The lovely baker-street-ashtray (aka mormorphone) offered to write for me if I drew some angsty Mormor… Is it too much? It’s too much… Well, here you go anyway! Take all the time you need, I know it will be incredible. (I will wait here for years if that’s what you need!!)
So.. here you go!
It was all a matter of bad luck. Bad luck. The words cycled through Jim’s mind again and again, until they didn’t make sense any more, until ‘luck’ was just a flash of a rigged dice and ‘bad’ was just an unreliable tab on some forgotten scale. Bad luck, bad planning, a bad day. A lucky shot, a game of luck, a lucky chance at saving him.
The sky was dark. Brooding, Sebastian had said, waggling his eyebrows at Jim in a way that made him scoff. The second-in-command laughed, grinning as he shrugged on a shirt.. Jim had run his hands over his sniper’s chest, unashamedly taking advantage of the bare skin, of rippling muscle exposed between the two unbuttoned cuts of expensive fabric. That grin widened.
All morning, the storm clouds had deepened, darkened, gathered in a blanket that hung suggestively black over the London sky. There would be a downpour. But Jim had a deal.
Stay in bed, Sebastian had urged, the words a teasing growl spoken by Jim’s ear, sending shivers along the skin of his neck. He’d closed his eyes, smiled amusedly. Let his sniper continue his ministrations; slow, teasing kisses along Jim’s chest. Jim enjoyed letting him think that he’d won.
I knew you’d come around, love.
Don’t call me that.
But I love you.
Less than an hour later, they were on the way to the job, Jim whistling to his classical radio as Sebastian drove with an expression that resembled the thunder outside. Jim flashed him a simpering smile, and received a glare in return, followed by a resigned sigh, and a squeeze of his fingers. Forgiven. Too easy. He leaned over to kiss him.
The car came out of nowhere.
To call it a car would be simplistic. Underwhelming. In vehicle terms, it was a reinforced Range Rover. Against the Porsche, it was a battering ram with a target.
At the last moment, Sebastian’s eyes had widened, his hands harsh as they pushed Jim down in his seat and simultaneously flung the steering wheel with a slam of a foot onto the accelerator. The noise was deafening, and Jim’s hands were fisting in his sniper’s jacket, the car being thrown halfway across the road in what seemed like slow motion. Sebastian, arms up, trying to protect his boss. The coffee from the drive thru, spilling over onto the upholstery, flying into the windscreen. Jim’s phone, cracking one of the windows as it flew from his pocket, a high speed projectile.
The car crashed back to earth with an ear-splitting smash, showering them both with broken glass. A hand, slick with blood found Jim’s own, squeezing hard. A voice, loud and anxious. Are you okay? Fuck. Fuck, Jim, speak to me!
Shock. Just shock.
Sebastian’s hands dragging him from the car, planting him on his feet. Jim laughed, a sound that was breathless and bizarre. He felt dizzy, but alright. Adrenaline surged through him, but he was alive. Sebastian’s own face, bloodied at one corner of the mouth, lit up with a grin that was relieved, and then Jim was pulled hard into his arms, a bone-crushing hug that made him roll his eyes.
Honestly, Moran. He said, clearing his throat to put a touch of malice in his voice. You’d think I’d never died before.
Not on my watch, Sebastian quipped in return with a wink, pressing a relieved kiss to Jim’s lips, which Jim batted off with a scowl, despising the affection - and in public, too. The street over from Baker Street - to think, Sherlock might have seen such a display. How mortifying. He straightened his jacket.
We need another car.
He said. Tried to say. Was about to say. The end of his sentence was drowned out by gunshots. Loud, echoing, cracking off concrete walls and brickwork and the denting ding of the shell burying itself in the upturned car. The grin was gone from Sebastian’s lips within a half second, all business as the world turned on its head. Jim found himself pinned to the pavement beneath him, Sebastian drawing a gun from the back of his trousers, aiming behind himself to shoot at their adversary. No doubt, the driver of the car.
Let me up, Jim hissed, thrashing. Sebastian Moran. Moran. Tried to use authority, but the sniper wouldn’t listen. Silence fell. You got him, Jim said, and then pushed his second-in-command hard. Now get off me. For fuck sake.
The grin came again, and Jim was tugged to his feet, but kept behind Sebastian’s body. He stayed a half step in front as they crept out from behind the smoking car, Jim trying in vain to see around him, to see who had been their adversary.
Not even Sebastian had suspected the second round of bullets.
His mistake was protecting Jim. As the man - short, stocky, nervously determined - fired repeatedly, Sebastian pushed Jim back harshly, pushed him back hard enough to topple him onto the concrete. And then he fired back.
Just a split second. Just one mistake. Just love. Weakness. Delay.
Just bad luck.
Humiliatingly, Jim Moriarty was knocked clean out. He was awoken by the flecks of rain on his skin, the heavens opening as he lay amongst the broken glass, coffee or oil dripping steadily on him from the upturned car. Silence. Eerie silence. Roaring in his ears.
He staggered to his feet, and straightened his jacket out of habit. Walked around the side of the car, as calmly as he could manage, fingers sliding as he palmed at the slickening metal. His knees didn’t buckle. He didn’t throw up, nor did he cry out. He just stared, his mouth dry, his fingers wet, his hair slicked to his forehead.
Sebastian Moran lay, sprawled on the ground, his back to Jim. Gunmetal grey suit still somehow immaculate, even as the shirt beneath became gradually saturated with crimson. He was bone still, the rain pattering down silently around him as Jim stared, his heart stuttering in his chest.
