jim moriarty/sebastian moranrating:
violence, major character deathsummary:
this isn’t a game, this is war. and you’re not part of it anymore.mirrors
: read it on ao3
instead.i: sherlock holmes
The name is like an itching shadow in the back of your throat at first, always present but seldom tangible until that one moment when it comes out of his mouth.
It’s barely a whisper but suddenly it all makes sense, all those nights he spent forcefully drawing lines on a map of London, all those hours of feverishly scribbling on every surface he could find but he’s never content and it’s never enough.
It should be a name but it sounds like a pitfall.
You should have noticed but it is Jim after all.ii: the pool
“Let’s make it a story,” he said, “at least worth the Guardian headlines.”
He said it like he says anything connected to Sherlock Holmes, carefully casual, like it shouldn’t matter but it does anyway.
(He said it like he said “Let’s grow old together and die at the same time”, but you laughed all the same even though he didn’t, even when he bit down on your lips hard enough to draw blood and his hands closed around your wrists right where your pulse beat against his palm.
You didn’t say yes, even though you wanted to.)
And now he’s down there pirouetting on his own make-shift stage, slowly spinning out of control, and you’re up here, shaking, your trembling fingers closed around your rifle.
You’re aiming at Sherlock Holmes but you might as well have been aiming at Jim for all the difference it makes.
This isn’t a game, this is war.
And you’re not part of it anymore.iii: the dreams
Your fingers are closing around sickly green light and you’re swallowing mouthfuls of chlorinated water and you didn’t drown that day.
You didn’t drown but you might as well have because you keep on swallowing words and blood and you spit up your heart to make room for more water and if it hurts you’re doing it right, or so the story goes.
So the story goes and his fingers leave bruises on your skin until there’s nothing but the dull, throbbing ache.
So the story goes and his teeth tell stories on your wrists until your cuffs are drenched with blood and his laughter is biting like chlorine water in your eyes - “Wear your heart on your sleeve, darling.” - and you keep on swallowing, and you keep on drowning, and you guess that’s how the story goes.iv: reichenbach
Suddenly he’s falling.
He’s falling, and you’re swallowing mouthfuls of air wishing it was water and the shot echoes like gunfire through the back of your skull and -
It should be familiar but it sounds like the end.
You should have known but it is Jim after all.
(You didn’t scream out, although you wanted to.)
And now he’s up there, falling, and you’re down here, drowning, still drowning, have drowned, and you never really understood how the story works anyway.v
There were headlines. There were stories.
None of them were about him.