Sherlock - Echec et Mat - J/S - T - ENG
One-shot - James/Sebastian - Angst/Romance - Character Death.
Everything could have gone well in Reichenbach.
Disclaimer etc : Many thanks to my translator : Alastella and to her beta Formerlyanon (:
Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, this modern adaptation belongs to Mofftis and the BBC.
ECHEC ET MAT
I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved.
Soren Kierkegaard
For the first time in years, James Moriarty is afraid. It is the same fear that children dread, the one that makes the bravest wake up covered in sweat in the middle of the night; the one that creeps in the shadows and dark corridors, fuelling your sleep with nightmares and breeding the monsters hiding under your bed.
It is a puerile fear, an irrational one and he would be greatly irritated with himself if his mind wasn’t already paralysed with worry and terror, two of the most tedious, boring and useless feelings ever created. And yet, were he asked, James wouldn’t describe his current state of mind as “afraid”. Mind you, everybody is “afraid!” It’s so commonplace, so weak; vulgar, even.
But it’s getting harder to deny reality at this point. He contemplates his shaking hands with anger and curiosity, unable to move, his body feeling heavier than rock.
He refuses to close his eyes. As a child, he had been clever enough to understand that such cowardice wouldn’t keep him safe from the monsters’ claws and teeth.
Friday 5th May - Very early in the morning.
“For the last time, will you PLEASE sit down and stop fidgeting!”
“But I’ve been waiting forever! You don’t… ”
“Understand. I know. You’re right, Jimmy. I don’t.”
In the empty house, everything had faded to a ghostly grey. The great windows were tightly closed, the front door was locked and the walls of their living room, once covered with stolen paintings, rich tapestries, and strange-looking African masks stood bare. They were like the bars of a tremendous prison, too close.
Had he wanted to, James could have escaped. Still, he was a sensible man - or at least he liked to believe he could act as one at times- and he knew that walking across the doorstep wouldn’t be enough to help him regain the very unique kind of freedom he’d lost. So, for the lack of a better plan, he’d decided to remain hidden in his dungeon-like flat, staring unblinkingly at his sole companion - a precision-rifle which was occupying pride of place on a wooden table. It was without doubt the only thing in the house that was still worthy of his interest.
Ironic, perhaps, but the weapon was kept in pristine state and seemed as deadly as usual. And yet, Jim was absolutely convinced, just by looking at it, that nobody would ever pull the trigger again. Maybe it was merely a devious trick of his imagination but he was under the unshakable feeling that the gun would never recognize another master, like King Arthur’s sword did. Or the Elder Wand.
As if an inanimate object could possibly have a will of its own.
“As if you could possibly understand, Seb!”
“All right then! How am I supposed to help you?”
“Take your rifle - and don’t shoot until you’ve been given the signal.”
He found the recent turn of events quite cynical, and that was a euphemism. He was usually fond of those impromptu twists of fate; they tasted like spice on a savoury couscous. And dealing with the unexpected was part of his job, after all.
Had he been on a better mood, he may have enjoyed the bitter humour of the situation. He had a rifle; however he had never taken the time to learn how to use it thus making him a defenceless armed man.
Why should he have bothered to learn something useless ?
There would have always someone ready to dirty their hand for him. There would have someone else to hold the gun and pull the trigger at his behest and on his behalf.
That’s the way things were supposed to be.
If he had been more of a lucid person, he probably would have collapsed on the floor or curled himself up on the couch after drinking one or two glass of his favourite and indecently expensive whiskey, while waiting for the inescapable to come. He suppressed a giggle at the thought, his eyes focused on the ceiling, sprawled on the bed. He would never lower himself to that and adamantly refused to surrender control of himself and behave in such a ridiculously clichéd manner.
He was definitely too proud to resolve to such decay anyway. If he made a waste of himself, who or what would prevent him from giving birth to a new puzzle, forget his troubles and throw the rifle in the Thames ?
Perhaps he would have done that, after all, were Moran dead. But he wasn’t and that made things so much worse. His current situation was a dead-end, he was nothing but a Queen surrounded by hoards of pawns, expected to defeat an entire army by himself. That was absurd. One who knows how to play chess properly is well aware that the Queen shouldn’t be moved. He still had pawns, loads of them, of course; but they were useless and terrified pawns he didn’t trust.
Checkmate.
Sometimes, he endeavoured to occupy his mind with abstract algebra and cosmology. But the sound of storming water beating down the rugged cliff, the wind whistling furiously between the detective’s tall frame and himself and then the overwhelming feeling of emptiness were relentlessly haunting him, scratching on the walls of his mind, leaving dark bruises only he could see.
Everything could have gone well in Reichenbach.
