Prompting Part XXIV

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post

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FILL: fooled you once 1/2

[anonymous]

First time writing these characters AND first time filling anything for anyone, so please forgive the general lack of quality. These two have pretty much eaten my brain as of late and I was probably going to write something like this for myself anyways so...hope it's what you were looking for, OP!
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When Sebastian doesn’t get a text within fifteen minutes after Sherlock Holmes takes a -rather poorly executed, in Seb’s opinion- leap off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, something creeps into the back of his mind that a lesser man would have named worry.

But he is Sebastian Moran and this is Jim Moriarty in question here and there is no reason the worry, none at all, this is Jim Moriarty and Jim Moriarty would never

never

never

--

Seb flags down a cab and slides in, snapping out “St. Bartholomew’s” and gripping the handle of his briefcase. His rifle in carefully dissembled and folded inside but he can have it out and set in three minutes 12 seconds. Jim had timed it. Timed it exactly, just like everything else he had ever done. Timed, planned, executed. Yeah; sometimes mistakes happen. People deviate from their predicted patterns and the wind picks up a notch. Jim had broken his wrist and Seb’s entire right side had been crushed by a Volvo -a Volvo; that is so embarrassing, Jim had told him, sing-song, picking a loose bit of plaster while Seb practiced shuffling a deck of cards using only his left hand- but those were small mistakes. Bones mend and flesh knits. People return to routine and bullets find their mark on the second try -Do not miss again, ever, Jim had growled, biting down on Seb’s collarbone, I will tear you to shreds, I will make you into a statue and throw you into the Thames, I will find a new sniper- and everything is all right. The fire keeps on burning.

Only people make big mistakes. Only people ruin everything. Jim Moriarty is not a person. Jim Moriarty is an empire.

--

And Sebastian Moran is his army.

--

The street in front of St. Bartholomew’s is crowded, the air more sirens and wailing than oxygen. Seb sees the sheet-covered stretcher; smiles grimly because good, you won, Jim- see? You won, you crazy bastard, now where are you.

He sees John Watson slumped next to the ambulance, the light and life drained from him, looking about twenty years older than he ever did before, in the crosshairs of Seb’s rifle. Seb’s smile fades slightly because he’s beginning to become a lesser man; he’s beginning to recognize and define that word, worry, and he’s beginning to understand what would make a soldier like John Watson look that way.

But he pushes it away with brutal efficiency. Jim will be Jim and he’s probably twirling on the roof to Mozart or the Scissor Sisters.

Seb rounds the side of the building -a little faster now, not quite a walk- to find the back entrance. There’s a rusted door with an even rustier lock which he doesn’t even need to pick; it’s open. Considerate of you, Jim, quite. There’s a utility staircase behind the door shrouded in dusty gloom, and Seb climbs it, taking two steps at a time. There’s a second door at the top which is open a crack, and he nudges it open, letting more of the pale, almost sickly light in.