it’s the silence. | jim & sebastian


Jim sighed, turning away from him entirely—turning his back to him, actually—starting down the hallway instead, arms over his shoulders to lift his t-shirt up over his head.  There are marks left there by Adler, tiny wounds that will heal quickly enough, but still physical proof that while Moran was lost in his own mind he’d sought comfort in another body.

It was a sign of his frustration at no longer being able to read what Seb was thinking, proof of his irritation at not being able to fix the man.

Ironically, it was the closest thing to love that he could show for Moran.

And he let him see it, knowing that somewhere in his mind, Seb would understand what it meant.

"We do what we want to do, dance how we want to dance." Sebastian follows, leash pulled by the man baring his soul along with his marked skin. The other man isn’t fond of marks, not at all. They belong on the world, not on his flesh. Only bruises and small cuts, but their meaning shakes him. 

His long legs catch him up and he puts a cold hand over a neat set of fingernail marks. These don’t exist any more than his scars. He’ll ignore them, bury them to fester or repair his mind as they will. It’s better these days, to store things without looking too closely. 

He remembers it is a habit from his days in uniform, he remembers less the days he spent breaking himself of it. “We need a wash.” A branch of protective comfort for this man, for his man. 

it’s the silence. | jim & sebastian


Jim responds in a quick flash of his hand, pulling the tazer from his pocket.  It was set at a low level, of course, but would be enough to bite into Seb’s skin.  A dog getting his nose hit with a rolled up newspaper.

How has it come to this.

It wasn’t that Moriarty wasn’t capable of a more physical confrontation—he certainly made sure that he was versed well in it—but that he simply didn’t want to hurt Moran more than the man had already hurt himself.  “Seb,” he speeks sternly, taking a step back, “We talked about this.”

Sebastian hissed at the jerk of electricity snaking up his arm. His hand ached, old…what was it. Stress…old stress every time he got zapped. He hated that. That was why the man had the tazer. He bloody hated it. Ripped the ones who used them apart for the irritation. Not the man though. The clever one who stepped back but not out of reach. With the irritation and loss in his eyes. 

"Then don’t smell wrong. And I can hear you thinking bloody stupid." His lip curled up out of habit, but his hands were reaching out with more tempered intentions. Tick-tick-shriek. The clockwork man is broken and it bothers him as much as the closed window had. 

it’s the silence. | jim & sebastian


He stares, searching the other man’s expression for clues as to what he’s thinking, but a landscape that was once so familiar to him is now continually confusing.  A frustrating thing for a man like Jim who is so used to controlling every. last. detail.  These days, however, the other man looks more like a stranger than the trusted right hand he’d learned to enjoy the company of.

All because of a fictional monster who had turned out to be horribly real.

What was this world coming to?  He’d known it so well once, had predicted everything, but now…

“Much better than you,” Moriarty replied snidely.  “When was the last time I made you shower?”  Everything was a command these days, from getting out of bed to not inflicting deadly self-harm.  It was like watching an insane child with the skills to throttle you in your sleep.

It was easy to lunge for the man’s throat.

He smelled wrong, and the man wasn’t allowed to. There was a smell he ought to have, a sharpness that he ought to have shared with the eyes that were always following him. Watching, demanding. The man’s hands ought to be strong and steady, and his eyes ought to be sharp like the bloody bits of glass sticking out of his fingers. Those hands were bloody and familiar, smooth like stone coated in the warm stuff. 

Sebastian’s lips remained pressed tightly together, where once there would have been a snarl there is only disconnected displeasure. He feels the anger as if it were locked behind a great door. His body knows, though. The spike in his heart and rush of his blood means he ought to fight. To dig and see what is inside the man, what is wrong in his clockwork friend. 

it’s the silence. | jim & sebastian


“You’ll scar. Again,” Jim tells him, his tone that of a scolding parent, but his gaze shamelessly that of a worried lover.  He stepped towards the table, bringing a hand up to smack Moran’s face so that the sniper had to look at him.  “Did you hear me?”

The stings keep him awake. Reliable training, satisfying to the bones of him. You’ve done fucked up son, as per usual. Sting and slap of flesh, it needs the smell of cordite to be perfect. The feel of proper boots around his ankles instead of the slippers he can barely stand. 

"No more scaring." Scars that scare, not that he remembers the jagged new lines along his jaw. The ones that warp his hairline, bisect his eyebrow and dent his cheek. He shaves electric, one of the scars his own after he’d tried to carve the marks from his flesh. The other man had screamed, had throttled him and choked on tears as he tore the straight razor from his hand. 

No more scars. Don’t apologize. “You smell.” Of what he cannot tell, beyond a faintly feminine flavor. He doesn’t close his eyes. The gain in scent not worth the terrifying loss of light. 

it’s the silence. | jim & sebastian


He pauses in the doorway, studying the glass for a moment.  He can see the individual breaks, the matching sides that fit together like a puzzle, and the cuts in Moran’s knuckles that coincide with them.

