start crying. Instead, when he opened his eyes, they were somehow even more young appearing, and vulnerable. His lips puckered into a pout and he began talking in a thick Southern American accent.

"Oh, Lawd. Please, sir, I'd be ever so much obliged if you'd take mercy on my poor little soul. I wasn't meanin' no harm by what I said. I'm just a poor country boy confused in this great big city of yours."

"Stop that." Sebastian clicked the safety off the gun and pressed it close to Jim's forehead. "I've had enough of your play-acting."

"Good," Jim actually leaned into the the gun, scooting forward until it was pressed firmly against his skull. "Now we can get to the fun games. Such as, Is Mr. Ex-Military-Assassin Really Going to Kill Me? That's always one of my favorites. Although, I must admit that this is my first time playing. I'm already enjoying it immensely, mind you. Most fun I've had all year."

"You're psychotic."

"That's what the doctors told me. But I never really minded them. They're always diagnosing someone with something. And really, they're bound to get it wrong sometime. I prefer to think of it as more along the lines of a disregard for the general well-being of both my person and the public. Really, life becomes so much more interesting when you stop worrying about living."

"Fucking hell." Sebastian lowered the gun, completely unable to even begin to comprehend what the little man was getting at. It was such a bizarre conversation, Sebastian half expected to wake up and find that he'd dreamed it all up after having a bad acid trip. He plopped back down on the sofa, raking his fingers through his hair as he willed himself to think of an intelligible response to the psychopath.

"You know, I'm suddenly reminded of a certain song by that old band...What were they called? Something about puppy mills or something just as absurd. Anyway, this song, 'Opportunities,' I think it was called, seems rather applicable here."

Sebastian groaned. He didn't think the conversation could have veered any farther from what he had expected, but Jim had just successfully proven him wrong. "Are you seriously talking about the Pet Shops Boys at a time like this?"

"Any time is a good time to talk about the Pet Shop Boys, if you ask me. But I was just thinking, well, you've got the brawn, I've got the brains, what say you we make lots of money?" Jim beamed at Sebastian in disconcerting sort of way that made Sebastian sure that he should be institutionalized. Funny, that same smile also seemed to cinch things up for Sebastian rather nicely.

"What would my cut be?"

"Oh, whatever you feel like taking. I don't much care about the money. Although, I would rather like a nice suit. Either way, if you've got the inclination, I've got the crime." Jim's mouth twisted into a devious sort of smile, jarringly Cheshire-like in the way it spread across his face.

Sebastian blinked at him, a slow grin growing to match Jim's as he began to consider all the wonderful schemes this brilliant madman could come up with. No more shooting cheating husbands or crooked bankers for him; he was going big time.

"You know, I think that sounds like a pretty good idea."