he saved the last dance for me [6/6]
anonymous
January 13 2011, 16:07:25 UTC
And, this-
-this is how it ends:
The thing is, you never wanted to travel the world. You used to say you did, back when you were still Moran, because I became a military sniper to kill people was only a motivation that remained acceptable as long as it was unspoken.
The last few years, you have seen the globe, both on your own and by Moriarty’s side. You reminisce, distantly, on all the beauty and the devastation you witnessed in amongst the merry chase of the great game, and spare a moment to lament on how little it all actually meant.
It has come down to this, and now you know that it could never have come down to anything else: there’s a gun in your hand and it is aimed square between his eyes; there is a gun in John Watson’s hand, and it is aimed square between yours.
“I thought you were better than this,” John says. He’s filling the space between them; both of your fingers are resting on your respective triggers, this is a standoff that is going nowhere - all you can do now is talk, or shoot. Or wait, and hope-hope that it’s Moriarty that finds you both first.
“We’re not so different,” you tell him.
“We’re very different,” he insists, and you shake your head at him, pitying.
“You keep telling yourself that,” you say. “But it doesn’t make it the truth. You love him; you would die for him, and you would kill for him - and you already have. You already do.”
“Sherlock isn’t a psychopath.”
“But he could be,” you press. “If he wanted it. If he was pushed. The foundations are there. You’ve seen them, you can’t be so blissfully ignorant.”
“I believe in him,” John explains, undaunted.
“I believe in Jim,” you reply, “and that is why we are both the same.”
Something catches your attention and you risk the quickest of glances upwards, and you break out in a grin as you spot a welcome figure training their laser sight to the back of John’s head. “Looks like my ride is here,” you crow. His expression is carefully blank. “This is goodbye, John.”
You feel the muzzle of a gun press between your shoulder blades just as Moriarty’s laser sight snaps up from John, training on a new target just behind her.
“You first,” Sherlock says, eerily even.
“Chivalry won’t get you anywhere today,” you chastise, a little too breathlessly for your own taste.
“It’s still not too late,” John says. He is pleading with you, in that reserved, bleeding-heart manner you’ve come to expect from him over the years.
“There is no redemption for me,” you reply. “I am where I want to be.”
“Please,” John whispers, like he wasn’t on the verge of killing you two beats ago.
You inhale, readjust your aim, and fire on your exhale.
Your finger has barely left the trigger when you feel two bullets hit you in the back at close range, and you crash into the warehouse floor, gun flying from your hand and skidding across the cement as your world is narrowed down to sharp, burning, absolute agony, and the scream of gunfire and noises.
(“Sherlock!” and “God, Sherlock, she changed her trajectory,” and “she wasn’t shooting to kill” amongst urging and panic and go, god, go.
Somewhere up high and unobtainable, you think you hear your name.)
-
You don’t know how long it’s been quiet for when you feel a hand against your neck, fingers feeling for a pulse.
“Your aim used to be a lot better than that,” Moriarty says.
You can’t open your eyes. “My aim is better than that,” you answer, voice a barely coherent slur. It hurts beyond anything you’ve ever felt before to even suck in breath, let alone speak, but you want to. “Did we win?”
“Not this time,” he replies, and he shouldn’t sound this soft, shouldn’t sound like he’s speaking secrets into your ear while you sleep, volume leashed behind his teeth so he doesn’t rouse you.
“You know better for next time,” you whisper, swallowing thickly. You wonder what he looks like, in this moment, if he is truly sad or merely inconvenienced.
But it can only be that, now, a wonderment.
You feel his fingers in your hair, brushing stray strands back from your face. It’s a small comfort, and you are grateful for it.
I'm speechless here. Thank you for this wonderful fill. The style was fantastic, Jim was incredibly in character and it was the first time I saw on this fandom something that I love on the victorian one- Moran and Watson discussing how they're really the same.
Also... Jim ran to Brazil? Seriously? I'm brazilian! Can't stop laughing at the coincidence.
The ending broke my heart, but was perfect. Thank you.
-this is how it ends:
The thing is, you never wanted to travel the world. You used to say you did, back when you were still Moran, because I became a military sniper to kill people was only a motivation that remained acceptable as long as it was unspoken.
