moran-sm:

youroldfashionedvillain:

“Plane’s ready to leave whenever you are, boss.”

Jim smiled at Sebastian, actually smiled for the first time in a long time, certainly for the first time since this entire… ordeal… had started. Despite the remorse, the guilt, the crushing sorrow weighing down his shoulders, making it only an exercise of will to not crumple under the sheer weight of it and curl on the floor, sob, grieve, mourn the lives of innocents - deceased or not - which he had touched, affected negatively in some way or another. It was near impossible to not let it happen, to not sob until the tears stopped coming, until he couldn’t breathe, pray he never recovered enough to catch his breath.

Still, he smiled, and it was the sort of smile that was so rare on the face of Jim Moriarty. It reached his eyes, brought a certain sort of light to them, made him look less like a monster in the shell of a man, and more like a little child, not knowing what to do with himself.

“Just a moment, Sebastian.”

He knew, the second he left with Sebastian, that his chance would be lost, yet he hated what he would be doing to the poor man, hated what he’d already done, hated to think of what Sebastian would do, once he’d acted.

One chance, maybe five minutes at most to act.

That would be plenty.

Any objections would be silenced by a quickly raised hand and a pointed look as Jim strode off to the bathroom, shut, locked the door, and stared at the cabinets for just a moment to piece together the perfect chemical coctail to put into his body to make his passing quick, if not painless.

Asprin. Syringes with various narcotic compounds. Cleaning solvents. The latter of which did not sound appealing in the least, if only for the taste and the obvious smell which would leak out from under the door which would allow Sebastian to make a daring rescue of sorts.

A deep breath to steady his nerves was unnecessary, as Jim found he’d never been more calm than he was in the instant he started working, pulling narcotics marked as simple painkillers from drawers, pre-prepared for dosages to be completely ignored, turned into annoyances as needle prick after needle prick was needed for the requsite overdose Jim craved. He knew he was working against a time limit from the second the first needle pierced his skin, and worked quickly, not caring whether or not he actually managed to strike an optimal vein. All he knew was that the narcotics were racing their way through his system, would combine with one another and send him into unconciousness sooner, rather than later, would stop his breathing or stop his heart soon after.

The last syringe clattered to the countertop just as his knees were starting to go weak, as his vision was starting to fade, as he was barely able to register the spiderweb of bruises up and down his arm from the multiple injection sites.

Still, he was determined to not fail, to not be dragged from this ordeal alive, so with shaky hands, he retrieved the bottle of asprin, swallowed down as many of the pills as he could manage before collapsing against the door, impact of shoulder to wood making a loud thud, followed soon after by a soft, shaky laugh from Jim, barely loud enough to reach the other side of the door as he sunk to the floor.

Vision, gone. Hearing, gone. Feeling in his extremities was lost long ago, and the lack of feeling was spidering through the rest of his body, slowly at first, but more quickly the longer he lay still on the floor.

Vaguely, he registered that Sebastian would be upset.

“I’m sorry…”

His speech, if he even spoke - he couldn’t be certain - was soft, sluggish, slurred almost beyond recognition behind his heavy accent.

The fade to black was complete.

Now all that was left was for Jim Moriarty to draw one final, shuddering breath.

The final curtain call taken, the storybook closed.

The beam from a flashlight banished the monsters under the bed.

Good night.

There was the smile Sebastian had been dreading.

Part of him had known it would come, despite trying, despite giving everything he had left to give the man.

And now here it was.

He should have fully expected it, really. It was only a matter of time before Jim Moriarty worked a way through Sebastian’s guard. He couldn’t stay with him constantly, as much as he’d fought to. And now he couldn’t stay with him at all.

What was the use in fighting? Jim would win. Jim always won. That was the one rule of the game.

Tell me, Jim, does this still count as winning?

Sebastian knew he stood no chance and knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the look on Jim’s face if he argued, so he let him leave. He watched his back as he walked away for the last time and knew the next time he’d breathe in that feathery hair, Jim wouldn’t be able to respond.

And nothing had ever hurt so much. It was agony. He couldn’t breathe, could scarcely think. But it was what Jim wanted. But it was what Jim wanted and Jim was his job and his job was his life so he let him go.

People always said that’s what you were supposed to do, didn’t they?

And maybe it was for the best. Maybe this was what was supposed to happen. At least they’d be going out under their own terms, not under threat or capture or fear of torture.

So Sebastian took up his station outside the bathroom door, adopting his old military stance - hands behind back, chin up, shoulders back - and closed his eyes. He listened to Jim moving around, knew they were the last signs of life he’d ever hear, and just tried to hold it together a tiny bit longer. The man would need him sooner or later and he’d be there, he’d have to be, he wanted to be.

He heard the clatter of syringe meeting counter and didn’t move. He heard the thud of shoulder against door and couldn’t move. He didn’t want to see Jim like this, didn’t want his last memories of the man to be like that. He wished he’d had the guts to offer to do it himself. Two quick squeezes of the trigger and then it’d all be over.

But he hadn’t. So he waited. Counted shaky breaths until it wasn’t possible for anything to be waiting for him behind the door.

He couldn’t comprehend how that was possible. How a man so full of spark and flame and smouldering fire could suddenly just not be there anymore. He couldn’t, so he didn’t, just forced it all back and ignored the way he was gasping for air, ignored the way he couldn’t see through the tears, ignored the way he felt sick and old and exhausted and terrified.

Because what was there now? What could there possibly be that was better for him than the man lying dead behind that bathroom door?

Nothing.

And so that was where Sebastian would go.

He didn’t pick the lock, didn’t burst through the bathroom door, didn’t think on Jim any more than he could help because he hated him. He hated him more deeply and strongly and overwhelmingly than he’d ever felt anything before. He wasn’t ready to go, he didn’t want to die, he wanted to keep going with Jim, wanted to be the last ones standing, wanted to - just this once - have the last laugh and Jim had snatched that away from him, hadn’t even given him a goodbye, hadn’t given him a chance. And so maybe Sebastian didn’t deserve a chance.

It was easy, in the end. Too easy, painfully so. Too easy to leave Jim behind - easier than staying with him and gathering up that slender, limp body in his arms - too easy to walk down the road - they always stayed near underground stations - too easy to walk down the stairs and blend in with the rush hour crowd - how could nobody know that he’d just walked away from everything?

It was easier still to watch the final minutes flicker past on the electronic screens on the platform. It was easy to the listen to the roar of the approaching train and it was easiest of all to step out in front of it and end it all.