Fic: Won't See My Eyes [complete]
Title: Won't See My Eyes
By: Arthur/Excellente
Status/Verse: Complete/ Nothing Left To Burn
Who: Sebastian Moran/John Watson
Contents: Mature (R), dark(ish) John
Length: 1052
Below or AO3
Note: Written thanks to a fantastic prompt from the wonderful Lukas
Summary: One is a crackshot, ex-soldier who kills to get what he wants, the other worked for the world’s only consulting criminal. London lost more than genius at St Barts.
John stares up at the broken fan above him with distaste. It hadn’t bothered him when they’d first arrived, his focus then had been on whether or not staying in the building would get them killed, but the temperature over the last few days had skyrocketed and he’s almost certain he could handle gunmen at the door if it meant dying with a cool breeze across his face.
The window is open, and it’s clear from the way that the flimsy curtain moves that there is at least some air flow, if only John were to give in and make a move for it, but that would mean giving up his spot. A spot he’s fought hard for. The only place on the bed where the springs didn’t stick up into your back and the lumps in the mattress were fairly worn down.
Not that John could get up, even if he did decide to surrender (which he won’t), he’s exhausted, bruised and weary down to his bones, and not all of it due to fighting. He’s too tired even to shift away from the body beside him, despite the extra heat it adds.
John is not a man built for the heat, and despite his years in Afghanistan. He’s British, born and raised, much more suited to drizzle and blustery winds than the dry heat of a hungarian summer. The fact that his partner is coping far better than he ever could only adds to John’s agitation, and he reaches over to the rickety bedside table and fumbles for his last cigarette. He lights it with difficulty, the sweat on his hands making any fine movement a struggle, and inhales deeply.
“Bad for your health, smoking,” Sebastian says, almost absently, turning his head to look, and John blows smoke into his face. It’s the closest they have to a joke between them, Sebastian reminding him how much he’s changed, and John silently telling him to fuck off.
It’s a stretch, really, to call it a joke, but the past year has taught John to find humour in darker places than he ever used to. He thinks he understands now, why Moriarty always seemed on the edge of being giddy. You either found the fun in shooting people or went mad (not to say Moriarty hadn’t).
Sebastian’s hand is on John’s thigh, his thumb drawing slow, teasing circles. He’s as done as John, and knows the touch can be nothing other than frustrating, and when the smoke gets blown in his face he raises an eyebrow and drags his nail over the white dressing on John’s leg.
John hisses and glares, getting no more than an amused snort in response.
“Arse.”
Face not changing an inch, Sebastian moves his hand to massage the space where thigh meets cheek gently, before pinching. Hard.
Yelping, John jerks away, knocking cigarette ash onto the sheets.
“That wasn’t an instruction!”
Sebastian shrugs, pats him on the hip and turns away, seemingly bored with the whole situation.
John isn’t fooled.
He isn’t sure when he decided to trust the man ordered to kill him, let alone bed him, but needs do as needs must, and if he wanted to find Sherlock, then Sebastian was essential (the sex maybe less so, but that, to be honest had more to do with John’s cripplingly fucked up psyche than anything else).
Sebastian’s explanation for helping him is simple. He’s in it for the money, and seeing as his last employer is six feet under with a bullet in his brain, if John can pay, Sebastian will help him find Sherlock. John believed him at first, it made sense.
It’s been a year now, of travelling together, working together, fighting and killing and sleeping together, and if John could go back to that day in Paris, he’d call the police and walk away. Sebastian is in this because if they find Sherlock (which he frequently tells John they won’t; usually when they’re under fire or spending the night somewhere particularly grim), then maybe it’s possible to find Moriarty as well.
It’s far from rational, it was Sebastian who told him about Moriarty’s brains all over the roof of St Barts, but then John isn’t exactly the spokesperson for rational. The difference is, he supposes, that where his own desperation is built on pathetic and inescapable puppy-like devotion, and a desire to prove that he wasn’t a complete idiot (alongside- no. There’s nothing else), Sebastian’s longing is rooted deeply in the way that Sebastian blames himself for Moriarty’s death.
“He lost it, long before I met him,” he said once, and another time, as they sat in the sewers of Mexico City waiting for night to fall:
“I knew what I was getting into. The deal was clear.”
And now here they are, the sun setting spectacularly outside the window, the heat just as intense as it was at noon, and Sebastian won’t look at him, no matter how high up his leg John slides his hand.
It’s quite clear (and John will admit it, he’s past caring) that he craves Moran’s attention, be it approval or searing remark, and at this point he can think of only one thing that will claw that attention back.
“You,” he hesitates, searching for a word that won’t result in a broken wrist, “cared about him.”
Finally (finally), Sebastian turns his head back to meet John’s expectant gaze.
“No.”
“But you miss him,” John isn’t going to let this go so easily, not now that he’s finally asked the question.
“And you miss Holmes.”
“Exactly.”
They both pause, looking at each other’s faces, but refusing to meet the other’s eyes. Sebastian taking in the implication of John’s admission, and John trying to quell the panic of having at last accepted it.
John breathes in the very last of the cigarette and looks out at the sun, letting the light burn at his eyes so when he turns back to Sebastian, his vision is full of brightly coloured blotches.
“He’s good at hiding.”
“Really?”
“Maybe better than we are at finding.”
There is a slow silence in which John decides that if it comes to it, he’ll shoot, but he’ll miss.
Sebastian stretches lazily beside him, rolling over to lay one arm over John’s middle.
