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The workbench loomed under Sebastian Moran—scarred wood, cold, smeared with oil and neglect. He braced himself, palms grinding into the filth, thighs crashing against the edge with every brutal thrust. James Moriarty drove into him, raw and unyielding, their usual grind of control and use.
Seb was half-hard—some nights he did chase the burn, craved it even, and tonight a flicker of that heat stirred. A grunt scraped out, low and rough, marking his place in the damp basement air. He was Jim’s loyal hound—trained to fetch, bite, serve—and serving he did, bent over the slab, another piece of the job he sometimes savored. Present and steady, he took it, the cold biting his skin, shoulders knotting under the strain.
Jim’s voice cut through, sharp and taunting, mid-thrust. “She did it clean,” he said, letting it linger. Seb grunted again, caught in the rhythm—then, “But she left something behind for MI5.” Jim’s fingers clawed his hips sudden and hard, nails tearing skin, blood welling hot and slow in a flash of anger. Terror spiked through him—cold and bright, then frayed into sick certainty.
“Do you know what that means?” Jim pressed, voice a blade.
“Yes,” Seb rasped, hollow, a soldier’s reply.
“Good boy,” Jim purred, smug, his grip commanding everything unfolding.
Seb felt the sting from the cuts, the raw slide of Jim’s cock, his breath shallow and sharp—gut twisting in cold, dead certainty as Jim kept moving.
She flickered in his head, soft against Jim’s grinding weight. Three months back, Riga—he’d traced her jaw in the dark, her skin warm under his fingers, a rare stillness between them. They’d moved together then, slow and close, her breath catching against his face, a fragile thread of air between them. He’d held her after, checked her scope, her papers—kept her safe, or tried to. Now Jim pounded into him, raw and claiming, every thrust a theft of that brittle memory. They’d burned for each other, desperate and unspoken—no promises, just a hunger stretched raw across the miles, a wound neither could close. Jim had known about them for months, unbothered—he reveled in owning everyone, her death just another order, her slip-up the end of it. To Sebastian, it was a noose tightening around his neck, his chest tightening, that sick dread coiling deeper as the workbench creaked beneath him.
Seb’s world dulled as Jim pressed harder, the assignment unyielding and inescapable, his thrusts sharpening into something ruthless. Jim’s hips slammed forward, the harsh slide of him grinding deeper, bruising Seb’s hips against the workbench’s edge, splinters biting into his thighs as the wood groaned under the onslaught. It was ownership, cold and absolute—each jolt a mark of who ruled, who’d already decided. Seb stayed still, his cock soft, a dead weight against the cold—disconnected, hollowed out as Jim took what he wanted.
Jim came with a grunt—sharp, triumphant—then pulled out slow and deliberate. A lazy smack landed on Seb’s arse, casual as an afterthought. “You leave tomorrow,” Jim tossed over his shoulder, already straightening his tie, footsteps fading into the dark. Seb stayed bent over the workbench, unmoving. Jim’s come dripped down his thigh, warm against the cold air, blood streaking faintly where nails had torn. Numbness held him—mind, body, all of it—proof of who he belonged to, carved into his silence.
The train rattled beneath Sebastian, a low hum slicing through the grey smear of countryside beyond the window. He’d been moving since London—plane, bus, now this—hours bleeding into a haze, the location still ahead. His mind wouldn’t settle—thoughts of her spun, relentless, a knife he kept twisting. Before he’d left, one of Jim’s dogs had cornered him, voice a snarl: “She dropped a hair—her bloody DNA’s with MI5 now, and Jim’s fucking livid.” She’d cracked up, left a fissure in her armor, and it gouged at him like a rusty hook. She was precise, always—every shot clean, every step measured. He’d seen her work, checked her gear himself. So why this? Why now?
He shifted in the seat, the ache in his hips a dull echo of Jim’s workbench, the shallow cuts from those nails still stinging under his shirt. Maybe it wasn’t her fault—some fluke, some MI5 bastard’s luck pinning her DNA to the kill. She didn’t deserve this, not for one slip after years of flawless work—her hands steady, her eyes sharp, every move a quiet defiance of the chaos they lived in. He could warn her, slip her new papers, a way out—hide her where Jim’s shadow didn’t fall. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. Pointless. Moriarty’s roots stretched too far—every exit watched, every betrayal sniffed out. If he didn’t pull the trigger, someone else would—a sloppy shot, a stranger’s hand, her blood pooling slow and wrong. It had to be him—quick, precise, the only mercy he could claw from this. The thought sank like lead, heavy and cold, his chest splitting under it.