Jim makes his way towards Sebastian, pausing to stand directly in front of him.  “You’re bleeding, you realize?”

The answer is not frequently. Nor is it of course. The man has the temper of a battle medic and it is not to be tested. Not in this. “Yes.” 

Blood that is comfortably bright red and properly clotting into beautiful scabs. Hills and valleys of healing flesh that reassure him, his mind can surely not be too slow to follow in example. 

it’s the silence. | jim & sebastian


He wasn’t going to press the sniper to tell him exactly what had happened.  Jim had tried in the beginning, of course, but given up fairly quickly when he’d realized that talking about it just…made things worse.  No, unfortunately this was something that was going to take time and test his patience.

And part of him wanted to walk away entirely.

What good to him was an assassin with a broken mind?  He was like a rifle with no scope, usable but unreliable.

Still, it was sentiment that kept Moriarty from having him killed.

He paused now at the door of the flat—a secluded apartment in a building he’d bought and emptied where no one would find them—and hesitated before opening it and walking in.  “I’m home!” he called out, and Jim nearly made a face at how bloody domestic he sounded.

There are bad days and there are worse days. A year on, he tends to remember the day. He can look at a digital clock without feeling his intestines dripping onto the floor. Sebastian smooths a hand down his henley and long, jagged scar underneath. He can take a bath, provided he needn’t run it. 

The windows, however, remain broken open. Glass neatly collected and booby trapped under the sills. The wind stinging his face cherry red as he watches the man walk up the street. He counts out the steps and thinks of the shot he could have once made. When it becomes to much he reminds himself of the date. 

The seventeenth of January. A dreary Thursday. Their return to London. He clung to the time table as he had in the days when he could have been dismissed. When he could believe the man would dismiss him. Discard him as easily as his other off-spec arms. When he thought the man must have surely arranged this. The long, damp dark. When the man was a vengeful god, and his torture was just dues for keeping the man’s empire. 

The man steps into the flat, shoes falling softly on the carpet. “In here.” 

There are bad days and worse days, in neither can he remember the man’s name. 



“Ah-ah-ah!” Bo said in a forbidding sing-song as she leaned backwards enough to get away from his dried crusty lips on her cheek, but not so far as to lose her hold on him. “No getting fresh with me, Hot Stuff. I like my men to be gentlemen,” she went on to warn as she thought about his answer— or his non-answer. He couldn’t possibly be lying to her, not with the voltage of mojo she was charging through him and his aura reading as straight up human. The poor sorry bastard had no idea who had done this to him and if he was as skilled as he claimed (and again, he couldn’t be lying) then that meant someone or something very powerful was at work here in New York, a city with far too many troubles already. Clearly, this needed sorting out.

“So if I’m going to be helping you any further, I’m going to need your name and promise that you’ll behave yourself where I plan on taking you. Can you do that for me?”

Sebastian clutched at the flimsy fabric belt on his mother’s dress, dragging her back from the stove, digging his heels in and dragging her soft flesh away from the spreading grease fire. Her dull, perfectly blue eyes, stared with muted fascination at the flames. Stared at her son burning away, the flesh peeling from his bones and his lips cracking, bleeding dry until they were carried away by the chill city breeze. 

"Sebastian, mum. For Saint Sebastian, and Moran for the Captain. Nothing in the middle." His shaking voice turning sing-song, in desperate imitation of lessons learned, of knowledge hoarded in the hopes she could see all the pieces of the world through him. Could navigate around fires and angry fathers with her nurse’s intelligent grace once more. "Nothing in the middle, just you between the bookends, the gifts we send." 


(Source: colonelsnipe)


“That’s what I’m asking you, silly,” Bo reminded him— gently, of course, as she continued sending the pulse of arousal through her fingertips. “I figure a big tough man who can shoot across two miles has got to have some enemies capable of pulling off something like this. Care to fill in the blanks for me, Hot Stuff?”

Sebastian’s laugh was rasping and labored, every jerk of his diaphragm felt as if it was tearing muscle from its’ mooring.  He leaned forward, as jerky as his laugh and missed a kiss, dry lips and horrid breath skating acrossed her cheek. 

"Hell if I know. Nobody with the skills to get a drop on me and take me this far. And I’m the one that’s better for business, snatch the Boss maybe, but I’m the good one for those types. Good revenue. Fewer fires." Not out of any lack of appreciation for such fires, for explosions and chaos. They made his blood pound and his eyes shine, but he’d never been much of an architect when it came to madness. All results came out artificial, melodramatic and cheap. Plastic surgery that left no movement in the landscape, no cascading delights of death and fear. 

The boss was the architect. 

(Source: colonelsnipe)