Thursday 4th May - Midnight
Sebastian was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his precious rifle resting on his knees, his gun cleaning equipment to his left and James on his right. There were only a few hours before the appointment - grandly renamed “The Final Problem” by Moriarty. He usually did not name his plans, but Sebastian couldn’t say he was surprised: the most commonplace event involving the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had the tendency to become exceptional all of a sudden and should be treated as such.
“Is everything ready?”
He had a feeling that they were going to quarrel again, as they had done almost ceaselessly for two weeks. Moran had the bad habit of telling the truth in the bluntest way possible, which could turn out to be a deadly one when facing James Moriarty. Although he felt mostly reluctant to contradict James, he couldn’t help but let slip a bitter remark from time to time. However, those fits of insolence were rare and they were always more or less linked to Sherlock Holmes. The distrust Moran felt towards the man had even strengthened after the “pool incident,” growing into disgust and then hatred.
He couldn’t forget James’ eyes, burning with fury, when he had dared to suggest it would have been more prudent to get rid of the detective consultant rather than fleeing away from him. In his eyes, the man was a dangerous parasite that should be eliminated as soon as possible. Perhaps in the vain hope of calming his fears; Sebastian kept repeating to himself that James was undoubtedly smarter than Holmes and that, sooner or later, he would eventually grow tired of Sherlock. He didn’t really believe it, though and now, only the thought of ruining Sherlock's brains with a bullet could soothe him.
That’s why he was so enthusiastic about James’ plan. Truth be told, he had waited for this day for longer than he could remember. He was sure he would take a greater pleasure than usual in fulfilling his duty, since most of the time he had nothing personal against his preys. But here, the senseless hatred he felt towards Holmes made the assignment even more exciting.
Only one stain was spoiling the magnificent painting who was about to be unveiled. He couldn’t help but wonder what they would do after the death of Sherlock Holmes. True, he wanted him dead, more than anyone in the world, but the fact remained that the quality of assignments James trusted him with had increased tenfold since the appearance of the detective.
He shrugged, fumbling in his pocket for his lighter. Things weren’t that bad before and their life will inevitably go on - even without Holmes- contrary to what Jim seemed to believe. They had a life before him! He was there first. They had cheated death and boredom countless times together, just he and James. Hell, both of them had become masters in this field before Sherlock even had a partner to play with! If he took great care to hide his euphoria, it was only because James looked preoccupied, almost anxious, and the last thing he wanted was to make him change his mind about the whole assignment.
Sebastian waited, his eyebrows frowned but James didn’t answer. He didn’t even reproach him for being too curious, which surprised the sniper who was used to his boss’ anger issues. He could be such a child, sometimes, yelling at him only to soothe his nerves. After several minutes of silence, Sebastian whispered, tilting his head to the side in an almost dog-like manner :
“James?”
Moriarty’s unreadable black eyes plunged into his own, betraying no emotion whatsoever. He felt his muscles stiffen, but continued quietly: “Is everything okay?”
He knew that his question had no answer. He was not arrogant enough to claim he understood Moriarty and the complex mechanism of his mind, but it was clear he was not feeling “good” or “bad.” It was probably much deeper and powerful than such common human feelings. And as usual, it made Sebastian feel powerless.
James would always be beyond his reach, beyond anyone’s grasp.
“We see the constellation of the Centaur - now you see the advantage of having a hideout in the countryside.” Moran tried, hardly concealing the concern in his voice anymore.
James smiled faintly. “I know what you’re going to say, Seb. ‘I asked you a question, the least you could do is answer,’“ he mimicked in a slightly grotesque imitation of Sebastian. The latter, torn between relief and annoyance, grunted a few words in a half smile.
Moriarty laughed sincerely, pushing the gun that rested on Sebastian’s lap and kissed him. It was the first time in weeks they were doing anything else than glowering at each other, and Moran realized how much he had missed his lover’s enthusiasm.
The future looked pretty good.
Thursday 4th May - 04:00 A.M
“I trust you, Seb.”
James looks nervous and also slightly excited with restlessness. He held out a rifle to Sebastian, the one he prized most.
« You know you can do it »
Sebastian is positive that within two hours, it will eventually be over and everything will return to what it used to be. He spends little time preparing himself, taking only his rifle and a handgun. He didn’t want to clutter himself up, in case he would have to escape. One can never be too sure, with James. He searched through the closet and snatched both an object and a pack of cigarettes, shoving it all in his pockets.
They remained silent, during the whole journey. He tried to guess what James might be thinking of but finally abandoned the effort and shrugged, smiling slightly. It must have been something about his upcoming meeting or maybe the cosmology book he never found the time to finish writing. He took a slow drag off the cigarette in his fingers, closing his eyes to appreciate better its bitter taste.
He was quite surprised to find himself thinking about the future. He didn’t have a lot of experience doing that before, and now that he had turned thirty, he was at last able to appreciate why others did it.
Thursday 4th May - Noon
He runs for his life but can’t escape from this memory. It is still too vivid.