The train lurched, a voice crackling through the carriage: “Nākamā pietura—Lode.” Seb pressed his forehead to the glass, the cold biting into his skin. Back then, her hair had spilled across his chest, soft and warm, her fingers brushing his neck as she’d murmured something low—a quiet ache he’d carried since.
She’d been careful—too careful for this. Maybe she’d faltered, some shadow in her head he hadn’t spotted, but it didn’t matter now. Save her? Rage gnawed at his gut, useless against Jim’s orders, the web too tight to tear. The clock was ticking, her hours draining fast. His gut twisted, that sick dread from the basement flaring again, blacker now—he couldn’t dodge this, couldn’t break the leash. She’d fall by his hand—no one else’s, his shot the only one she’d take—and that was the end of it.
Their last coded message had pinged through days ago—short, cryptic, a place and time locked in. The Ethnographic Open-Air Museum, her favorite haunt, sprawled ahead as Seb stepped off the bus, boots crunching snow, the heavy backpack dragging at his shoulders. Midweek, early spring—the land lay quiet under a thin white crust, no tourists, no noise, just the wind cutting through bare trees. He trudged the last stretch on foot, breath fogging in the cold, eyes scanning for the usual spot. She was there, a shadow against the wooden huts, waiting where they’d always met. No one else stirred—only a few sad cameras perched on poles, their lenses half-blind, easy enough to dodge. The silence pressed in, thick and sharp, his pulse kicking under the weight of what came next.
Her head snapped up at the crunch of his boots, a few meters off—she turned, eyes locking on his. Silence stretched, heavy as the snow dusting the ground. His face was stone—muscles rigid, jaw clamped tight, eyes burning with a truth she couldn’t unsee. She shivered, breath fogging in the cold, her gaze lingering on him, tracing the weight in those eyes. Seconds bled by, her shoulders stiffening as it sank in.
“I’ve fucked up,” she said at last, voice flat, final.
He didn’t reply, didn’t flinch. She nodded, exhaled sharp and jagged, paced a few steps—restless, cornered. He watched, unmoving, a statue in the frost. She stopped, back to him, the quiet thick between them. “Thank you for doing this,” she murmured, then stepped forward into the trees.
He followed, boots sinking into the snow. She knew this place—every twist, every hollow—and he let her guide him, ten minutes deeper into the woods, branches clawing the sky, away from any watching eyes. She slowed, breath visible, then turned. A beat—her eyes searched his again, softer now, resigned. Her hand lifted to his cheek, fingers trembling against his skin. He leaned into it, a crack in his armor, her touch pulling him apart.
“I want you to know—”
“Don’t,” he rasped, voice breaking.
“Come on, indulge me. I’m going to be dead in a couple of minutes.”
“I’m not,” he bit out—pleading.
She stood there, hand still on him, eyes locked, the air taut. Then, slow, she stepped closer, her breath brushing his lips, and kissed him. It was fierce and deep—lips crashing hard, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting him, teeth grazing his lower lip as she pressed closer, her chest flush to his jacket. Her hands slid up, fingers tangling tight in his hair, gripping hard, pulling him down into her, as the desperate kiss burned through them.
He whined, fracturing, leather creaking as he gripped her waist—she tore at his fly, he clawed her jeans and underwear down past her knees, the denim snagging on her boots. He spun her, pinned her to the nearest tree, her palms flat against the bark. He thrust into her, raw and frantic—hips slamming forward, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, yanking her back against him, her leather jacket stiff against his chest. His teeth sank into her neck, a growl tearing free, her gasps sharp and ragged as she arched into him—her hands slipped from his hair, clawing at the bark, nails scraping as she whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Her heat gripped him, slick and tight, her thighs trembling against his, the rhythm brutal and alive—bark flaking under her fingers, his leather sleeve brushing her hip, every move a clash of fury and need.
