Inspired by various pieces of artwork of Sebastian Moran and the theory that he was the sniper aiming at John in BBC's Reichenbach Falls.

I messed around with the ages a bit; Sebastian is 32, Jim is 36.

Thank you, Nameless-Sufferer for your amazingly encouraging words. Without them, I wouldn't have had the courage to post this story. She's a fantastic author and person! :)

RtM will be updated later today.

Sebastian stared at the detective as he threw himself from the hospital roof. His coat billowed out from behind him, much like a dysfunctional parachute, flapping in the breeze as Holmes plummeted from the building. The sniper glanced away for a second, down at his gun, and it was over; Holmes was dead. Pressing a button on his watch, he relaxed slightly, staring at the countdown. Satisfaction buzzed momentarily in Sebastian's mind; Jim had succeeded.

He wasn't unaware of the bizarre nature of their relationship; it was odd to think of Jim as his mentor or, stranger still, friend, yet that was exactly what the man was to him. He had taught Sebastian everything he knew, honing and employing his skills so much so that he became Moriarty's right hand man in little over a year. Jim had taken Sebastian in from the streets and given him shelter and companionship, something that had been entirely foreign to the young sniper.

In his many years of working for the eccentric criminal, Sebastian had been on numerous missions, both normal and completely psychotic, elementary or breathtakingly complicated, but none, according to Jim, could compare to Reichenbach; it was his 'masterpiece.' It was the Crown Jewel of his career, and, by far, the most fun the criminal ever had.

Jim was easily bored, but he had been entertained during the whole ordeal that had been transpiring for years.

Destroying Sherlock Holmes.

The criminal possessed the stereotypical childlike affinity for toys, from the lustful determination to possess whatever caught their eye to the bored indifference towards said object after owning it for the meager amount of five minutes.

And, despite his above-average intelligence, Sherlock Holmes was no different.

The man was, in almost every way, Jim's equal, but, like all mortals, he had a pressure point, and that weakness was to be used to force the detective to commit suicide. It had been surprising for both of them, though, when they found that the self-proclaimed sociopathic detective unintentionally revealed that he had not one but several weaknesses.

Now that he thought about it, Sebastian found Holmes' cold-exterior-warm-interior to be highly cliché. It was perfectly ordinary to hide a big heart between walls of ice. The only thing that made the detective distinctive was his massive brain, so to speak, which was Holmes' pride and joy. The only thing he prized almost equally with his massive intellect, and the knowledge of his possession of such a gift, was the army doctor, John Watson, who made up a third of Holmes' inner circle.

"Hard part's over Sebby," Jim gloated as he waltzed into their opulent hotel room. "Our story is spreading like wildfire, and it's only a matter of time before Sherly's heart gets caught in the flames."

They had been silent after that, staring at the screen that had long since lost the image of Sherlock Holmes walking down the dimly-lit street, his back turned to the doctor so that the only ones who could see the faint signs of uncertainty and horror flickering over the angular face were the two men watching him from afar.

Overconfidence had always been Jim's downfall, but even Sebastian knew that persuading the pompous detective to commit suicide now that his image was irrevocably tarnished would be a pathetically easy task; one they both knew wouldn't take much time nor pressure.

So where was Jim?

Sebastian leaned against the wall, cradling his gun, and looked up at the roof.

He said he would only be ten minutes at most after the detective jumped...

Sebastian watched, sympathy not entirely absent, as Holmes' friend ("pet," Jim would sneer) raced to the detective's corpse. There wasn't as much shouting as he expected, just a cry or two of the detective's name in the emotion-drenched voice of the army doctor.

Even though they were meager, those shouts made Sebastian shudder as he thought of what it would be like if their positions were reversed; if he had to helplessly watch Jim purposefully plunge to his death. Would he have rushed to Jim's corpse, or would he stay in the shadows, watching death from afar as he was trained to?

A wave of pity washed over Sebastian. The sniper looked away from the window, unable to look at the appalling sight. What normally wouldn't bother the experienced killer absolutely revolted him in that moment, though whether it was due to the alarming similarities of the two consultant's companions or the faint, strained sound of the doctor's voice floating from the open window was unknown to him.

Fifteen minutes had passed.

He wanted to shout in frustration, but he stayed still. It was crucial that he remained absolutely silent as the building wasn't exactly empty, and it wouldn't be good if some poor random civilian stumbled upon Sebastian and his intimidating weaponry.

He considered throwing caution to the wind, but words that Jim had muttered repeatedly echoed in his mind until his own thoughts were completely expunged.

Memories of their first conversation about the origins of the mantra after Sebastian had watched the detective's conversation in the morgue about Adler's "death" swam in the sniper's mind.

"You see? Caring is not advantage, Sebby." Jim leaned in close and, if it had been anyone else, Sebastian would've been extremely uncomfortable. As he was quite used to the consultant criminal's lack of respect for personal space, the sniper didn't experience any discomfort.

"Isn't that what Mycroft says?"

"It's the only wise thing he's ever said," Jim sneered at the image of the Holmes brothers staring out the morgue window as he moved away from the sniper.

He hadn't really been shocked, now that Sebastian thought about it, that Jim had used Mycroft Holmes' mantra (that had, in the end, been disregarded by not one but both of the Holmes brothers). Jim had been saying things that essentially boiled down to the same thing, and he struck Sebastian as being the only person who could, other than the two brothers, actually live up to that phrase.

"Caring is not an advantage," Sebastian learned that night, had a particularly interesting origin for that particular family.

