[FIC: BBC SHERLOCK] Again at Philippi
Title: Again at Philippi
Rating: PG-13
Words: 543
Summary: Jim Moriarty says goodbye like he does everything else-- with a bang.
Notes: For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt (which I then proceeded to take extreme liberties with): Moran dies before Moriarty. I'd like to see how Jim deals with his death, what Jim's feeling/thinking, etc. Bonus points/Freemans kittens if Jim's actually beside (or in the presence of) Seb when he's dying.
Warnings: Gratuitous use of Shakespeare. And blood. But I think the former is far more terrifying. Written quickly, edited even quicker.
~
The blood fairly rolls across the floor, thick and dark and warm as it pools beneath Jim Moriarty’s finely-shoed feet. He rocks back and forth upon his heels, listens to the squealching of his soles, and smiles.
“Oh, my dear,” he sighs, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.
From the floor, Sebastian coughs once, twice, before grinning a red-toothed grin. “Feel a bit cheated, do you?” he gasps, the words riding out upon a wheeze.
“Ever so slightly.” Jim kneels to sit upon his haunches and rest his hands upon his knees. “I had plans for us, you know. The games we could’ve played. It would’ve been you and me, Seb, just the two of us, no one to interfere.”
“You would’ve won.” There is no bitterness in Sebastian’s voice; there never has been. He lets his head fall back upon the wall behind him with a quiet thud.
“We’ll never know now, will we?” The carpet is thoroughly soaked-Jim quickly calculates how long it will take him to get the stains out. Five hours of ceaseless scrubbing. He’ll be here until midnight, before taking the body to the Thames. “I can promise you one thing-I wouldn’t have done it like this. This is a mess, this is…” He snorts derisively. “Amateurish.”
“In the good doctor’s defense,” Sebastian croaks, “he didn’t… exactly… have time to… prepare.”
“Darling Seb,” Jim murmurs, falling forward upon his knees, feels the wet blood seep into the fabric of his trousers, stain his skin, “I am sorry.”
“No… you aren’t. You never are.” Sebastian’s eyes are wide open and lucid and bright, cutting green. He welcomes this, this ending-Jim is sure of it. It’s storybook, it is. The Bard himself couldn’t have done better.
The night is balmy and calm. Jim lowers his head, breathes in the smell of Seb’s life as it leaves him. He dips his hands in the blood, lets it sink into his pores, the carpet warm and scratchy beneath his skin.
“We did try to burn down the world,” he whispers, leaning closer, neck craning and head tilting. “We did try, didn’t we?”
Sebastian can only nod.
Jim slides his hand across the ground, then lets it rest on Seb’s hip, thumb pressing firmly against the hard curve of bone. Then snakes his fingers upwards, and finds the wet and sticky grip of Seb’s revolver, pulling it loose with a sharp snap of his wrist.
“Where shall I put it?” he coos, his voice singsong as he straightens and leans his head back. He lightly presses the barrel to Sebastian’s brow-“Here?”-jugular-“Or here?”-mouth-“Or there?”-heart. “Or here.”
Sebastian’s lips quirk upwards almost imperceptibly. He raises one hand, caked in drying blood, and folds it over Jim’s. There is fire in his eyes.
Yes.
Jim laughs, and folds his index finger over the trigger, and leans down. “Will I see you again,” he murmurs, “at Philippi?”
“Spare… me… th’ fucking… theatrics,” Sebastian hisses, through gritted teeth.
“Good old Seb,” says Jim, a fondness in his gaze, “you never did like the classics.”
As he pulls the trigger, his lips round off into a perfect little ‘O’.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 543
Summary: Jim Moriarty says goodbye like he does everything else-- with a bang.
Notes: For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt (which I then proceeded to take extreme liberties with): Moran dies before Moriarty. I'd like to see how Jim deals with his death, what Jim's feeling/thinking, etc. Bonus points/Freemans kittens if Jim's actually beside (or in the presence of) Seb when he's dying.
Warnings: Gratuitous use of Shakespeare. And blood. But I think the former is far more terrifying. Written quickly, edited even quicker.
~
The blood fairly rolls across the floor, thick and dark and warm as it pools beneath Jim Moriarty’s finely-shoed feet. He rocks back and forth upon his heels, listens to the squealching of his soles, and smiles.
“Oh, my dear,” he sighs, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.
From the floor, Sebastian coughs once, twice, before grinning a red-toothed grin. “Feel a bit cheated, do you?” he gasps, the words riding out upon a wheeze.
“Ever so slightly.” Jim kneels to sit upon his haunches and rest his hands upon his knees. “I had plans for us, you know. The games we could’ve played. It would’ve been you and me, Seb, just the two of us, no one to interfere.”
“You would’ve won.” There is no bitterness in Sebastian’s voice; there never has been. He lets his head fall back upon the wall behind him with a quiet thud.
“We’ll never know now, will we?” The carpet is thoroughly soaked-Jim quickly calculates how long it will take him to get the stains out. Five hours of ceaseless scrubbing. He’ll be here until midnight, before taking the body to the Thames. “I can promise you one thing-I wouldn’t have done it like this. This is a mess, this is…” He snorts derisively. “Amateurish.”
“In the good doctor’s defense,” Sebastian croaks, “he didn’t… exactly… have time to… prepare.”
“Darling Seb,” Jim murmurs, falling forward upon his knees, feels the wet blood seep into the fabric of his trousers, stain his skin, “I am sorry.”
“No… you aren’t. You never are.” Sebastian’s eyes are wide open and lucid and bright, cutting green. He welcomes this, this ending-Jim is sure of it. It’s storybook, it is. The Bard himself couldn’t have done better.
The night is balmy and calm. Jim lowers his head, breathes in the smell of Seb’s life as it leaves him. He dips his hands in the blood, lets it sink into his pores, the carpet warm and scratchy beneath his skin.
“We did try to burn down the world,” he whispers, leaning closer, neck craning and head tilting. “We did try, didn’t we?”
Sebastian can only nod.
Jim slides his hand across the ground, then lets it rest on Seb’s hip, thumb pressing firmly against the hard curve of bone. Then snakes his fingers upwards, and finds the wet and sticky grip of Seb’s revolver, pulling it loose with a sharp snap of his wrist.
“Where shall I put it?” he coos, his voice singsong as he straightens and leans his head back. He lightly presses the barrel to Sebastian’s brow-“Here?”-jugular-“Or here?”-mouth-“Or there?”-heart. “Or here.”
Sebastian’s lips quirk upwards almost imperceptibly. He raises one hand, caked in drying blood, and folds it over Jim’s. There is fire in his eyes.
Yes.
Jim laughs, and folds his index finger over the trigger, and leans down. “Will I see you again,” he murmurs, “at Philippi?”
“Spare… me… th’ fucking… theatrics,” Sebastian hisses, through gritted teeth.
“Good old Seb,” says Jim, a fondness in his gaze, “you never did like the classics.”
As he pulls the trigger, his lips round off into a perfect little ‘O’.