It lasted those ragged minutes, her breath hitching, his chest heaving against her back. His hand slid to the gun, pressed it to the back of her head, just behind her ear. She moaned, low and soft. He sucked in a breath, shaky, hugged her tighter as she lowered her head, giving him room, and flicked the safety off. She moaned again, yielding.
He held her close, chest to her back, and pulled the trigger.
Time cracked open as his finger squeezed—the muffled shot roared through him, shrill and merciless, a sound that shredded the silence, louder than any battlefield he’d bled on. Her head snapped forward, blood and brain erupting in a thick spray—crimson streaks splattering the snow, gobs of grey matter smearing the tree’s rough bark, wet flecks hitting his leather sleeve, his jaw, the corner of his eye, hot and sticky before the cold claimed them. She froze, upright for a splintered second, then sagged—her body caving, sliding limp from his arms, hitting the ground with a dull, wet thud, leaving him rooted there, chest heaving, cock still wet and hard, exposed to the freezing air.
Disbelief slammed into him, a jagged fist in his gut—her warmth snuffed out, her breath gone, the woman he’d held minutes ago now a broken thing at his feet, blood oozing from the ragged hole behind her ear, pooling dark and sluggish in the snow’s crust.
Terror boiled up, raw and useless, tangled with a hollow ache that clawed his chest apart—she couldn’t be this, not her, not yet. He raised the gun again, hand steady but leaden, aimed between her hollow eyes—pupils wide, staring nowhere. Another pull, another crack—brutal, precise, the bullet tearing through her forehead, punching out the back in a fresh burst of red. Her head jolted back, skull cracking against the frozen earth, blood seeping wider, but she didn’t twitch—still, empty, the last shred of her torn away, leaving him alone with the echo.
Seb tucked himself back into his jeans and shed the backpack with a shrug, movements precise, years of practice honed sharp. He unzipped it fast, pulling out the entrenching shovel—blade dull but ready—and a folded plastic sheet, everything he’d need tucked inside. He stabbed at the frozen ground, hard earth and snow resisting, but he hacked through, breath fogging in the cold. Twenty-five minutes of grinding work carved a shallow trench, 20 cm deep, fingers numb through the leather—time he couldn’t spare, but enough to start.
He unfolded the plastic sheet, spreading it into the hole—a thin barrier to slow the blood soaking through, to keep animals at bay a little longer. It wasn’t a fix—scent would leak, wolves or dogs would dig her up soon—but it’d stretch his escape window, maybe a day, just enough to clear the line. He rolled her body onto it, plastic crinkling under her weight. He stripped her pockets clean—wallet, keys, smokes—leaving no trace but her weight in his hands. Branches snapped under his boots as he piled them over her, frozen leaves and a fistful of scraped dirt tossed on top, a frail mask against the inevitable.
He scraped the tree with stain remover, smearing the bark free of red, erasing her last mark—then stopped, chest tight, knife in hand. He took a slow breath, eyes on the blade. Carving the snake was stupid—a fuck-up, a thread that could unravel everything, tie him to her when they found her—but he did it anyway. The blade bit in, quick and rough, tracing the twist of the one on her ankle, an indulgence he couldn’t shake.
He shrugged off his stained leather jacket, swapping it for a clean one from the backpack, stuffed his gear inside, and glanced up—8 a.m., a grey dawn glowering under storm-heavy clouds, the museum still quiet. No time left. He grabbed her bike, fresh jacket creaking as he swung on, and gunned it into the murk, the engine’s snarl cutting through the wind.
Sebastian slumped into a chair in the dimly lit room, the hum of London traffic a faint pulse beyond the walls. He’d made it back—private boat from Skulte’s coast, a swift cut through the Baltic, no tails, no fuss.
The briefing was in full swing, Moriarty’s voice sharp and clipped, doling out marks like cards: Sherlock Holmes—his obsession laid bare—then John Watson, DI Lestrade, Martha Hudson, all pieces in a plan set for autumn, half a year out. Seb wasn’t named, not this time—his role off the table, a rare gap to breathe.
He tried to settle, shoulders easing a notch, the museum’s cold still gnawing at his joints. The men around him nodded, faces blank, tools in Jim’s machine. He let his gaze drift, tracing the plaster cracks, pulse thudding slow.
The briefing wrapped, chairs scraping as the room thinned.