Once upon a time, Sherlock had a younger brother named Victor. When Mrs. Holmes found out that she was pregnant again, she was ecstatic (Jim's lilting voice rose as a false smile spread across his face like food coloring in water) because that meant that her other sons would have another person in their lives that would love them. The baby was born, and the family was enraptured by the chubby infant. They were allowed to take Victor home after Mrs. Holmes stayed in the hospital for three days (Jim lifted up three fingers and held them in front of his face, staring at them with wide eyes, his lips in a perfect o). Little Sherlock, who had been around five years old at the time, had been excited to have another brother, so much so that for the majority of his mother's pregnancy, all he could talk about was Victor. At twelve, Mycroft hadn't shown much outward emotion towards the pregnancy, but his eyes gleamed whenever the baby was mentioned, and his mind buzzed with thoughts of the things the three of them could do together.

But, like all grim fairy tales (Jim grinned wolfishly), the happiness didn't last long (Jim's smile vanished in seconds, curving downward in a way that would've been comical had the gesture not, for the first time since the story began, held miniscule signs of true emotion). The first night into his new home, someone came and took Victor out of the extravagant manor the Holmes resided in. The maid had been caught, though she committed suicide before they could get any information out of her.

They never found Victor. Eventually, they gave up, believing the child to have been murdered. Sherlock was the only one who continued searching earnestly for his brother, stopping when he was twelve when a particular boy, Carl Powers, caught his attention in the papers. After the boy figured out that there was something wrong with the case, he decided that he would use his deduction skills to aid the moronic police force. Some say (Jim leaned forward, his mouth in a straight line once more though his eyes shone with a strange gleam) that this decision stemmed from the desire to prevent others from having to go through what he did with Victor, but others say that he chose to do so only to drive away boredom.

Sebastian had asked what Jim thought happened to Victor.

Jim grinned, though this time in a genuinely approving manner, and continued with his story.

Victor had been taken away from the family by the jealous older brother of Mr. Holmes who had been in love with his brother's wife for years. The man's jealousy grew when her sons proved themselves to be above-average, and, upon finding out that another was on the way, sought to steal what he viewed was rightfully his. The older brother seduced one of the maids and convinced her to do the deed for him with a more-or-less true sob story about his history with Mrs. Holmes. Promising her that, should she be caught, they would commit suicide together ("She was one of those sappy romantics," Jim sighed. "Combine that with a less-than-average brain capacity and you get a deranged Romeo-and-Juliet lover that is easily persuadable. Contrary to Sherlock's opinion, idiots can be quite useful."), the girl agreed to the plan.

He, of course, didn't commit suicide. Taking the son to a new house under a new identity, Jim Trevor, he began raising Victor as his own son.

("Sounds a bit familiar, doesn't it Sebby? Doesn't it remind you of a certain long haired beauty?")

Trevor wasn't the worst parent in the world; he didn't restrict Victor by locking him in his room, nor did he conceal the truth of his origins from the boy. When Victor was five and every bit as brilliant as his brothers had been at that age, Trevor told him the real story, ending it with the only lie in the whole tale: Sherlock had given up on him.

The same year Victor learned about his past, Trevor enrolled him in the private school the Holmes boys were attending. His occupation was, although risky and somewhat illegal, well-paying, providing Trevor not only with the opportunity to send Victor to the expensive academy, it also allowed him to spoil the boy rotten. Trevor knew that, without having to really persuade the boy, Victor would stay with him. He had grown attached to the man he knew wasn't his real father, and the man had grown attached to the boy he knew wasn't his real son, though his affection was less towards the boy himself and more about the fact that he possessed a piece of the woman he had loved. There was, though, a hatred for the other half of Victor, Mr. Holmes, which received the physical treatment the real father was unable to receive.

Victor left for his first day of school perfectly excited, as was common in young children, but aware of the identities of the two boys that shared his real parent's DNA.

Despite possessing the knowledge of his other brother's physical attributes and characteristics, Victor didn't run into either of them until two years later. Sherlock had bumped into him in the hallway, and, when the unknown sibling had apologized in his friendliest voice and said hello, Sherlock looked down at him with such icy disdain that Victor began to loathe the pompous boy, and the raven-haired boy strode away without once opening his mouth.

Carl Powers had teased him about running into "the freak" and laughed at the little boy as he stood for a moment, frozen with shock and pain. The anger that had slowly entered his heart had receded as the other two emotions gained control, but when he heard Carl's boisterous laughter, the rage was reignited.

He vowed vengeance, both on the boy who laughed and the boy who ignored him, in that split second before Carl opened his fish-lipped mouth for a second round of jeers. He would get Sherlock's attention and he would make him pay for abandoning him so readily.

Less than a month later, Victor giggled softly in the stands as he watched Carl's writhing form in the water slowly stop thrashing just as help arrived. He was pronounced dead, but Victor was no longer paying attention to the corpse.

He was focused on the puzzled but intrigued gleam in the raven-haired boy's multicolored eyes. Victor allowed a ghost of a smile grace his lips as his ears caught the faint sound of excited muttering from the boy to his left.

("And the rest, as they say, is history," Jim finished, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied smirk. "I'm assuming you made the connection?" Upon seeing the sniper nod slowly, the grin widened. "Caring is not an advantage indeed.")

Bits and pieces of that night flooded into Sebastian's mind in seconds as he smothered a wave of anger. Just like a puzzle, the tidbits of that night linked together until Sebastian was reliving the entire conversation. For a moment, the sniper allowed himself to indulge in the all-encompassing rage that overwhelmed him every time he thought of the tale. Sebastian absolutely hated thinking about Jim's childhood; because, no matter how much worse the sniper's had been in comparison, his friend had been snatched from a family that, despite his protests, Sebastian felt would've taken good care of him, or, at least, better than the man who kidnapped him did. Sebastian wasn't a genius like Jim or his brothers, but he could see the faint, almost nonexistent remnants of an abusive childhood.

