Moran stood over Jim's body, blood on his shoes.  Jim bought him those shoes last week because he thought the other pair were hideous or scuffed or didn't match his own eyes.  Moran hadn't paid attention at the time and now it was lost to him.  He smirked for a moment and crouched down, stupidly feeling for a pulse that couldn't be there. The wound ( Read more... )

Sebastian Moran liked his whiskey.  Some might say he liked it a little too much.  He sat in an old pub in Boston on his fourth glass, hardly feeling it.  His life was over anyhow.  He'd been dismissed from his post, only having just made colonel.  What was he supposed to do now if it didn't involve a lot of liquor anyhow ( Read more... )

Sebastian isn't suppose to be in the back of a taxi right now getting his zipper undone by John Watson.  He's suppose to be making friends and infiltrating Baker Street.  Still, Jim knew that they had this past when he gave Moran the assignment.  Sebastian made it all perfectly clear that he and John fucked like rabbits during their time training ( Read more... )