“Seb, hang back,” Jim called, voice light, edged with a grin.
Seb stiffened, then sank back, jacket creaking under him. Jim sauntered over, hands in his pockets, all syrup and sly.
“I do hope the boat was alright—smooth sailing? Loyal as ever—good work out there. Paycheck’s doubled for it, and I’ll want the details by tomorrow’s end, yeah? Looking forward to the full report.” His eyes glinted, sharp and amused, peeling Seb apart.
Seb managed a grunt, “Boat was fine,” voice gravel-rough, stuck low.
Jim tilted his head, smirked. “Splendid. Off you go, then.” Seb hauled himself up, boots heavy, hand brushing the door.
“Oh, by the way,” Jim chirped, casual as a flicked switchblade, “she was pregnant. Thought you might want to know, what with all the… well, off you go! Byeee!”
The door clicked shut, but Seb’s legs rooted, breath snagging like barbed wire. Pregnant—his, no question, those nights together a thread they’d clung to when they could. His gut lurched, a sick tide surging—her against that tree, her moans, the gun, and now this, gone in the same burst. He staggered, palm slamming the wall, holding him up as the room tilted.
He lurched down the hall, vision smearing, each step a dull thud. His chest burned, a roar caged in his ribs—rage, grief, a storm he couldn’t voice. She’d tried to speak, to let it out, and he’d cut her off—wouldn’t let her say it, wouldn’t let himself answer back, their unspoken bond snapped in that snow. Guilt clawed up, black and thick, a weight he’d never shift. Jim dangled it like a toy, perched on the table’s edge, legs swinging, watching with wide-eyed amazement like a psycho kid torching ants—pure delight in the wreckage.
He hit the street, the grey London sky pressing low, and it burned—everything he’d locked down roaring alive inside, a firehose turned inward, scorching his guts, his bones. His face carved still, unyielding under the weight. Inside, it raged, a furnace stoked by a future he’d torched, a life snuffed out before it began.
Seven months stretched out like a taut wire, Sebastian coiled tight beneath it, fury simmering in his veins ever since Jim’s “byeee!”—that chirp, casual as a flicked blade, sliced through his skull on repeat. London’s grey sprawl swallowed him—spring thawed to summer, then autumn crept in, wet and sharp, but the seasons bled into nights all the same, a dull smear in his head where her moans still echoed, sharp against that final shot.
He worked for Jim with cold precision—shots lined up, bodies dropped, orders followed to the letter—each kill a weight he slung onto a scale already tipped. He’d spar with the walls of his Camden flat, fists slamming plaster till it cracked, or hit the gym, pounding bags till his knuckles split—fury carved into every strike, his strength a blade he kept honed for the bastard who’d lit the match. The leather jacket hung over a chair, stained and stiff, her blood a faint shadow in the creases. He moved through it all, jaw set like iron, the furnace inside raging behind a soldier’s blank stare.
He started digging, quiet and sharp—ears open, eyes tracing Jim’s plans beyond the next trigger pull. Briefings, coded drops, overheard scraps—Sherlock’s dance, John Watson’s shadow, Lestrade, Hudson, the rooftop half a year out. Seb hoarded it, piecing the net together, his own jobs just a thread in the tangle.
Calder came into focus—the wiry sniper slotted for John, a lean shadow with a perch mapped near Bart’s, habits clocked: smokes at dusk, scopes his line by dawn, twitchy but predictable. Seb tracked it—coordinates off Giltspur Street, timing pinned to Moriarty’s game, a shot he could take himself from another angle. He scouted rooftops—cheap, close, clear: the old warehouse on Cock Lane, low-rent and shadowed. He’d make it clean—range, wind, drop calculated in silence. He’d be there when it hit, gear stowed, no hesitation, his move set.
He hit the warehouse on Cock Lane at dawn—sky was pale, streets were quiet. He’d scouted it hours back—corners checked, angles set, every rooftop clocked. He dropped low, rifle braced on concrete, barrel steady. Day would break with Moriarty’s game. He’d be ready, awake, set, no drift.
He’d met Mycroft Holmes weeks prior, dead-end alley, face-to-face. Gave Calder’s details: Watson’s sniper, Bart’s perch, afternoon timing. Traded for a blind eye on the roof. No flinch. He’d bury that bastard with his bullet. Good boy’s last snap. All of him aimed to kill.