A man who spoiled his child rotten wouldn't mar their skin with burn marks from cigarette stubs.

It didn't have to be the father, the sniper had first thought, but as the young man's eyes lifted from the scars on Jim's arms to his friend's normally apathy-cloaked eyes, Sebastian saw a flash of rage and hate.

"Toys weren't the only presents I received, you know," Jim offhandedly commented, though his voice was wrought with the same rage that had flashed momentarily in his eyes. "You're the first, you know?" He murmured. "No one's ever really paid those much attention. Then again, you always were more observant than the average person."

"If he abused you, why didn't you leave sooner?" Sebastian inquired.

"Sentiment," Jim snorted.

Of course, it would make sense that the sniper would've been able to notice signs of abuse, considering his childhood was marred with its fair share of ashes, both of the physical and verbal sort.

If he had noticed the signs earlier in their relationship, Sebastian would've thought that Jim was manipulating him, but he knew the man too well. The sniper was always able to tell when the criminal was lying.

There wasn't an obvious tell like most people had, the tapping of fingers or biting lips, just a gut feeling that there was something off. Every time he noticed the bluff, the criminal would smirk proudly and nod his head once, sharply.

No one, not even Jim, could conceal the pain of an abusive childhood perfectly.

Familiar rage burned in him, coupled with the bittersweet tang of revenge as he remembered the night he committed his first murder. It had always been something restricted to his imagination, but, as his relationship and training with Jim grew, his friend convinced him to make his fantasy a reality. His father had been caught completely unawares, though his shouts of anger and familiar abuse died as he shrank in fear, cowering as Sebastian wielded a flamethrower.

Jim had always been one for dramatics, but that was the one time the sniper hadn't minded, though he refused to kill anyone face-to-face again. Hunting tigers for pleasure was one thing, committing a murder up close, witnessing the life fade from anyone's eyes, guilty or innocent, absolutely repulsed and enraptured the sniper simultaneously.

He'd hated the onslaught of extreme emotions more than he loathed his father.

Sebastian shook his head slightly, dispelling the memories, and he cloaked himself in apathy once more. Getting emotional wouldn't help the case; it was absolutely pointless to let sentimental flashbacks get in the way of his job.

The sniper hadn't even realized that his gun was still fixed on the pavement surrounding the entrance of St Bart's until that moment, and, with steady hands and rehearsed motions, he adjusted the weapon so that it no longer faced the grief-frozen doctor. Sebastian worked mechanically, carefully taking apart his favorite gun and safely encasing it within an ordinary backpack.

He glanced back down at the pavement where the doctor still knelt, staring at the blood...

Sebastian leaned forward, his eyes scanning the remnants of where the detective had splattered onto the concrete.

The blood splatters were all wrong. He had been a first-hand witness to only three other such murders by Jim, but he knew what to expect, and this wasn't it. There was blood, yes, but it looked more like someone had doused the detective in it...

A garbage truck conveniently located in front of the hospital drove away, attracting the sniper's attention. A human-sized indention faintly graced the top of the vehicle. A group of people that had previously surrounded the supposedly dead detective clumped together, arguing intently yet indistinguishably. One person, a teenage boy, let out a whoop of happiness, and an older woman elbowed him harshly, shaking her head. Another person nudged the elderly lady and pointed at a building adjacent to the hospital. Her gaze followed his finger (as did Sebastian's) to a figure clad in shadows and a familiar black coat that was most definitely living...

What the hell was he supposed to do now? Who was he supposed to shoot: the doctor or the detective?

Jim still hadn't contacted Sebastian...

The criminal wouldn't have missed Sherlock's pseudo-suicide, nor would he have been silent upon seeing that the detective was very much alive. He would've contacted the sniper with new information minutes ago. Even though the fall hadn't gone according to plan, someone would've been killed by now, whether it was Holmes or his three friends.

Should he leave the building and find Jim, like his gut was begging, or should he stay?

Twenty minutes had passed.

The stench of chlorine was nauseating, though Sebastian refused to let it dull his senses.

Should he follow his orders or go with his gut?

The doctor had Jim trapped in a grotesque parody of a hug, and the rage in the short man's eyes shone as he searched for the sniper. Sebastian knew Watson wouldn't be able to see him, but the stare was still slightly daunting.

Most people took a look at the man's plain jumpers and kind expression and assumed that he was just a harmless physician, but the criminal had known better. Jim had sent Sebastian out to retrieve the doctor, who had willingly entered the cab. Watson, for all of his military smarts, hadn't really noticed that the sniper was wearing a small but still somewhat obvious gas mask.

Only when the faint fog seeped from the vents did the doctor utter a curse and move to open the door.

He'd soon slumped in his seat, his hand falling limply to his side, and Sebastian suppressed a sigh.

("Sebby," Jim had whined. "I was hoping you would've been a bit more dramatic."

"What should I have done? Stopped him on the street, jammed a needle in his neck, and drug him away?"

"When I said dramatic, I didn't mean moronic.")

The internal debate surged once again in the sniper with a newfound strength, though less than a minute had passed.

The doctor squeezed Jim tighter, and the criminal let out a whoop.

Seething, his hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they moved the gun away from the doctor and to the detective. He knew it wasn't time yet to aim at Holmes; that was to be done after Jim's pseudo-exit.

