igrab
in
grabi_hands
An Endless Succession (Jim/Sebastian, PG-13)
Jim/Sebastian . FullMetal Alchemist AU . 1,431 words . PG-13 . They knew him as the Deductive Alchemist, but that's not why Professor Moriarty did.
He knew the man who stalked into his classroom because you would have had to be socially blind not to know him. The world was kept entertained by the stories of the Deductive Alchemist and his brother - ostensibly part of the military but operating a level above, making the wolves look like dogs and the dogs like puppies. They were famous.
That's not why Professor Moriarty knew of him.
"You know, I don't understand why you're a teacher," Sherlock Holmes began in medias res, and Jim appreciated his blunt force, indelicate, but effective.
"What can I say," he drawled, "I love imparting knowledge to impressionable young minds."
"You misunderstand me. What I don't understand is how they allow you near their precious children at all."
Jim inspected his fingernails, oh this was turning out to be a fun day. "I'd love to impress you with my credentials, Alchemist." It was a herculean feat, worthy of trophies and named etched in bronze, that he didn't actually draw out the innuendo. But then, he knew Sherlock, knew he'd pick it up. He was good.
The man stepped closer, attempting to use his height as an intimidation factor, and also so he could keep his voice down. Instinct for self-preservation? A touch of goodheartedness? Insurance in case he was wrong?
Jim knew it was none of that. Selfish, he thought, so selfish of you, Sherlock. As if I'd give the information up on a silver platter - as if I'd tell anything to the likes of you.
"I've heard rumors," he whispered. "Whispers on the wind and do you know where they all lead? Right. Back. Here."
Jim's eyes said, You're a fantastic bullshitter, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. "How flattering. And what do these rumors tell you?"
He knew, of course. The second the Holmes brothers had shown up in Central he'd known what they were after, known the looks of desperation and despair in their eyes. They'd lost something. They'd do anything to get it back.
Sherlock's hands clenched, black leather against the white and gray of child-drawn arrays. His shoulders hunched, in that ever-present coat with its stark symbology, and Jim could have laughed at the cruel irony of it. His voice, when he spoke, was wrecked.
"They say you created a Philosopher's Stone."
+
Colonel Watson looked up as Sherlock stormed into his office - without leave, as usual - and threw down a collection of badly-scrawled notes on five-lined music paper. He collected them into a careful pile. Mycroft would soon be by with a typed, perfect, anally detailed report of their findings, but he liked Sherlock's ridiculous scrawl and even more, he liked his brilliant observations about things that had nothing to do with anything at all. He'd spent an entire three pages on cloud formations, once, and John had barely glanced at Mycroft's reports but spent hours marveling at the beauty of the younger Holmes's brain. His notes were something to treasured, a piece of him that John wanted, badly, especially when Donovan was standing over his shoulder (Fuck off, are you mooning about again? You'll never become Fuhrer like this!) or Lestrade was showing off pictures of his daughter, or - or any time, really.
Sherlock's face was agitated, his hands grasping and expressive. He didn't say anything, though, just felt the need to inspect every object on John's desk, like he hadn't done so a hundred times before.
"I'm guessing that was a bust, then," he ventured.
"Damn it all!" Sherlock flung the paperweight down in exasperation, just barely missing John's fingers. "He has it, I know he does, and he knows I know but there's no proof and he won't tell me a damn thing!"
"Well," John said slowly, "I could have told you barging in maybe wasn't the best idea, but - "
"You could have, yes, but did you? No."
John frowned. "Would you have listened?" he snapped back.
Sherlock got a very pained look on his face, because he knew that John was right.
John sighed. "Look, take a few days off. Go to, um... the theater." He'd heard that's what normal people did. He hadn't any idea what it felt like. "Take someone. That girl from the morgue, she likes you."
Sherlock snorted loudly. "Molly? Don't be daft. I would break her."
John shifted uncomfortably at that implication, though he really didn't think Sherlock meant it quite how it came out. "All... right then. Look, I don't care. Take time off. Relax. Have fun. You do know what that means, don't you?" He peered curiously across the desk.
Sherlock huffed. "Of course."
John waited.
"....Hypothetically."
He sighed. "Well, make it a question of practical knowledge, whatever you need to do."
He was being very insistent on this 'free time' business, and finally, finally Sherlock caught on to John's plan. For a smart man, he could be incredibly dense at times.