James Moriarty, The Napoleon of Crime, brutally reduced to be the helpless witness of the arrest of the only person he had ever dared to trust.
The situation is almost grotesque, although the last thing he wants to do is laugh. Saying that nothing went according to plan was an understatement. And yet, his brilliant mind can’t resign to accept reality. It’s impossible. An unsolvable equation.
His mind is knocked flat by the events, almost as if he’d been hit by a truck coming at great speed. Slightly breathless, he presses his back against the door of the hideout and tries to think.
He calms down quickly, resolved not to leave any emotion take over his mind. He is used to do that, it is more a reflex reaction than a habit.
Putting the events in chronological order is harder than expected. He remembers that indescribable feeling of sheer power and euphoria when Holmes began to write what was to be a farewell letter to his best friend. He remembers clearly the expression on his face. It is forever engraved in his mind, the picture of Sherlock Holmes burning among the blurry images still spinning in his head at light’s speed. He had looked strangely stoical, save for the ferocity of his eyes.
But James, bewitched by this fateful meeting and already tasting the sweet perfume of victory, didn’t dwell on this. He had merely assumed that Holmes was a sore loser. Why would he go deeper? It was between him and Sherlock, nothing more. Any others would have been a third wheel.
Oh, yes. James had seen the stars, if only for a second. They have been within his reach; he just had to close his hand to catch one. But before he could even understand what was happening, they’d vanished away.
And he was the one to blame. He had failed to resolve the problem. In fact, maybe he just couldn’t. Perhaps it has always been beyond his grasp. Once again, he had forgotten one crucial term. Or rather, he had underestimated the importance of that term.
He still hears the cries of damned John Watson, who arrives just in time. And the other voices too. The same other voices who screamed from afar, when he threw himself on Sherlock, attempting to make them fall in vain.
He removes his hand from his shoulder for a moment and contemplates it. it's covered in a crimson liquid he knows too well, though he is not used to see it on himself. It sticks, and stinks of copper.
Thursday 4th May - 11:45 P.M
From above, Moran can watch the whole scene. Fast and efficient, he needs little time to get into position. Sadistic satisfaction crosses his features as he watches Sherlock Holmes through the telescopic sight of his sniper rifle. He hesitates to pull the trigger for a minute but James’ orders surge into his mind. He cannot pretend to forget them, for they dance like a Ritornello in his head and the memory of his partner’s sing-song voice makes them even more alive.
He observes the scene like the agile predator he is, carefully hidden from everyone. Sherlock Holmes wrote a letter, and you could hear him thinking from miles away. Nevertheless, the expression on his face is unmistakable: he has surrendered.
A slow, predatory smile graces his lips and he has to suppress a laugh but he manages to remain still, hands clenched on his rifle: The game is over, Sherlock.
James speaks, but he cannot hear what he says. It doesn’t matter; better that than being a potential source of distraction. They will have all the time to talk about that later anyway; in a casino in Las Vegas where no one will disturb them for instance.
Yes, James will quickly forget his Holmes …
A minute is enough to set everything on fire. He hears somebody screaming at the top of their lungs but doesn’t recognize the voice -has he really heard it?- then he sees James and Sherlock grabbing each other, fighting to death on the edge of the cliff. His heart skipped a beat. He does not need to think about a solution, it takes no more than one second to target the shoulder of James - Sherlock is out of range, and his fall could push Moriarty - who immediately collapses. He should get away with a bad scratch, but, at least, Sherlock has let him go.
Relief immediately leaves room for a nagging anxiety. Moriarty is alive, but probably hurt and most certainly very, very angry. Sherlock Holmes is still alive, although slightly dizzy, and he is already facing James again. Sebastian has never liked chess, but for all he knows, it looks like a checkmate.
A second later, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty disappeared. He has no time to turn around that he is brutally grabbed by the shoulders. He struggles like a trapped beast, lets out a cry like a tiger, but the attacker is unfazed.
He is not the predator anymore.
Thursday 4th May -Evening.
Sherlock has returned the gun. He doesn’t care how.
Whether it was out of pity or driven by his pride, James didn’t know and he didn’t give a damn. When Jim receives it, he does not recognize it at once, maybe because he had never seen this weapon without Sebastian.
His wounds had been treated quickly and discreetly and he returned to his London flat as soon as he could. It was the only safe place he had, now. He knew for sure that they had already invested Moran’s apartment and was also positive they had found nothing but emptiness. Surprisingly, it was not enough to draw a single ounce of satisfaction in him.
He knew that Sherlock was not seeking him and he wanted to take the opportunity to get ahead of him. Make Sebastian break out of prison would be easy, he knows that nothing is impossible for him and he is also certain that Moran would be waiting for his move.