The doctor backed away, his arms lifted in a gesture of surrender and defeat.

A wave of pleasure accosted the sniper. He would deal with the consequences of his actions later.

Jim swept his hands down over his suit ("Westwood") and, while the detective and the doctor would assume that the criminal spoke of his suit, the sniper inwardly groaned.

The criminal possessed a flair for dramatics that, though exaggerated slightly in situations such as this, was unsurpassed by anyone Sebastian had ever known. Though they were quite helpful, code words and phrases received the brunt of his flamboyancy, becoming overused and exceedingly obnoxious, sometimes so much so that Sebastian wanted to strangle whomever had come up with them. Much like the doctor with his blog, Jim christened each and every crime committed, creating or severing of acquaintanceship (few were ever bestowed the title "colleague" which, for Jim, was what most people would call friendship), and "business" transactions.

Jim took necessary precautions, naturally, with his use of middlemen and strict rules to not, under any circumstance, allude to his name unless they were given a direct order to do so. They themselves often didn't even know his full name; many of the messengers knew him only as "M." Those who chose to violate one or more of the numerous rules were guaranteed a grim ending. This privilege, as Jim liked to call it, was bestowed only upon these sort of men.

"Westwood" was a parting of the ways for one of Jim's middlemen. This particular man had been dealing with the Black Lotus, but, when that had failed and General Shan was murdered, he had been sent to remedy the situation. Jim hadn't been the one conversing with her on the computer, the middleman with an affinity for suits sat in a warehouse, flanked by three bear-like men clothed in sweats that looked as though their bulk was an illusion. Had Sebastian not worked with them multiple times, he too would've been deceived by the façade.

The man at the computer was obviously fooled; his posture was relaxed and every once in a while his eyes would flicker to the standing men as though to say: "this is the best you've got?" Silence, save for the sounds of the keyboard, settled somewhat awkwardly in the room, until the man turned off the computer. The trio stood still as the man stood from the table and moved to leave the room, but his trek was halted by Jim.

("'M?' Seriously? What are we, double-o-seven?" Jim smirked, though Sebastian could see the cold glint in his eyes through his scope.)

The trio of men had moved behind the disobedient messenger and, without much pomp or extravagance, ripped him in two, right before Jim's unblinking eyes. The criminal had looked around the blood-splattered room, wiped his blood-smeared suit once, told them to clean up their mess, and nonchalantly strolled out of the room.

Despite Sebastian's protests, Jim had nicknamed that event "Westwood", because the cleaved man was rarely seen in anything but those suits, rather than upon the fairytale he based the murder on. It had been too "obvious," but, in Sebastian's mind, obvious was better than cheesy. Besides, few people were aware of the true story of the three bears and their intruder.

While the sniper knew he wouldn't be slaughtered because of his disobedience, he was reminded that his actions, no matter how noble his intentions were, would not go unpunished.

Jim left the pool, and Sebastian snapped into awareness. The detective was frantically removing the doctor's bomb, and he suppressed a snicker at the sight. He began the soundless timer on his watch, waiting for the few moments to pass before he would alert the two men of his presence.

Words he couldn't decipher were exchanged as the doctor slumped onto the ground and the detective hovered protectively over him. The watch flashed, signaling that the time was up. The sniper stifled a sigh as he lifted the gun and watched as Jim dramatically burst into the pool once more. All he had to do was wait for the criminal's signal, and the shot would be fired, blowing the pool to smithereens.

It was odd, being at one of these firsthand. Sebastian had never been this close to one of Jim's bombings. Technically speaking, he wasn't at the pool, merely at a next-door building, but Jim had given him auditory access to the long-awaited meeting. The criminal seemed perfectly calm, a front he usually donned to unsettle whomever he was interacting with, but that mask usually hid sadistic excitement or anger; Jim's current nonchalance wasn't concealing anything. There was a slight wariness about him, but perhaps that was due to the fact that the detective had been overestimated.

Holmes lifted his gun and aimed it at the bomb. Jim retained his apathetic glaze, though just a hint of surprise shimmered on the surface for a moment. He didn't make any move, just stared back at the detective as though daring him to fire the gun. Sebastian sat in silence, completely stunned as the reality of the situation crashed into him.

There wasn't a way, that the sniper could perceive, in which Jim would leave the pool alive. Whether the detective shot the bomb or one of the middlemen activated it at the signal, the inevitable explosion would not spare the criminal.

Wave after wave of helplessness buffeted the sniper as he sat, aghast both at the situation and the strength of his emotions. He hadn't ever felt anything so intensely before, and he didn't know what to do about it. Walls had been painstakingly constructed around his emotions his whole life, but it wasn't until that moment that Sebastian realized that the criminal had crept through cracks Sebastian didn't know existed, cementing himself in the center of a vault comprised entirely of sentiment.

He felt as though he was suffocating, drowning in sensations that had never been properly processed in his whole life. Emotion had been a weakness that was to be avoided at all cost during Sebastian's childhood, if he was to survive, and it was a detriment to his current job. It would not do to dwell upon feelings when the sniper carried the baggage of a corrupted childhood and the blood of countless men and women drenching his hands.

Sebastian shoved the onslaught back into the vault and concentrated on the situation.

It would not do to lose his head now.

("You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't.")

The sniper felt nauseous.

The code phrase to set off the bomb hadn't been uttered yet, to the relief of Sebastian. He couldn't bear to watch the scene unravel before his eyes, but he couldn't remove his stare from the criminal.

The person who had essentially saved his life. His colleague. His friend.

Silence fell.

Jim's phone rang.