A ragged breath. A turn, laboured, onto his back, lips parted in agony, to catch the rain on his skin. Fingers palming at the bullet wound in his side, shaking as they too became red, trying to stop the bleeding. Jim made no sound. His mouth twitched at the corner, relief flooding his chest with a dizzying intensity, and he staggered towards him, hooking his arms beneath his sniper’s and beginning to drag him, drag him to the only place he could knew, the only place he could think of, nearby.
Jim? Jim, fuck, is that - what are you doing? Put.. put me down, you daft git.
Sebastian’s voice was a pained, amused rasp, but Jim ignored him. He knew what he wanted. He knew where they were going. Sebastian Moran didn’t want to die in the arms of their enemies. He wanted to die where he was. A flaming car crash. A bullet wound. Jim saved. It was a victory.
Damn it, Jim.
The words were pained, through gritted teeth, but Jim shot straight back, his voice sounding alien to his own ears, low and breathy. Not on my watch. Sebastian laughed, the sound a rasp. He tried to kick at the floor, to help Jim carry him rather than be a dead weight, but Jim chided him angrily, watching the agony flick across his face.
No one was around.
Why was no one around?
A car alarm. A siren, faint. Flickering street lights, and pouring rain. Jim’s clothes felt heavy on him, and Sebastian was leaving a crimson stripe on the pavement.
You aren’t allowed to die, Jim said, a growl, a plea, an angry remark. He reached the door, the 221B, their safehaven, it had to be. He slammed his fists against the door, not caring how it might look. The affection, the care, the weakness.
Doctor Watson, he tried to call. To shriek. Doctor Watson. John. John.
The words weren’t leaving his lips. Instead - You aren’t allowed to die. I forbid it. You aren’t - allowed - to - die!
The words were fractured by slamming his fists into the wood of the door. Jim’s fingers slid on the slick surface, his teeth gritted, and Sebastian laughed again, weaker this time, sitting against the stone steps. Soaked to the skin. His fingers crimson, pressed his wound.
John. John.. Doctor.. Watson.
Jim screwed his eyes shut, rested his forehead against the door. His eyes were hot and wet, his bottom lip quivering, his body shivering but not cold. He turned to Sebastian. Wiped his nose with a hand, and sat down on the steps beside him, heels of his hands pressed hard into his eyes.
Don’t beat yourself up about it. Sebastian said, wry and amused. His words were strained. Pained. Jim’s mouth turned tight down. Sebastian Moran was going to make him cry.
Shut the fuck up. He spat back. They’ll be.. they’ll be back any second. You don’t.. You aren’t allowed to die.
You forbid it. Sebastian drawled, leaning his head on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim kept his hands pressed hard to his eyes, teeth gritted.
I forbid it, he confirmed.
Hate to break it to you, boss. Sebastian murmured, his eyes closed. But I think I’m about to disobey my first.. my.. first..
Jim’s eyes shot open. He turned to look at him, took his face in his hands, a strangled sound leaving his lips when he took in the crimson, covering almost the entire side of Sebastian’s shirt. On his fingers. Blonde hair a dark ash, wet and plastered to his face.
Sebastian. He said his name angrily, shaking him as he turned to hold him on the steps, his sniper’s head lolling to one side. Blood tipped from his mouth, slid down both sides of his chin, the look of a marionette puppet. Grotesque. Wrong. No.
No. He said aloud, and then louder, pointing at him. No.
Still here. Sebastian said. The words were a whisper, a rasp, barely a movement of crimson lips, hands grasping at Jim’s face, and falling just as quickly, numb and limp.
Don’t you dare leave me. Jim yelled, putting every ounce of Moriarty into the words, every ounce of malice he had, eyes wild as he shook him, and Sebastian laughed again, pulling him in. He kissed him messily, and Jim screwed his eyes shut. He tasted like rain. Like blood.
S’just bad luck.
The words were small, slurred. An attempt at reassurance spoken against rain-slicked mouths, Sebastian still trying to help Jim, even as the life eked from him on the concrete. Just bad luck, love.
Don’t call me that. Jim tried to say back. It left his mouth in a cry, furious as he shook him, his pale marionette puppet. Sebastian’s eyes were open. Blue glass. Don’t call me that.
But I love you, Sebastian should have said. It was their back-and-forth. It was their thing. Jim would scowl, and Sebastian would kiss his neck, and then Jim would threaten him with death.
Don’t call me that.
Jim yelled the words, but there was no reply. Only blue glass. Empty. Sebastian was empty. His blood, his soul, his life was spilled here on this pavement.
Don’t call me that. Don’t call me that. Don’t call me that.
He was screaming them now, shaking Sebastian, his marionette, his rag doll. His eyes slid closed, a bubble of crimson along the line of his lips. Jim’s arms encircled him, and he began to rock, laughing quietly, bitterly, hot tears slipping down his cheeks, falling on to him.
Not onto him.
He tried to mop them away. The blood smeared over his sniper’s face. No, Jim said, voice thick. No, no, no, no.
He hugged him. Crouched over him. Rocked with him.
Sherlock Holmes found them together, twenty two minutes later. Jim Moriarty, laying in the street with his love, himself half dead with hypothermia. Just rocking.
Bad luck, he was saying, interspersed with shivering, manic giggles, his arms so tight around the Moran fellow that not a soul could pry them apart..
It’s just bad luck.