It’s like chess, really. He has already found a brilliant strategy, but he expects to find one even better. He is convinced the has all the time. It’s just a game, and all pieces are on the chessboard. No need to hurry.
When the execution of the former Colonel Sebastian Moran is announced, it’s like lightning hit him. In a fit of childish tantrum, he resents Sherlock for having confiscated his Rider. For a moment, and for the first time in his life, he regrets not having eliminated him earlier.
It is not anger, which falls on him first: it’s a feeling of pure incomprehension. He is not used to it and all he can do is sit on the sofa and help himself to a glass of wine
Thursday 10 th October - Late Morning.
9 : 57 a.m
It is only thanks to the lack of evidences Holmes had against him that he is able to witness the execution. Sherlock isn’t a ruthless man, and certainly not a psychopath. There was no need to compel Moriarty in any way. He came of his own accord.
Never in his life had he felt so powerless, so ridiculously human, sitting behind the window, doomed to witness this inconceivable twist of fate. He was nothing but the passive spectator of his own defeat. He had lost the game and this cruel -but oh so real- statement hurt him, as though something had stung the nape of his neck.
It was so unlike chess, where you could lose a piece and still win the game; so unlike chess where the match continues as long as the king is alive.
Reality crushed him, and he could do nothing but remain still.
" The condemned may now enter the execution chamber "
James didn’t come to the trial which was nothing more in his eyes than a mere formality, a dramatic comedy orchestrated to weaken him.
Sebastian didn’t resent him for that, he was absolutely sure. He must have thought that James was organizing a miraculous jailbreak, and indeed it had been the case.
They would have laughed, mocking the wardens, the prisoners, the disastrous security breaches of the prison with their usual contempt. Then, he would have given Seb a new assignment and they would have taken on a new project, together.
Everything would have been back to the way it used to be: both of them, living in the shadows of London, admiring cheerfully the chaos they had unleashed.
Someone talks to Sebastian and he answers softly, seemingly serene, behaving with an aristocratic sobriety which outrages James. And yet, the genius holds back his feelings too, refusing to let them take the control of his rational, brilliant mind. He doesn’t even know how he’s supposed to act in such a situation, nobody told him. However the yielding attitude his right-hand, his partner-in-crime, his Moran displays is nauseating. Has he forgotten he is expected to fight back and kill them if needed? He was to execute his orders with unquestioning faith; James was supposed to be the architect of every single of his desires. He cannot - even in death - disobey. He just can’t.
Jim stares at him furiously.
It’s a child’s wrath, a puerile tantrum who took over the fear the never-ending waiting had triggered. He almost rises from his chair, wanting to shout at them to stop this masquerade but his rational side prevents him from making a fool of himself.
All hope of finding a logical solution is long gone, but he cannot bring himself to passive acceptance either. He’s burning, deep inside. He, who had always feared to becoming a slave to his heart, became one to his lack of empathy. He believes with the conviction of a stubborn child that Seb can’t die because he’s not allowed to.
He can’t imagine his criminal life without him. It’s just out of the question. Who would bring his plans to life? Who would get his hands dirty as devotedly as Sebastian did? Who would he trust?
There would be nobody else to call him James, now.
“ Any last words, sir ? ”
Sebastian hasn’t answered his furious look.
He doesn’t look around as many would have done, to see the world one last time. He has never cared for the world and its populace.
He doesn’t throw a teary glance at the guards nor does he collapses, hopeless, eyes already empty. There is no person he wishes to leave an impression on.
James forgets his surroundings for a second and eventually admires the man’s dignified demeanour as he welcomes his impending demise. It’s not his first time, after all.
“ Well, gentlemen, you ought to know victory only occurs when the king surrenders. ”
Some exchange meaningful looks in the room. They perfectly know who the former colonel was alluding to. And they couldn’t possibly know that Moriarty wasn’t able to hold a rifle, thus Sebastian Moran’s capture seemed quite worthless.
His loyalty was unwavering, even in death.
He’s escorted to a little stepladder and James clenched the arms of his chair, unable to tear his eyes away from this dreadful sight. He holds back his rage and let the drama unfold itself. Everything seems blurry and far away, unreal, until they slipped a rope around his neck.
A cold shiver travels down his spine as he bore his eyes into Sebastian’s.
He’d expected everything, from resignation to rage to burning jealously.
But his pale grey eyes only express gratitude.
James answers him silently, his dark eyes thanking him for the years of enjoyment they lived together. Slowly, his eyes close shut. Oh, he is very much aware of his own cowardice but never had he pretended to be brave. He doesn’t hear anything - or almost. The rope tightens, one second passes and James yields. When he opens his eyes, Sebastian is dead.
As he leaves, he is given an envelope marked with his name.
“If you truly believe the checkmate ends the game, then you’re not a true chess player, James.
- S.M ”
He folds the paper in two and put it in his pocket.
In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate
Isaac Asimov