Relief like nothing he had ever experienced swept through the sniper as he reached for his phone and barked for the woman on the other end to tell him who the hell would call Jim right then. The unexpected caller, Irene Adler, was no stranger to the sniper, and certainly not to the criminal, and this knowledge of her made Sebastian wonder if she had called then on purpose. Whether it was to benefit Holmes or Jim remained to be seen, but the sniper could not bring himself to be properly irritated with her.

Jim left the pool, and a breath he didn't know he had been restraining whooshed from his nose and mouth as he sank to the ground, allowing himself a moment of release before the walls would be reconstructed and the vault locked.

When the minute was up, Sebastian stood and began methodically hiding any sign of his presence in the building. He was just about finished when Jim angrily burst into the room.

("When I tell you to do something, Sebastian, you do it!" Jim chastised, glaring at the window. "You haven't disobeyed me before, why start now?"

"I thought that your life was in danger," Sebastian muttered, thankful that his voice was low and apathetic.

"My life's always in danger; you know that better than anyone," Jim turned to face the sniper, the slight, almost nonexistent uncertainty that momentarily flickered in the criminal's eyes betraying his stern tone. "Don't do it again. I will not be so lenient next time."

"Yes sir.")

There hadn't been any physical abuse that Jim usually inflicted on those who disobeyed him. The only hint of what would happen should the sniper repeat his actions, dropped a few days later, suggested that, rather than slowly and painfully killing Sebastian, Jim would cast him away from both the criminal himself and the organization.

A fate they both knew was worse than death to the sniper.

Being cast out of Jim's organization was the most horrifying thing that could happen to Sebastian, yes, but how much worse would it be for the criminal if he knew that his plans were unraveling, that the one chance he would have to get back at his brother was slipping away, like sand through open fingers? The detective was going to go into hiding, and the chance to properly murder him would be harder. The criminal may be a spider with a vast criminal web, but what good is a web when the one thing it wishes to ensnare is immune? What good is a web when it can catch flies and bugs but not a fellow spider?

Before Sebastian was aware of his actions, he had shouldered his backpack and exited the building, his feet automatically leading him to the hospital.

The walls that encased his emotions hadn't budged, but he was painfully aware of its existence as he entered the hospital lobby.

The detective's apathetic act hid a good heart; the sniper's apathetic demeanor hid demons. As Sebastian wove through the throng of people, some he recognized as members of Holmes' homeless network that were conveniently keeping the doctors busy, he pondered the differences in their guarded emotions.

Holmes cloaked himself in a self-diagnosis of sociopathic tendencies; Sebastian merely controlled and concealed his emotions. Holmes hid positive feelings because he was terrified of being vulnerable; Sebastian hid his demons because he was terrified of losing control, petrified at the mere thought of giving in to his anger and hatred. Contrary to the detective, the sniper's friend strengthened his walls rather than tore them down. The doctor might have well been a personification of human emotion, a roaring fire to the detective's ice-coated heart. The criminal, however, didn't protect his emotions, nor did he purge himself of them. They were his pets, his playthings, his companions; their presence was neither celebrated nor constricted. He strolled with them around Sebastian's walls, poking and prodding until they found an entryway and, when it was located, they sealed it behind them, reinforcing the fortress from the inside.

Perhaps there was a time where Sebastian could've evicted the intruder, but, if there had ever been an occasion where the sniper could control the criminal, it was long gone.

Despite Sebastian's inability to purge his weakness, there wasn't a dominant person in their relationship as there seemed to be with most close friends. The power was evenly distributed, though sometimes circumstance would bestow superiority on one of them. One would think that Jim would've abused the rare moments when it was unevenly distributed, but he never did, not with Sebastian. The sniper was known as the criminal's right hand man, true, but that did not make him any less powerful than Jim.

Sebastian was absolutely loyal to Jim and, though it would never be verbalized, the criminal was absolutely loyal to the sniper. He followed orders no matter how complicated or absurd; he only disobeyed Jim once, and that stemmed from a desire to save the criminal's life.

Whatever deeper personal reasons for Jim's desire to completely obliterate Sherlock Holmes was not something the sniper wanted to know. If he were meant to understand the complexities of their relationship beyond their complicated sibling-hood, he would.

There was, however, a strange sense of personal pleasure Sebastian experienced whenever the plan to destroy the detective was brought up. Perhaps this was due to the loathing of the detective's weak motives for concealing human emotions or because of his close friendship with Jim. It didn't really matter to the sniper why he was, for the second time, personally connected to a plan of Jim's.

All that mattered to Sebastian was the safety and happiness of the criminal.

He reached the lift, slipping in just when the doors were about to close, and stared at the flashing screen, numbers slowly blinking. He was all alone, and, though that would've normally been pleasing, Sebastian wanted nothing more than a distraction, something, anything, to take his mind off of the criminal's ominous silence.

Once he reached the hospital's top floor, he moved towards the one staircase that led to the roof, thankful for his self-inflicted familiarization of the building. A nurse glanced at him curiously, but made no comment towards his presence in the otherwise empty hallway. His arms reached out automatically and pushed open the double doors; his legs moved automatically as the stairs gave way to concrete floor. All too soon, a black, windowless door stood before the sniper. There was a moment of hesitation, something inside Sebastian begging him to turn around, to flee from the hospital, but he squashed the weak voice and roughly opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar behind him.

It was quiet, too quiet. Sebastian moved away from the small entrance, scanning every inch of the roof's floor. The wind gently swirled about the roof, whispering and laughing, though the almost idyllic rustling grew horrifying as the sniper, in his denial, refused to accept that Jim was dead until his eyes fell upon the corpse of his friend and he realized that the gentle swishing was Jim's clothes swaying in the breeze.