The last few years, you have seen the globe, both on your own and by Moriarty’s side. You reminisce, distantly, on all the beauty and the devastation you witnessed in amongst the merry chase of the great game, and spare a moment to lament on how little it all actually meant.
It has come down to this, and now you know that it could never have come down to anything else: there’s a gun in your hand and it is aimed square between his eyes; there is a gun in John Watson’s hand, and it is aimed square between yours.
“I thought you were better than this,” John says. He’s filling the space between them; both of your fingers are resting on your respective triggers, this is a standoff that is going nowhere - all you can do now is talk, or shoot. Or wait, and hope-hope that it’s Moriarty that finds you both first.
“We’re not so different,” you tell him.
“We’re very different,” he insists, and you shake your head at him, pitying.
“You keep telling yourself that,” you say. “But it doesn’t make it the truth. You love him; you would die for him, and you would kill for him - and you already have. You already do.”
“Sherlock isn’t a psychopath.”
“But he could be,” you press. “If he wanted it. If he was pushed. The foundations are there. You’ve seen them, you can’t be so blissfully ignorant.”
“I believe in him,” John explains, undaunted.
“I believe in Jim,” you reply, “and that is why we are both the same.”
Something catches your attention and you risk the quickest of glances upwards, and you break out in a grin as you spot a welcome figure training their laser sight to the back of John’s head. “Looks like my ride is here,” you crow. His expression is carefully blank. “This is goodbye, John.”
You feel the muzzle of a gun press between your shoulder blades just as Moriarty’s laser sight snaps up from John, training on a new target just behind her.
“You first,” Sherlock says, eerily even.
“Chivalry won’t get you anywhere today,” you chastise, a little too breathlessly for your own taste.
“It’s still not too late,” John says. He is pleading with you, in that reserved, bleeding-heart manner you’ve come to expect from him over the years.
“There is no redemption for me,” you reply. “I am where I want to be.”
“Please,” John whispers, like he wasn’t on the verge of killing you two beats ago.
You inhale, readjust your aim, and fire on your exhale.
Your finger has barely left the trigger when you feel two bullets hit you in the back at close range, and you crash into the warehouse floor, gun flying from your hand and skidding across the cement as your world is narrowed down to sharp, burning, absolute agony, and the scream of gunfire and noises.
(“Sherlock!” and “God, Sherlock, she changed her trajectory,” and “she wasn’t shooting to kill” amongst urging and panic and go, god, go.
Somewhere up high and unobtainable, you think you hear your name.)
-
You don’t know how long it’s been quiet for when you feel a hand against your neck, fingers feeling for a pulse.
“Your aim used to be a lot better than that,” Moriarty says.
You can’t open your eyes. “My aim is better than that,” you answer, voice a barely coherent slur. It hurts beyond anything you’ve ever felt before to even suck in breath, let alone speak, but you want to. “Did we win?”
“Not this time,” he replies, and he shouldn’t sound this soft, shouldn’t sound like he’s speaking secrets into your ear while you sleep, volume leashed behind his teeth so he doesn’t rouse you.
“You know better for next time,” you whisper, swallowing thickly. You wonder what he looks like, in this moment, if he is truly sad or merely inconvenienced.
But it can only be that, now, a wonderment.
You feel his fingers in your hair, brushing stray strands back from your face. It’s a small comfort, and you are grateful for it.
You part your lips again, and.
-
fin
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I think this might be my new head canon.
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I want to kidnap this fill and just snuggle it while it wails and screams at how the gentleness burns.
Also - much love for the second person POV, I see it done so rarely, it seems to take huge talent to use it as beautifully as this.
*kidnaps fill* *snuggles* *puts it back in place for others to enjoy*
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Wow.
I'm speechless here. Thank you for this wonderful fill. The style was fantastic, Jim was incredibly in character and it was the first time I saw on this fandom something that I love on the victorian one- Moran and Watson discussing how they're really the same.
Also... Jim ran to Brazil? Seriously? I'm brazilian! Can't stop laughing at the coincidence.
The ending broke my heart, but was perfect. Thank you.
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Gorgeous and heartbreaking. I hope Molly does turn out to be Moran in the show, because I want it to be just like this.
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