20A/N: This is my first attempt at First Person POV. Forgive me if it sucks royally.
Months later. Roles reversed. Here I am, at the mercy of Holmes, a gun pointed at my temple, and Jim. Poor fucking Jim. He stands at the other end of the room. He looks suave, collected, but I can see him standing slightly on the balls of his feet, leaning forward.
I stare Jim right in the eyes, trying to tell him that what happens to me doesn't matter, to not be taken in by the bullshit. He stares back, continuing his banter, his coy teasing. His eyes flick to Holmes, his smile lazy and confident as he utters his challenge.
"Give me the imp and I'll avert the next oil crisis. You know I can."
"And what if I was to shoot him now?"
I watch Jim give a nonchalant shrug.
"I could always get another sniper, but again dearie. The oil crisis continues as planned. It'd be so much more fun if you killed him though. You know what, kill him. It'll be amusing." Jim's lilt was picking up, hinting at his excitement and anxiety.
I feel one side of my face pull up in a slight grin. Jim always loved a good bluff. He was so good at them. The little bastard didn't always know when to stop, though.
"If you insist." I hear the sharp sound of Holmes cocking the gun, feel the metal of the barrel dig into my scalp just above my ear.
I close my eyes, fists clenching where they're tied behind me.
The barrel is moved away from my head, but a shot is still fired. And yes, at me. I let out a terrifyingly loud bellow as I fall forward, the blood flowing fast from the gunshot wound to my shoulder. The searing pain brings a ringing to my ears as I struggle weakly on the ground. The floor is cool, but my blood is spreading rapidly, and soon it's made a pool around my torso, the sticky heat of my own blood creeping towards my face, making me cough and sputter when it reaches where my nose and mouth are pressed against the ground.
"I can shoot him again if you like." The voice sounds fuzzy, and I can't quite tell who's speaking.
"By all means."
"You think I won't?"
"Au contraire, Sherlock. I know you will. That's the beauty of it. You'll do it."
The voices regain their identity in my head. I can practically feel Jim's wide grin as he stares with manic eyes at Holmes. I inhale blood as I try to lift my face to stare at Jim, my vision blurring and juddering. I cough some more, my chin bumping the ground with each violent fit, my eyes seeking Jim's. My vision can't seem to latch on to anything, my sight glazed and wavering over the short, thin figure wearing black.
"He's dying."
"Hmm, yes. That's typical for when you shoot someone. For a genius you really are stupid sometimes, Sherlock."
"And for a criminal you seem to have a tender heart." Holmes' tone is light and mocking. "You'll recall that the last time we met you threatened to burn the heart out of me? Allow me to reciprocate."
I turn my face to the side, Holmes standing over me, his gaze like ice as he stares down. The gun is aligned with my head, and I can see down the barrel. All I can think about is Jim. Jim, are you watching? Jim, I don't think he's bluffing. His knuckles whiten as his finger pulls the trig-
I pull the trigger without hesitation, sending a spattering of blood into the air as I raise the gun to point it at Moriarty, whose face is speckled with blood. The most puzzling part of the entire scene is not the dead man on the floor, nor the fact that I'm pointing a gun at an unarmed man. It's the way that Jim shuffles forwards, no longer adhering to his token swagger, every ounce of arrogance drained from him. He looks properly stunned by the sight of the contents of Moran's skull spread out across the floor, adding a fascinating pink-and-red accent to the boring mute colors of the tile.
I glare in confusion as Jim extends a shaking hand down, stroking at the once blond hair of the sniper, the strands clotted with blood and brain-matter, sharp bits of skull. Jim coos softly, the palm of his hand crimson as he continues to smooth the reddened hair down over the exit wound, each pass of his hand removing the larger pieces of human debris.
This is disturbing. Why is this disturbing? Jim Moriarty is showing tenderness, more than I had calculated. That I am still holding a gun in his direction doesn't seem to matter to him any more. It seems he's forgotten me.
He sits on the floor, crossing his legs before pulling what was once Moran onto his lap, bending his head over the hole in the sniper's forehead. Everything in me is rebelling against the sight before me. This isn't right. There is no way that I misjudged Moriarty this much. Jim presses his lips to the entrance wound, his frame quaking as what I recognize to be tears run down his face and onto Moran's cooling flesh, the liquid mixing with the blood, diluting it, making it run down in streaks that are a lighter shade of red.
My confusion and anger have reached their capacity. I stride over to Moriarty, reasserting my aim as I point the gun within inches of his face. He glances up, his eyes rimmed with red, his lips daubed with red, his hands painted red. Never have I hated a color more. Jim's face slips into an obscenely serene grin as he nods his head, closing his eyes for a moment before languidly staring at me, his eyelids half-mast.
Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, leans forwards until the muzzle of my gun is directly against his forehead.
Seb is so cold. He never used to be cold. I don't like him cold. The blood on my hands, it's cold too. His. His blood on the floor, seeping into my trousers. Cold.
The gun is still hot. Still hot from passing the bullet that blew Sebby away. Dearest Sebastian, I gambled with your life. I lost. I don't lose. I can't lose. You're lying to me Seb. Stop fucking around, Seb.
Shhh, Seb. Everything'll be better now, Seb. Daddy's on his way, Sebby.
Sherlock is staring at me. He looks frightened. I can't help but giggle. The circular burn from the gun muzzle is lovely. I press myself against it harder, staring into Sherlock's face. He doesn't break eye-contact as he cocks the gun, and I nod appreciatively. I smile up at him, chuckling quietly. I feel myself whispering.
"Bang!" He flinches at the softness of my voice, the rage in his face taking charge.
Seb, Seb, I'm coming Seb, Sebastian, Sebastian, Seb, Seb, Sebastian-
For the second time today I pull the trigger. Jim's body slumps backwards, Moran's head still in his lap. I've got blood on my arms, my neck, my face. Red. I hate red.
Blood is dribbling down the sides of Moriarty's head as it finds it's way into his hair. His eyes are open. They stare skyward, looking expectant. There's no one to show Jim the gentle care that he had shown his companion.
I find myself reaching down, sliding his eyes closed. His warmth makes my fingers tingle. Not altogether a bad feeling. I run my fingers through his blood soaked hair, my hand settling at the base of his skull as I crouch down, pulling his face to mine. I place a hesitant kiss against his forehead, running a thumb over his eyebrows.
What prompted me to do this? Am I feeling some sort of pity or remorse? Pity and remorse are useless emotions.
I set his head back on the ground retreating a ways to stare at the bizarre tableau.
It's done. Leave.
I don't leave. I stand and I stare at the two figures. Why can't I look away?
I wrench my eyes down to the ground, watching my feet as I leave the building.
Moriarty and Moran. Together in death.
A/N: Please leave a review after you've finished reading.