Vomit filled Sebastian's mouth, stinging his throat and watering his eyes, but he refused to purge himself. Staggering slightly, Sebastian moved towards the corpse of the criminal. His body was numb, his mind blank, and his movements distorted, no longer possessing their purposeful air, but none of this mattered in that moment.

His walls, a source of internal pride and protection, vanished the moment he clapped eyes on his deceased friend. It was then that Sebastian realized that Jim hadn't been strengthening his protection, he had taken its place.

His body might've been numb, but his heart throbbed and his eyes watered from something entirely different than an impulse to vomit, but he suppressed that urge as well, choosing instead to slump beside Jim.

Maybe Jim was faking too, maybe the detective and the criminal had faked each other out and Jim was just messing with Sebastian. The sniper's dexterous hands cradled the criminal's head, searching for a wound. It occurred to Sebastian that, if it was a prank, he would never hear the end of it, but he brushed the thought aside. Jim's safety was more important than the sniper's dignity. His left thumb moved across a bullet-hole, and his fingers, slick with Jim's blood, slipped into the wound. Repulsed, he removed his blood-soaked hands from the injury, choosing instead to wrap them around the criminal's ears.

There wasn't anything he could do; Jim was gone. It wasn't a trick, though whether it was a trap or not remained to be seen, but it was most definitely real.

He didn't know how long he sat there, cradling the criminal's head, but, all too soon, the sound of voices drifted from the ajar door. Without a second thought, Sebastian lifted his friend's corpse from the cold hard ground and carried him behind the small entrance to the staircase. Seconds after his task was accomplished, the door burst open, and the sniper heard people scuttling about the rooftop.

"Only blood?" A woman murmured. "Hurry, this place has to be spotless. The police will be here soon."

"That's the only thing here, Christina," A man harshly whispered. Faint sounds of hasty movement continued to assault Sebastian's ears, each scuffle and scrape agonizingly loud. "I thought it would be worse."

"Just be thankful it isn't!" Christina replied. The light tread of footsteps grew slightly louder as they walked to the stairs, and silence returned as the door closed with a slight thump.

Sebastian sighed and shifted the body in his arms. Something fell from Jim's pockets, clattering noisily as it hit the ground. The sniper restrained yet another exhausted sigh as he carefully bent down to retrieve the item. His hand grasped a hard object, though he didn't give it his full attention until he had repositioned himself so that Sebastian sat against the wall, Jim beside him. It occurred to the sniper that it was a tad bit absurd to be so gentle with a corpse, but he brushed the thought aside. It was ironic that the man he was thirty minutes ago had mentally mocked people's reactions to the corpses of those they cared about.

A tape recorder; that's what had been in his pocket? He didn't know whether the churning in his stomach was anticipation or dread, nevertheless, his hand shook as he pressed play.

"Well. Here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem. The Final Problem. 'Staying Alive;' it's so boring, isn't it? It's just... staying. All my life I've been searching for distractions, and you were the best distraction and now I don't even have you, because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people, and it turns out you're ordinary. Just like all of them. Oh well." Staying Alive blared from the speakers, though a faint shuffling could be heard. The music suddenly stopped. "Did I nearly get you?"

"The code is a fake," The detective blurted.

Jim chuckled. "You always want everything to be clever; I'm surprised you caught it. Now shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building, nice way to do it."

"Do it. Do what? Yes, of course; my suicide."

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales... and pretty grim ones too."

"Why fairytales? Why are you obsessed with them?" The detective's voice rang out.

"Does there have to be a reason?" Jim's voice, teasing rather than defensive, grew a little louder as a shuffling (no doubt the criminal moving towards the detective) sound entered the recording.

The detective scoffed. "Everything you do has a purpose."

"Ya, okay, you're right," There was a brief pause. "Are you familiar with the story of Rapunzel?"

"Evil witch allows a man to take some of her herbs for his pregnant wife if she can have their firstborn, husband agrees, and the daughter gets locked away in a tower until a prince rescues her."

"Ghastly tower, but it's worse when you don't have someone who understands your past as a friend."

"Sebastian Moran? Your sniper? Don't tell me he's your version of a Prince Charming."

"Hardly," Jim scoffed. "He was a better brother than my real ones ever were."

"I never took you as a sentimental man"

Jim's laugh, cold and harsh, was tinged with pain. "Sentiment is weakness, but you know that all too well, don't you?"

"I am a sociopath; sentiment doesn't affect me."

There was a pause.

"Richard Brook; you got that joke, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," The detective responded, slightly affronted. "Rich Brook in German is Reichenbach. The case that made my name."

"'Atta boy. What about the name Victor?"

There was another, slightly longer, pause.

The detective spoke slowly, deliberately. "To which are you referring? I have known multiple Victors."

"Oh take your pick: Holmes, Trevor; they're all one and the same anyway."

"How do you know this? Who told you about Victor? You-" The detective wavered. "No... No it can't be..."

"Don't let it get to your head; you don't owe me a fall because you are my sibling. You're ordinary; you're no longer entertaining. You're horribly predictable."

"Am I?"

"You'll throw yourself off of the building because your friends will die if you don't."

"John."

"Not just John; everyone. Greg Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless—"

"Unless I kill myself and complete your story."

"You gotta admit, that's sexier. Disgraced detective commits suicide after, unbeknownst to the public, he discovers that his long-lost brother is alive and well."

"So there is sentiment involved."

"You're nothing special, Sherlock, not anymore."