“Maybe.”
By: Arthur/Excellente
Status/Verse: Complete/ Nothing Left To Burn
Who: Sebastian Moran/John Watson
Contents: Mature (R), dark(ish) John
Length: 1052
Below or AO3
Note: Written thanks to a fantastic prompt from the wonderful Lukas
Summary: One is a crackshot, ex-soldier who kills to get what he wants, the other worked for the world’s only consulting criminal. London lost more than genius at St Barts.
John stares up at the broken fan above him with distaste. It hadn’t bothered him when they’d first arrived, his focus then had been on whether or not staying in the building would get them killed, but the temperature over the last few days had skyrocketed and he’s almost certain he could handle gunmen at the door if it meant dying with a cool breeze across his face.
The window is open, and it’s clear from the way that the flimsy curtain moves that there is at least some air flow, if only John were to give in and make a move for it, but that would mean giving up his spot. A spot he’s fought hard for. The only place on the bed where the springs didn’t stick up into your back and the lumps in the mattress were fairly worn down.
Not that John could get up, even if he did decide to surrender (which he won’t), he’s exhausted, bruised and weary down to his bones, and not all of it due to fighting. He’s too tired even to shift away from the body beside him, despite the extra heat it adds.
John is not a man built for the heat, and despite his years in Afghanistan. He’s British, born and raised, much more suited to drizzle and blustery winds than the dry heat of a hungarian summer. The fact that his partner is coping far better than he ever could only adds to John’s agitation, and he reaches over to the rickety bedside table and fumbles for his last cigarette. He lights it with difficulty, the sweat on his hands making any fine movement a struggle, and inhales deeply.
“Bad for your health, smoking,” Sebastian says, almost absently, turning his head to look, and John blows smoke into his face. It’s the closest they have to a joke between them, Sebastian reminding him how much he’s changed, and John silently telling him to fuck off.
It’s a stretch, really, to call it a joke, but the past year has taught John to find humour in darker places than he ever used to. He thinks he understands now, why Moriarty always seemed on the edge of being giddy. You either found the fun in shooting people or went mad (not to say Moriarty hadn’t).
Sebastian’s hand is on John’s thigh, his thumb drawing slow, teasing circles. He’s as done as John, and knows the touch can be nothing other than frustrating, and when the smoke gets blown in his face he raises an eyebrow and drags his nail over the white dressing on John’s leg.
John hisses and glares, getting no more than an amused snort in response.
“Arse.”
Face not changing an inch, Sebastian moves his hand to massage the space where thigh meets cheek gently, before pinching. Hard.
Yelping, John jerks away, knocking cigarette ash onto the sheets.
“That wasn’t an instruction!”
Sebastian shrugs, pats him on the hip and turns away, seemingly bored with the whole situation.
John isn’t fooled.
He isn’t sure when he decided to trust the man ordered to kill him, let alone bed him, but needs do as needs must, and if he wanted to find Sherlock, then Sebastian was essential (the sex maybe less so, but that, to be honest had more to do with John’s cripplingly fucked up psyche than anything else).
Sebastian’s explanation for helping him is simple. He’s in it for the money, and seeing as his last employer is six feet under with a bullet in his brain, if John can pay, Sebastian will help him find Sherlock. John believed him at first, it made sense.
It’s been a year now, of travelling together, working together, fighting and killing and sleeping together, and if John could go back to that day in Paris, he’d call the police and walk away. Sebastian is in this because if they find Sherlock (which he frequently tells John they won’t; usually when they’re under fire or spending the night somewhere particularly grim), then maybe it’s possible to find Moriarty as well.
It’s far from rational, it was Sebastian who told him about Moriarty’s brains all over the roof of St Barts, but then John isn’t exactly the spokesperson for rational. The difference is, he supposes, that where his own desperation is built on pathetic and inescapable puppy-like devotion, and a desire to prove that he wasn’t a complete idiot (alongside- no. There’s nothing else), Sebastian’s longing is rooted deeply in the way that Sebastian blames himself for Moriarty’s death.
“He lost it, long before I met him,” he said once, and another time, as they sat in the sewers of Mexico City waiting for night to fall:
“I knew what I was getting into. The deal was clear.”
And now here they are, the sun setting spectacularly outside the window, the heat just as intense as it was at noon, and Sebastian won’t look at him, no matter how high up his leg John slides his hand.
It’s quite clear (and John will admit it, he’s past caring) that he craves Moran’s attention, be it approval or searing remark, and at this point he can think of only one thing that will claw that attention back.
“You,” he hesitates, searching for a word that won’t result in a broken wrist, “cared about him.”
Finally (finally), Sebastian turns his head back to meet John’s expectant gaze.
“No.”
“But you miss him,” John isn’t going to let this go so easily, not now that he’s finally asked the question.
“And you miss Holmes.”
“Exactly.”
They both pause, looking at each other’s faces, but refusing to meet the other’s eyes. Sebastian taking in the implication of John’s admission, and John trying to quell the panic of having at last accepted it.
John breathes in the very last of the cigarette and looks out at the sun, letting the light burn at his eyes so when he turns back to Sebastian, his vision is full of brightly coloured blotches.
“He’s good at hiding.”
“Really?”
“Maybe better than we are at finding.”
There is a slow silence in which John decides that if it comes to it, he’ll shoot, but he’ll miss.
Sebastian stretches lazily beside him, rolling over to lay one arm over John’s middle.
“Maybe.”