Chapter Text
It was wildly uncomfortable up in the rafters. Sebastian shifted his feet once more and peered through the scope again, moving the sight along the width of the room until he saw the doorway in the far right of the building.
Jim was waving at him through the window; although it was dark in that corner, the movement of Jim’s hand was frantic enough to be noticeable. Sebastian lifted a hand in response, just as there was a noise below him.
Sebastian couldn’t see him—Sherlock was undoubtedly just below Sebastian’s position—but he could hear him plainly, as he spoke out loud for the whole pool to hear.
“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present.”
Sebastian glanced back at the door Jim had been sulking behind just moments before—it was empty.
“It’s what it’s all been for, isn’t it?” Sherlock added, softer. “All your little puzzles , making me dance , all to distract me from this.”
Sebastian had to fight the urge to snicker—Sherlock was so dramatic. Much like Jim. They were perfect for each other, he thought sinisterly.
Then there was another noise—another door opening. John Watson stepped out from the boy’s locker room, hands in the pockets of his parka as he held it wrapped around him. Sebastian grinned.
“Evening,” John said.
Keeping his hand off the trigger, Sebastian peered down his sight at the little man, watching him. Christ, he was blinking so rapidly—hang on.
“This is quite the turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”
That clever little bastard, Sebastian thought. Of course the perfect little soldier would be using Morse code—with his blinking no less—but if only Sherlock were clever enough—or calm enough—to notice.
“John.” He heard Sherlock’s voice, soft and defeated, drift up to the rafters he was laying on. “What the hell—”
“Bet you never saw this coming,” John continued.
Sherlock stepped forward, revealing himself to Sebastian above. He looked so small, then; standing before his friend whom he had every right to believe was a murderer.
~
“What would you like me to make him say next?” Jim asked coolly. He toyed with the small, rectangular remote that had been stashed in the pocket of his Westwood as he spoke, tossing it up in the air and catching it deftly.
Grinning, Jim caught the remote and put it back into his pocket. “Gottle o’ geer,” he sang loudly into his earpiece. He could hear John’s repeats weren’t as enthusiastic, and rebutted by singing louder and more obnoxiously. “Gottle o’ geeeeeeer! Gottle o’ geer.”
John’s voice cracked at the end, and Jim heard Sherlock’s loud protests. This was so fun.
“Stop it,” Sherlock ordered.
“Nice touch, this,” Jim continued. “The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him laughing… I can stop John Watson, too—stop his heart.”
“Who are you?” Sherlock cried.
It was too much for Jim to resist any longer—he abandoned his earpiece and stepped through the doorway, concealing himself in the shadows.
“I gave you my number,” he called, shutting the door loudly behind him. Jim paused just beside the edge of the shadows, peering at the two of them. “I thought you might call.”
He stepped out then. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket?” He asked, casting a quick glance at his sniper in the rafters. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”
“Both.”
Jim stopped on the other side of the pool, completely relaxed as he looked at Sherlock. His nemesis, his rival, his equal had finally come to meet him. It was a wonder he wasn’t jumping up and down all over Sherlock, actually.
“Jim Moriarty,” he called. “Hi.”
~
“Oh!” Jim breathed, stepping away from John. He was distracted from him, for a moment—a predator having found a bigger piece of meat. “That! The missile plans.”
His voice had dropped to a whisper, but Sebastian could still hear it plainly, echoing through the room and bouncing off the surface of the water. He hadn’t really been paying much attention to what was happening below… he kept his sights aimed on Watson, of course, but he was focused more on Jim than anything. Sebastian didn’t even listen to the things he was saying, but seeing him advance towards Sherlock pulled Sebastian out of his daze and back to the scene below.
Jim kissed the harddrive, before looking down at it for a few moments. Sebastian held his breath—was this really what he had been after this entire time? He hadn’t known anything about a missile…
“Bor—ing!” Jim crooned. “I coulda got these anywhere.”
He tossed the harddrive like a frisbee—it landed with a small splash in the pool. Sebastian breathed out softly, glancing over at the pool. The plans had floated down to the bottom, but the small pockets of air sent tiny bubbles up to the surface in a small, gravity defying stream.
“Sherlock, RUN!”
Sebastian jumped and looked down. John had his arms wrapped around Jim’s neck, his own face just visible over Jim’s shoulder.
“Oh ho ho!” Jim exclaimed, arching back against John. Sebastian locked eyes with him briefly, and his hand tightened around his rifle. “Good! Very good!”
Jim was laughing . An ex-army doctor had him in a headlock, he was pressed against the explosives strapped to said army doctor’s body, and there was a confused sniper sight wavering between Jim’s body and John’s, AND Sherlock himself was pointing a gun at the both of them.
And Jim Moriarty was laughing.
Sebastian had half a mind to shoot his boss now and be done with it.
“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up!” John hissed.
His sniper had already flicked the safety on.
“Oh, he’s sweet. I can see why you like keeping him around,” Jim said, ignoring John. “But then—” he glanced up at Sebastian for just a split second, disguising it as a jerk against John’s grip, but Sebastian caught it— “people do get so sentimental about their pets .”
A ripple went down the back of Sebastian’s spine as Jim tore his eyes away, but the feeling stayed there as he continued to talk to Sherlock.
“And so touchingly loyal,” Jim continued, twisting around to look at John’s face, who was simply staring at Sherlock. “But—OOPS!”