"I don't have to be special to know there is a way out; there always is. You can call off the gunman."

"Oh, you think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you."

"You couldn't even figure out that your brother was right in front of you, right beside you, for years; there is no way you could make me stop the order. Besides, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"I'm not my older brother, remember? I am you; I am your brother. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."

"Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary; you're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"No. You're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me; you're my brother. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well good luck with that."

A gunshot silenced the criminal and the detective.

Sebastian stopped the recorder before anything else could hit his ears, though the one part of him that wasn't frozen in grief and horror wasn't sure if he would've been able to hear anything after the shot anyways.

All at once, the blessed numbness vanished, leaving in its wake a leaden body and a throbbing head. Everything hurt too much and not enough; nothing made sense and everything was crystal clear. The sun shone brightly above him, as though mocking the sniper. Wind continued to swirl around Sebastian, undaunted by the tragic sight as it ruffled the sniper's hair and toyed with Jim's clothes. The stench of blood, once merely confirmation that a job was completed or a punishment was inflicted, obliterated any misconceptions of his death. The foul solution still leaked from the injury, trickling slowly but surely from the sickening wound.

His chest heaved; he needed fresh air, but the effort it took to remove himself from the corpse's side seemed inhumanely impossible. He'd sooner take Atlas's place than move away from Jim. Vomit still lingered angrily in his throat, burning and stinging; his eyes ached as though the mere sight of the criminal gouged the smarting orbs.

Helplessness smote him; grief coddled him; anger empowered him. The monumental effort to leave the roof suddenly became miniscule as one thought, one goal, one final mission, revealed itself to the sniper.

Destroy Sherlock Holmes.

His mind swam as various plans angrily buzzed, demanding attention. Torturing Holmes was moronic; he possessed a ridiculous nonchalance towards his body and thus wouldn't have been the optimal method of revenge.

Murdering Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, familiar as they were to the detective, was only to ensure that Holmes wouldn't have anyone to support him through his grief of losing the only person whom he actually cared for: John Watson. The death of the doctor would completely shatter the detective. Whether their relationship was of the romantic or the brotherly sort, there was undoubtedly a great deal of mutual affection between the two.

Sebastian stood, his arms wrapping around Jim's limp body, and he moved away from the small entrance. He couldn't just carry the corpse down the stairs and out of the hospital; that would definitely attract unwanted attention, yet he couldn't just leave the criminal on the roof for the police to discover.

Smothering his horror, the sniper walked to the edge of the hospital roof that rose beside an alleyway lined with rubbish bins. As gently as he could, Sebastian deposited the corpse into one of the large containers, loathing the dull thud that followed the drop. The faint whine of police sirens shattered his remorse towards the corpse's exit, and he fled down the staircase, pausing only to decide whether he wanted to continue down the staircase or use the elevator. Choosing the stairs, he ignored his screaming limbs, opting to channel his rage and pain solely on the detective.

When he reached the lobby, swarms of police men and women bustled about. A D.I. Sebastian recognized, Lestrade, pushed past the sniper, a woman with big brown hair fighting to remain at his side. As they passed, the sniper could hear the woman rambling, tears barely concealed in her harsh voice.

"I always said that he would take a life one day, I just never thought it would be his own," She commented, falling silent as Lestrade stared straight ahead and strode towards the staircase that led to the roof.

The sniper wanted more than anything to scream at the incorrect woman; the detective hadn't sacrificed himself; he HAD murdered someone.

Holmes had driven Jim to suicide. Sebastian really shouldn't have been as shocked as he was, what with the incident at the pool. The criminal had obviously possessed no qualms in giving up his life to ruin the detective's. It didn't make sense to the sniper as to why he hadn't seen this coming; perhaps he thought Holmes wasn't the sort to allow a brother to kill himself, much less goad him to do so.

Sebastian shook his head slightly, repositioned the backpack on his shoulder, and left the hospital.

The two weeks between Sebastian finding Jim's corpse and the day of the funeral were not uneventful.

One of the first things the sniper did was burn the criminal's body; burying him didn't seem right. It was ironic, though, given that Jim had threatened to burn the detective's "heart," John Watson, the embodiment of sentiment.

Sebastian had hacked the aforementioned doctor's cell phone and computer to keep track of the preparations for Holmes' funeral. It was a guarantee that the detective would be in attendance, and it would be the easiest time to kill him and the doctor. It had occurred to Sebastian that the doctor hadn't really deserved any of this, but Sebastian wasn't out to get him; he was out to get Holmes. Besides, anyone could tell that John Watson had just about given up on life anyway.

If Sebastian hadn't discovered Holmes' deception, he probably would've been in a similar state. As it was, Sebastian's current state flickered between numbing grief and empowering anger.

The sniper hadn't left his flat much, but it was extremely painful when he did, much like walking on broken glass. Every newspaper and magazine sported ridiculously large headlines featuring the "shocking" suicide of the detective. If he hadn't been painfully aware of the fact that Holmes was alive and well, strolling around London (another annoying feature of going out in public: the sniper always caught a glimpse or two of the infamous detective, whether it was in print or person), perhaps the incorrect captions would've been a source of comfort; they were blissfully unaware of Jim's passing. The headlines did, however, possess more than a grain of truth in them. The person committing the suicide was all wrong, but there still was one.

With the criminal's suicide came another problem: the expansive organization lost its leader. Despite this setback, Jim's web hadn't deteriorated much; rather, the whole organization unanimously bestowed leadership on Sebastian. On the roof, he had felt like Atlas. Now, he was Atlas.

And it was the worst thing he had ever experienced.