"...And you'll call with the address the second you find it?"
John smiled, albeit a bit wearily. "The very second."
+
Jim had a routine when he came home. Go here, do this, it was all so ingrained that he didn't think about it anymore, and there were times when he'd actually had the foyers of his houses rebuilt simply to accommodate these specific spatial requirements.
Last of these, however, required a bit more thought - find Sebastian and kiss the living daylights out of him. Four hundred years, and it hadn't gotten any less perfect, any less exciting. Body after body after body and they were still them, still Moriarty and Moran and bound together tighter than fate.
No sign of him on the ground floor. Odd. He took the stairs two at a time, gritting his teeth against the way his body cried out, the flaky dead bits under his perfect suit shaking from abuse. Just a little longer. Sherlock was interested now, he was hooked, and soon he'd begin to make mistakes. They'd seen it before. They'd lay the trap and he'd come, and once they had him, his precious John wouldn't be far behind. They were pathetically easy to predict.
400 years. An endless succession, as eternal as the sunrise. Sherlock after Sherlock. John after John.
So easy, so perfect, the way their new incarnations would always fit together like they'd been made for it.
And time after time, Jim and Sebastian would fit their souls inside, move into their bodies like changing house, and they always fit so perfectly. Round and round and round. And they would all live forever in each other.
+
Sebastian wasn't home.
No, this was wrong. Sebastian was always home. That is to say, he wasn't always but his routine was as cemented as Jim's was, it was six pm and Sebastian was always home. He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill something. He settled for slapping his hands together and slamming them to the ground, turning their bed into a million shards of glass.
No, this was wrong. He had to think, that's what he did. There was really only one reason why Sebastian wouldn't be home, and for the first time in - a very long, long time - Jim felt a trickling tendril of fear.
Because, you see, playing with Sherlock - it was always a little like playing with fire. He'd come out on top so far, but that was the best part of it - he didn't know.
They'd messed with the wrong part of his life.
Anything, he thought, anything but Sebastian. Blow up his house. Kill his chimeras. Turn his internal organs to sludge (though they were admittedly already heading in that direction). Anything, any part of his four hundred years of life, but for all the gods that were ever believed in, not him.
Jim slipped the Stone into his pocket, and set out. One way or another, they would finish this.
He knew the man who stalked into his classroom because you would have had to be socially blind not to know him. The world was kept entertained by the stories of the Deductive Alchemist and his brother - ostensibly part of the military but operating a level above, making the wolves look like dogs and the dogs like puppies. They were famous.
That's not why Professor Moriarty knew of him.
"You know, I don't understand why you're a teacher," Sherlock Holmes began in medias res, and Jim appreciated his blunt force, indelicate, but effective.
"What can I say," he drawled, "I love imparting knowledge to impressionable young minds."
"You misunderstand me. What I don't understand is how they allow you near their precious children at all."
Jim inspected his fingernails, oh this was turning out to be a fun day. "I'd love to impress you with my credentials, Alchemist." It was a herculean feat, worthy of trophies and named etched in bronze, that he didn't actually draw out the innuendo. But then, he knew Sherlock, knew he'd pick it up. He was good.
The man stepped closer, attempting to use his height as an intimidation factor, and also so he could keep his voice down. Instinct for self-preservation? A touch of goodheartedness? Insurance in case he was wrong?
Jim knew it was none of that. Selfish, he thought, so selfish of you, Sherlock. As if I'd give the information up on a silver platter - as if I'd tell anything to the likes of you.
"I've heard rumors," he whispered. "Whispers on the wind and do you know where they all lead? Right. Back. Here."
Jim's eyes said, You're a fantastic bullshitter, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. "How flattering. And what do these rumors tell you?"
He knew, of course. The second the Holmes brothers had shown up in Central he'd known what they were after, known the looks of desperation and despair in their eyes. They'd lost something. They'd do anything to get it back.
Sherlock's hands clenched, black leather against the white and gray of child-drawn arrays. His shoulders hunched, in that ever-present coat with its stark symbology, and Jim could have laughed at the cruel irony of it. His voice, when he spoke, was wrecked.
"They say you created a Philosopher's Stone."
