Is é an deireadh anseo

Silence

''It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.'' (Edgar Allan Poe) 

The sound of sirens and the sickly sweet stench of blood... his blood, filled the air. Trapped with no way out. He couldn't breath. Running to his car, eternally thankful it was away from all the commotion. And as sirens faded, and he was left alone, James Moriarty - master criminal, - began to sob.  

This was his fault. All his fault. 

~~ 

''Now, sir, please.... don’t be so hasty.'' The Irishman chuckled, eyes filled with dark adrenaline. A gun. Pointed at him. Held up to him as though it was meant to scare him, confuse him. Naturally, he was unfazed. James knew that he was safe. Moran, trusty old Moran, was on hand. Always ready, always there. 

God, he loved that stupid idiot. 

They hadn't actually admitted it yet, despite the feelings being obvious to anyone with even the slightest shred of common sense. Even after a late, slightly drunk night where Sebastian ended up kissing the suited devil and, to Moran's surprise, Jim didn't object. Which, naturally, resulted in a night of what Jim would forever refuse to admit was the best sex he had ever had. And after this, the pair had become almost inseparable. Cups of coffee made for the other in the morning. Hell, Sebastian practically lived with Jim at this point, spending 4 if not 5 nights there each week and the extent of almost every day. Jim hadn't admitted, or even begun to hint, at just how serious his feelings had gotten, just how desperate he had become just to see the sniper, let alone touch him, kiss him. After all, being a mastermind criminal carries a certain reputation. And so feelings, all feelings, no matter how dangerously serious had to be ignored. If not for his own safety, for Sebastian's. He had grown so accustomed to Sebastian being involved but not in the limelight. Something as simple as becoming James' partner would force him closer, force him back into the very frontline of danger. 

And yet, here he was. Smirking as the red, flickering dot of his favorite assassin's gun settled on the white shirt of the man in front of him. ''Now, sir, play fair, hm?'' 

''But... you see, James, you're forgetting something..'' 

''Oh.. am I? And since you obviously know what that is... do tell.'' The Irishman was certainly, though not obviously, confused by what on earth the man could mean. Naturally, he expected it was just a ploy. It was very, very rare an ex-client, now turned business nightmare, actually got to the man. Often, they were just bargaining for time. 

''Well... your Tiger can't be very safe with you as his keeper.'' 

Well, that certainly stopped the man in his tracks. In fact, James barely even heard the sentences, pulse already positively racing as the word, the nickname, reverberated in his mind and the entire world came to a dead standstill. 

''What do you know?!'' 

''Oh... not so much. Ex-military. Currently employed by you as an assassin... But, there is a little more. He's become something of a... a pet to you.. Hasn't he?'' And would you look at that, James Moriarty was being brought to a standstill by a client.  

Oh fuck... he had slipped up. So soon?! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! What could he do? Basher had to be, must be safe! He couldn't handle the possibility that he had screwed up and put Basher in danger so soon. 

''And you see, Mr. Moriarty... I'm not quite ready to die.. So I'm afraid something may have to be done.'' 

With every word growing louder as it resonated in his head, even though he could barely hear them over the ever-growing beats of his heart that slammed against his ribcage, finding himself desperate for breath, he could barely take in the words, barely take in the barrel of the gun that was still pointed at him, barely hear anything over this torture. 

But there was something he could take in, something that silenced him completely, mind, body and soul. 

Where was that red dot?