He wasn't born to control the expansive criminal world Jim built. The criminal wasn't secretive with Sebastian unless it was absolutely necessary, but the sniper hadn't ever been truly aware of Jim's power until suddenly it was his. He hadn't ever envied the criminal until now. Death was freedom in a sense, but Jim hadn't ever shown extreme discomfort with his job, in fact, he had loved it. Jim had adored the control and power, the ability to do whatever he wanted wherever he wanted.

Even if the sniper was the sort of person worthy of such leadership, it felt empty without his best friend.

Sebastian was honestly surprised that his acquirement of Jim's position hadn't caused more opposition within the organization.

He wished it had.

Banishing these thoughts from his mind, Sebastian straightened his tie and inspected his suit. He looked like a funeral worker, and there wasn't much doubt as to whether or not he could pull it off, but there was a kernel of anxiety. He squashed it quickly and walked away from the mirror.

Upon arriving at the simple building, the sniper was relieved to see that the crowd was small. The eldest Holmes brother was not in attendance, but Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John Watson, and a few police officers were there, along with a surprisingly ordinary old couple that were most likely Holmes' parents.

The ceremony was short, though not sweet, and the small congregation moved to a slightly larger building for food. There were two other waiters besides Sebastian, but the sniper made sure that it was he who served the doctor. In a brokenly gruff voice, he asked Sebastian for a beer. The sniper grabbed a bottle, poured some of its contents in a glass, added poison to it, and served it to Watson, who downed the glass and, banging it somewhat harshly on the table, uncharacteristically demanded for another.

Sebastian served him three more times before the doctor, surprisingly still somewhat sober, rose from his chair and, with a withering glare at the sniper, left the room. He removed Watson's half-filled glass from the table and took a swig of the remaining contents. After a few minutes, he followed the doctor to the men's restrooms and stopped when Watson was finished washing his hands. The doctor blearily stared at the sniper through the mirror.

"I know what you did to my drink; I'm not stupid, you know. Everybody always thinks that just because I was Sherlock's sidekick," Watson grumbled, sounding a tad bit exasperated but surprisingly at peace with the situation. "I wanted to die, so I drank it anyway."

The sniper noticed movement in the stalls, a familiar mop of curly black hair visible through a crack, and he restrained a grin. Watson was weakening in front of him, growing paler and paler by the minute. Sebastian's body ached.

Silence fell softly around them until the one occupied stall creaked as the inhabitant pushed it open. Holmes.

"Good God, I'm hallucinating," Watson murmured as he sank to the ground, his legs too weak to hold him upright.

The detective rushed forward, his leather hands wrapping around the sides of the doctor's face. "There's still time," he muttered, reaching for his phone, no doubt to call Mycroft.

That wouldn't do.

"Put the phone down," Sebastian commanded. Holmes jerked back harshly, as though just noticing the sniper's presence.

"Ah, Moran, so you're my replacement," The detective smoothly commented, his hands shaking, though he refused to let go of the phone.

"You heard me; put the phone down. Now."

The detective continued to ignore him; the sniper shot him in the right shoulder. Holmes gasped; he probably would've cried out in pain had Sebastian not covered his mouth. "I didn't use a silencer to be given away by your sniveling," Sebastian dryly remarked as he shot the other shoulder.

Not a sound escaped the doctor's lips; he was dead.

Keeping his hand clamped on Holmes' mouth, the sniper crouched beside the whimpering detective. Pleasure overwhelmed Sebastian, and he dug his free fist into one of the wounds for good measure. Holmes weakly bit his hand, but the sniper didn't remove it from the detective's face. He waited a moment, cherishing the pain oozing from the detective's pathetic gaze before lifting the gun and shooting Holmes' heart.

The sniper stared for a minute more at the detective, watching the transition from living to dead with a somewhat envious gaze.

Would it be so peaceful for him?

Sebastian snuck out of the restrooms and fled the building without anyone following him. He sat in his car, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

It was satisfying to end their lives, yes, but the sniper didn't feel anything but exhaustion now that it was finished. His mission was complete, and there was nothing left for him to do. His boss, his colleague, his friend, his brother was dead. The man that had sheltered him, educated him (in the art of killing, and various other illegal activities), and befriended him was gone, never to return.

What was he supposed to do know? Run Jim's organization? He knew as well as the criminal that that position was not for him.

Damn him; damn Jim. Killing himself had left more bad than good, but that hadn't mattered, had it? All that Jim had been thinking about was destroying Holmes. He hadn't realized that, in his quest for vengeance, he was ruining the person closest to him.

Sebastian.

He couldn't return to normal life; life with the criminal was all he knew, all he was capable of living with. Jim had made him better, and vice versa. Iron sharpens iron, but what happens when one vanishes?

The sniper refused to enter into an ordinary life, yet it would be disastrous for him to take control of Jim's web. He wasn't made for that sort of work; he wasn't made for knowing and manipulating people, yet he wasn't some gun-for-hire, which was his only other option.

He was so much more than a mere sniper.

But the only person who knew that, who understood and accepted that, had killed himself.

What other option did he have?

It was selfish, yes, but he didn't have anybody that would mourn him. The organization would be passed to someone else, someone that would strengthen or destroy Jim's work, but that was all he had left. His father was dead, his mother hadn't ever been a part of his life, and his only friend was gone.

What other option did he have?

The poison was already coursing through his veins, but it wasn't fast enough. He needed something quicker, something better.

He reached for his gun and inserted it into his mouth.

Not a sound was heard but the clicking of the trigger as the bullet was released into the sniper's mouth, killing him almost instantly.