+
Colonel Watson looked up as Sherlock stormed into his office - without leave, as usual - and threw down a collection of badly-scrawled notes on five-lined music paper. He collected them into a careful pile. Mycroft would soon be by with a typed, perfect, anally detailed report of their findings, but he liked Sherlock's ridiculous scrawl and even more, he liked his brilliant observations about things that had nothing to do with anything at all. He'd spent an entire three pages on cloud formations, once, and John had barely glanced at Mycroft's reports but spent hours marveling at the beauty of the younger Holmes's brain. His notes were something to treasured, a piece of him that John wanted, badly, especially when Donovan was standing over his shoulder (Fuck off, are you mooning about again? You'll never become Fuhrer like this!) or Lestrade was showing off pictures of his daughter, or - or any time, really.
Sherlock's face was agitated, his hands grasping and expressive. He didn't say anything, though, just felt the need to inspect every object on John's desk, like he hadn't done so a hundred times before.
"I'm guessing that was a bust, then," he ventured.
"Damn it all!" Sherlock flung the paperweight down in exasperation, just barely missing John's fingers. "He has it, I know he does, and he knows I know but there's no proof and he won't tell me a damn thing!"
"Well," John said slowly, "I could have told you barging in maybe wasn't the best idea, but - "
"You could have, yes, but did you? No."
John frowned. "Would you have listened?" he snapped back.
Sherlock got a very pained look on his face, because he knew that John was right.
John sighed. "Look, take a few days off. Go to, um... the theater." He'd heard that's what normal people did. He hadn't any idea what it felt like. "Take someone. That girl from the morgue, she likes you."
Sherlock snorted loudly. "Molly? Don't be daft. I would break her."
John shifted uncomfortably at that implication, though he really didn't think Sherlock meant it quite how it came out. "All... right then. Look, I don't care. Take time off. Relax. Have fun. You do know what that means, don't you?" He peered curiously across the desk.
Sherlock huffed. "Of course."
John waited.
"....Hypothetically."
He sighed. "Well, make it a question of practical knowledge, whatever you need to do."
He was being very insistent on this 'free time' business, and finally, finally Sherlock caught on to John's plan. For a smart man, he could be incredibly dense at times.
"...And you'll call with the address the second you find it?"
John smiled, albeit a bit wearily. "The very second."
+
Jim had a routine when he came home. Go here, do this, it was all so ingrained that he didn't think about it anymore, and there were times when he'd actually had the foyers of his houses rebuilt simply to accommodate these specific spatial requirements.
Last of these, however, required a bit more thought - find Sebastian and kiss the living daylights out of him. Four hundred years, and it hadn't gotten any less perfect, any less exciting. Body after body after body and they were still them, still Moriarty and Moran and bound together tighter than fate.
No sign of him on the ground floor. Odd. He took the stairs two at a time, gritting his teeth against the way his body cried out, the flaky dead bits under his perfect suit shaking from abuse. Just a little longer. Sherlock was interested now, he was hooked, and soon he'd begin to make mistakes. They'd seen it before. They'd lay the trap and he'd come, and once they had him, his precious John wouldn't be far behind. They were pathetically easy to predict.
400 years. An endless succession, as eternal as the sunrise. Sherlock after Sherlock. John after John.
So easy, so perfect, the way their new incarnations would always fit together like they'd been made for it.
And time after time, Jim and Sebastian would fit their souls inside, move into their bodies like changing house, and they always fit so perfectly. Round and round and round. And they would all live forever in each other.
+
Sebastian wasn't home.
No, this was wrong. Sebastian was always home. That is to say, he wasn't always but his routine was as cemented as Jim's was, it was six pm and Sebastian was always home. He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill something. He settled for slapping his hands together and slamming them to the ground, turning their bed into a million shards of glass.
No, this was wrong. He had to think, that's what he did. There was really only one reason why Sebastian wouldn't be home, and for the first time in - a very long, long time - Jim felt a trickling tendril of fear.
Because, you see, playing with Sherlock - it was always a little like playing with fire. He'd come out on top so far, but that was the best part of it - he didn't know.
They'd messed with the wrong part of his life.
Anything, he thought, anything but Sebastian. Blow up his house. Kill his chimeras. Turn his internal organs to sludge (though they were admittedly already heading in that direction). Anything, any part of his four hundred years of life, but for all the gods that were ever believed in, not him.
Jim slipped the Stone into his pocket, and set out. One way or another, they would finish this.