Warehouse held him now. He crouched, rifle up, scope cut the light. Calder was on Bart’s, tweaking his gear. Seb swung the barrel: Moriarty paced the rooftop. Black suit stark.
Finger flicked the safety off. Bolt locked. Round live. Crosshairs pinned his head.
Steady as death.
Seb watched Moriarty pace and talk, his own stance stoic, unmoving, crosshairs fixed on that black-suited bastard. Seb was ready. He could read Jim’s lips, but the psychotic power games meant nothing—worthless noise he ignored. Another Holmes cut into frame sometimes, blocking the shot, but Seb stayed steady—one death was certain here, his or not. He breathed in, out, finger light on the trigger.
Then it broke—slow, time dragging: Jim pulled his gun, shoved it in his mouth, fired. A split second—blood sprayed, skull split, body crumpled to the gravel. Shock hit Seb hard, breath snagging—he blinked, yanked himself back, mind scrambling to catch up. He swung the scope to Calder—still there, ready to shoot—then back to the rooftop. Holmes was mid-spin, eyes darting, hands at his hair in a frantic shield, calculations racing behind that pale face. Before steadying, still trembling, stepping to the edge with the phone pressed to his ear.
Seb’s heart slammed in his chest—shock raw, pulse wild—then he moved. Rifle down. Gear snatched. He bolted from the warehouse, fury scorching his gut.
He roared out of London on her bike, throttle wide, the city’s edges blurring as rage tore through him—seven months of revenge torched, leaving a hollow burn where it should’ve struck. He’d betrayed Jim for this, fed older Holmes, played the long game, and it ended here, hollow, a suicide stealing his shot. Seven months of planning—waiting in the dark, scoping angles, holding that fire—and it crashed to nothing, no target left, just Jim’s last laugh, a checkmate from the grave.
The M25 faded behind him, and he pushed north to St Albans, a small, quiet sprawl where Moriarty’s network barely touched—fewer eyes, no whispers. Defeat sank in, heavy as lead, fury still clawing his chest, but he knew it cold: he couldn’t do shit now, not till his head cleared, not till the haze lifted, not till he regrouped.
Days bled into weeks in St Albans, Sebastian bunkered in a cheap flat off Holywell Hill, bike stashed, blinds shut. Rage dulled to a low simmer—he’d pace the room, rifle stripped on the table, weight thick in his chest. One night, whiskey in hand, he lifted the barrel to his eye. Turned it slow in his grip. Closed his eyes. Laid it back down. The fire wasn’t out.
He turned it outward, flipped the switch—years of intel stacked in his head, a vault of Moriaty’s web he’d cracked wide open: names, faces, dead drops, safehouses, every thread he’d traced while playing the loyal hound. He’d shred it solo, dismantle that bastard’s empire piece by piece, not for justice but for the burn of it. This was his second shot—a life clawing up from the ash, raw and untested.
He worked it hard—maps pinned to the wall, routes scratched out, gear laid bare on the floor, a list of targets growing long: lieutenants, couriers, ghosts he’d hunted in shadow. He weighed Holmes once—a leverage, a call he might make to tip the scales, gut the network down to its bones. It took shape slow, deliberate, his hands steady as he forged it—revenge reborn, not dead, just waiting for blood.
One evening, he stepped out—groceries, routine, a bag of bread and tinned meat in hand. A woman stopped him on the quiet street—too-kind eyes, all too-kind smile, a glint of cold command beneath, her hand soft on his arm. “Jim says hi,” she whispered, a syringe pricking quick through his sleeve. Seb froze, blood cold—he knew it then, poison, slow and sure, not instant but coming. She stood there, smiling soft, unblinking, a shadow of something… familiar in her gaze. He didn’t smile back—jaw set, he steadied himself, let it sink in, set the bag down on the pavement. Turned. Walked back home.
He made it to the flat, steps heavy, breath sharp but calm. Door shut behind him. The room spun slow—rifle on the table, plans half-drawn, all of it slipping. He sank to the floor, back to the wall, poison creeping through his veins.
Pointless.
He lost.
Seb let it go, eyes on the ceiling, and dropped dead.