Staying MorMor

The smell of early-morning love wafted around the flat. Breathing in the thick scent, Jim stroked Seb’s chest. They’d stayed up too late, had too much of a good time. The pain, the pleasure—all had run together in the night.

Darkness had blessed them, with its strange cover that made everything so right. The vague outline of a body moving, loving, holding. It all added up to the taste of too little sleep once awoken.

Jim felt Seb lay down next to him, softly sighing. All was quiet. There was no such thing as too silent, the consultant criminal had discovered, and this was no exception.

After all the shouting and fighting, this quiet was fully welcome. Seb pressed his face into his boss’ neck, breathing up the tired stillness. There was too much of the screaming left ringing in his ears, and he just wanted to be done with it all.

Jim held tightly to Seb’s arm with one hand, the other clutching his cane. The misty brown eyes searched the air, fingers tapping nervously. “I’m not ready,” he said.

“Yes you are.” Seb squeezed his hand. “You’ve been planning this for a long time. You just have to do as we practised, and you end Holmes.”

“I need you, Sebastian; please?” Jim edged carefully up the stairs behind the blonde.

“You know I can’t be right beside you—I have to stay on Watson. But I’ll have my earpiece in and I’ll be able to hear you and talk you through the parts you need to see. You’ve fooled Sherlock Holmes this long. Soon, it’ll all be over.”

The pair came onto the rooftop. Jim felt the fresh air burst against his face, the smells of London crowding his sightless senses. He clutched his cane, tapping it against the roof in nervous habit.

Seeing his boss’ discomfort, warned Seb, since he never had such hesitation. Jim didn’t worry about anthing, or usually cling like he was doing today.

But when Seb was set up on John Watson, listening to Moriarty and Holmes, his heart began to pound. “Sir,” he said, “what’re you doing?”

Seb stared at his wall, where his rack of snipers usually hung. But they weren’t there today. Today, there were racks, yes, but instead of snipers, there hung guitars—of all shapes, colours and sizes. A sticky-note was taped to the neck of one.

His hands were cold, but his tears fell warm onto the pale cheek. Jim felt Seb’s body shake, clutching helplessly at his boss. The blonde wasn’t supposed to be here so quickly, but it was already too late to change the way things were arranged.

Jim had sent Seb a text, The end, Tiger, when he’d paused Staying Alive. It was vague and unlikely that Sebastian would soon decipher its meaning. But, somehow, he’d heard of Jim’s being atop of Bart’s, and came running.

Now the sniper held his supposedly dead boss in his arms, sobbing over the body. He buried his face in the snow-dusted suit, clutching James to himself. Letting go would be like admitting that he had died and Seb couldn’t say that yet. For now, he had to be alive.

But he seemed to be dead. Snow fell around them, silently cold and wet. Still, the familiar scent of Jim lingered—in his Westwood, on his skin, in his hair. It was too much to bear.

“What the hell was that?” Seb sat in the darkness, with the car running. Jim sat to the left of his favourite sniper in the passenger seat. The brick building was illuminated by headlights, glaring back in his eyes.

“It’s a fault,” Jim said, shrugging. “You’re wasting petroleum.”

“No, we’re not going home until you tell me what that was about. What would you’ve done without that call? You were stupid, sir, extremely stupid,” Sebastian said, gripping the steering wheel.

“You’re upset.” Jim blinked, unaccustomed to this. Seb didn’t get upset, over anything.

“Of course I am! You risked your life for nothing.” The car was then turned off, promising that Jim wouldn’t get home anytime soon.

“It wasn’t nothing. It was for the game.”

“No.” Seb looked over, furious. “No, your ‘game’ is stupid, non-existent and suicidal.”

“Oh, you don’t even know,” Jim murmured. In a louder voice, he commanded Seb to start the car.

In the background, the radio played. Sometimes, it helped Moriarty think, when something went wrong. And something had gone wrong.

Sebastian leaned in the doorway, listening to the radio play, while watching his boss tap the end of his pen on the desk. Jim grimaced, leaning backward in his seat, sighing. He still hadn’t noticed the bodyguard, or else Seb would’ve been sent away.

“I’ve been awake for a while now.”

Jim stared at the grey radio, resting his head on his arms. The song continued and Seb quietly came in, wrapping his arms around Jim’s shoulders, kissing the top of his head.

“What’s wrong, Kitten?” he asked. Jim leaned backward again, now into Seb’s stomach.

“Nothing. I’m glad you’re here, Tiger.”

“Good. I love you, Jim,” the colonel said, hugging the fragile body tightly.

Sunlight filtered through the window, bathing the small flat in light. It was beautiful, unblocked by London’s usual buildings. It was certainly an adjustment, Jim admitted, but it was lovely.

Going all around the world was amazing, only darkened by the reason—work. Jim closed his eyes against the world at night, though, and turned to his mobile phone.

On the other end, Sebastian Moran waited, smiling when he heard Jim. “Miss me?”

“This is your fault,” Jim said, wincing at Seb’s touch. “What were you thinking?”

“Sorry, sir,” Seb said, carefully lifting his boss from the car. “But I expected you to not fall down the hill.”

“Right,” the consulting criminal said, holding tightly to his sniper. “Don’t drop me.”

“I promise I won’t,” Seb said, smiling as he carried Jim through the hospital doors.

Jim squirmed into a comfortable position, ear against Seb’s chest. He could hear the strong, steady heartbeat—comforting against the agony that threatened with warm tears. This really was Sebastian’s fault, but it was too late to prevent the fall.

Though this’d happened, it wouldn’t hold Seb back. Jim falling and breaking his leg hadn’t been in the plan, but already Seb had adjusted.

After an hour, Jim had his cast and crutches, noticing Seb’s impatience. “What is it, Tiger?” he asked as Seb started the car.

“Nothing,” Seb said. He pulled out onto the road, driving toward home. Jim stared out the window, silently wondering why the blonde was on edge.

When they pulled into the driveway, Jim leaned over to grab Seb’s tie. They looked at each other. Jim kissed his his bodyguard. “Relax, Sebby.”

“Yes, sir.” Seb got out of the car, then came to help his boss. Rather than letting him get his crutches, the bodyguard scooped Moriarty into his arms, enjoying the feeling of the frail body cradled against him.

Jim didn’t protest, simply laying his head on Seb’s shoulder, staring up at him with love. Seb looked down, feeling and giving the same love. The heartbeat of the sniper elevated, even more so when Jim closed his eyes, wrapping his arms tightly around Seb.

The consulting criminal was carried inside and set down on the couch. Seb kissed his forehead, kneeling next to the couch.

“Hey, Jim,” Seb said, nuzzling at his face. Jim’s eyes half-opened and he softly smiled.

“Yea, Seb?” he asked, stroking Seb’s neck with the backs of his fingers.

“I wanted to ask you something earlier, before you broke your leg.”

“What’s that, Tiger?”

“Will you marry me, James Moriarty?” Seb asked, voice soft as he set the ring before his boss. Jim’s eyes fully opened for a moment, before he blinked quickly, looking from the diamond to the emerald eyes expecting an answer.