Sebastian also caught the flit of Jim’s eyes from Sherlock up to the rafters as he jerked once more against John. He obligingly reached into his pocket and flicked a button; Sebastian saw their eyes widen as a new sight appeared on Sherlock’s forehead.
“You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson,” Jim explained with a laugh.
Sebastian saw John’s arms go slack. Christ, it was just too easy.
“Gotcha.”
John stepped away from Jim, releasing him. As soon as he was out of Jim’s line, Sebastian trained his sight on him once more, keeping his head away from the scope to look down below with his own eyes.
Jim tugged his jacket down and brushed it off dramatically. “Westwood.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes.
“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?” Jim was saying. Despite addressing the man in front of him, he quite obviously looked up at the rafters above, as if he were asking his sniper instead. What do you think happens, Bassie?
But then Sebastian realized… if Sherlock didn’t leave Jim alone—if Sherlock worked hard enough to catch him… Jim would die.
“To you,” Jim added suddenly, now looking back at Sherlock. But Sebastian wasn’t listening anymore.
He couldn’t figure out why Jim would go through all this trouble, organizing all of these problems and crimes with the sole purpose of attracting Sherlock’s attention—after he had been operating completely in the shadows for years. He was public now, with the Internet Detective solving his crimes. Why would Jim undo all of the work he’s done to build his web, earn his wealth, his power , and then give Sherlock the chance to have it all thrown away?
Was this really all just a game to him?
Sebastian had wondered, before this, that same question; but it wasn’t until now, until Jim was here, with Sherlock, that Sebastian had quite grasped what was really going on.
Jim had done all of his work—all of his crimes—to build up his empire and to make it strong. He wanted to get powerful enough to attract powerful people who would try and stop him—
Jim Moriarty had built himself for the sole purpose of finding someone worthy enough to tear him down.
“And what if I were to shoot you now—right now?” Sherlock asked.
Jim titled his head up to the rafters, having sensed Sebastisan’s thoughts. He held his sniper’s gaze for a few moments as he spoke, his face completely blank as he did so. “Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.”
His face morphed into a silent gasp that shifted seamlessly into a smirk. “‘Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit…”
Sebastian, forever the hawk in the sky, did not miss the way Jim’s eyes roved over Sherlock’s body. Jealousy made him grip the rifle in his hands with a tighter fist.
“...disappointed,” Jim finished, his gaze finally snapping back up to Sherlock’s face. “And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.
“Caio… Sherlock Holmes,” Jim breathed, stepping confidently away from Sherlock and the pistol still in the detective's grip.
Sherlock, John, and Sebastian all followed him out with their eyes, watching his every move to be sure he really was leaving.
“Catch… you… later.”
“No you won’t!”
Sebastian pulled his face away from the rifle altogether, and held his face in his hands. Babysitting Jim to ensure he didn’t get himself blown up was an exhausting feat.
But he also knew Jim would be back, of course, so he didn’t dare step away from his rifle.
He watched in pity as John’s knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto the ground, catching himself against the wall. Sebastian truly wished they could be friends. Under different circumstances, of course.
They were in very similar positions; each was one side to two different and near identical coins, if you’re into that sort of thing. Sherlock was heads, John was tails… Jim was heads, Sebastian was tails. Even had the same initials.
Sebastian wondered, vaguely, while staring down at Sherlock as he awkwardly made attempts to thank John for his heroics, whether Sebastian would’ve turned out like John, if he had met Sherlock Holmes instead of Jim Moriarty. But then…
Wasn’t Jim Moriarty his own version of Sherlock Holmes?
Could a man like Sebastian Moran be satisfied with anyone else, if not the bloodthirsty, wealthy, and powerful villain?
Could a man like John Watson be satisfied with anyone else, if not the calculating, reserved, and battle-hungry hero?
Two different stories. Four different people. But how different were they, really?
~
Sebastian heard a tiny beep from the walkie-talkie in his back pocket. His orders. He picked up his rifle and focused in on John once more, just as the man was beginning to stand. He froze under the red laser.
“Sorry boys!” Jim said, stepping out of a door soon after. “I’m soooooo changeable!”
“You’re something, alright,” Sebastian said under his breath.
“It is a weakness with me,” Jim continued, throwing his arms out wide. “But to be fair to myself—it is my only weakness.”
Sebastian could think of a lot more things that should've been on that list—thunderstorms, for one… being alone at night… that one spot on his neck that made him mumble breathy curses when Sebastian paid his attentions to it… he actually rather thought that Jim being so changeable was an advantage for him—no one ever knew what the hell that man would do next.
“You can’t be allowed to continue,” Jim said. Sebastian wondered if he actually meant it. “You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but—everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!”
Sherlock and John shared a nod. Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the scene below—Jim was about to get them all killed.
He was just standing there, smiling at them.
“And probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock said. He pointed his gun at the pack of bombs between them.
Jim tilted his head, frowning. Sebastian watched him intensely, waiting for his reaction, his next move, while helplessly keeping his sight trained on John Watson.
Then he smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile, or a creepy smile, or even a sad smile. Jim was smiling in resignation.
Either Sherlock was going to lose his John Watson, or Sebastian would lose his Jim Moriarty, or they would all lose each other.
Perhaps their stories weren’t so different, after all.