Work Text:
Martin had never killed a man before – not deliberately anyway.
He looked down at the dull, black metal of the weapon in his hand, unconsciously testing the cool weight of it. His gaze fell on the battered hulk of a man crouched – or cowering? His ego wanted to call it cowering but the wounded ferocity in the man’s eyes warned him away from that delusion – before him. It was only a year ago that their positions had been reversed – no, not reversed, worse. Martin had been tied down to the floor and the man before him had been on top of him…his mind skittered away from the rest of the memory.
He used to think that habit was cowardly. Now he knew it was simply an act of survival. If he had to live with that memory – the weight of Sebastian Moran on top of him, the musk of the man filling his nostrils, the sweat of him seeping into Martin’s pores – he’d crumble. Burying those memories had become second nature and justifiable self-defense. If he never saw or heard of Sebastian Moran ever again it would still be too soon. Yet Mycroft had dragged that memory in the form of Moran to Martin’s feet. Then pressed a gun into his hand.
He looked at Mycroft inquiringly.
Mycroft stared back, hands behind his back, utterly composed and with that supercilious little smile as he rocked back on his heels, as pleased with himself as if he were a father presenting his son with his first bicycle. “Happy Birthday, Martin,” he said quietly.
mm
Martin stared at him a moment longer. Then he turned, took aim, and released the safety…