MorMor One Shots | Sherlock BBC

Together

This is the part where I should probably put a warning for major characters death.
Sorry for that.
Also it's the first one shot where a certain doctor appears. Let me know if you'd like to read more  stories with him or other characters included.
And last but not least I'd like to remind you I'm always desperate to write and take prompts for one shots!
Now enjoy and cry with me ♥

Sebastian can't say where the pain is coming from. Maybe it comes from Jim, in his arms, radiating it off in waves and transferring to Sebastian.

"Jim?"

He can't hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears but it feels like it makes his skull vibrate at the same time. It's driving him crazy, the knowledge that if Jim is saying something he won't be able to hear him. He won't be able to hear Jim's voice.

Sebastian tries to take a deep breath and whimpers at the pain it causes. There's a metallic taste on his tongue. A rattling noise when he breathes. Lungs filling with liquid, a part of his brain provides helpfully.

The realization hits him hard and out of sudden, that this is where he will die.

Where they will die.

He buries his face in Jim's hair to hide his tears, no matter how childish it seems. There's no one around to watch. Watch them go down, as simple and profane as dogs being put down.

If I'll be remembered it's because I knew you.

"Jim? Are you still awake?"

Sebastian's voice breaks on the last word. There's no last uprising inside of him. No rebellion or uproar against fade, no melodrama. If anything at all he feels numb. Thankful, that if he won't even get Jim's voice one last time the familiar smell of his hair is still lingering.

Jim's body stays warm in his arms.

***

When John reached them, Moriarty had stopped breathing.

He should've called Sherlock. Or Lestrade. Someone, at least, who knew how to deal with this. John was sure that on the list How to deal with murderous psychopaths the first point was Don't go near them. At least not alone.

His ears were still ringing from the explosion and the dust settled slowly. Leaving the two men behind. A hundred meters away from him. Seventy. Fifty.

They were sitting on the floor, pressed close against each other, leaning against a wall. John had seen pictures of them together but he knew from recent experience that pictures didn't do Moriarty justice. Then again, he had never seen either of them in a position like that, except maybe for the records he had seen of Moran in active combat. Afghanistan. A fellow soldier.

It looked like he had carried Moriarty away from the epicentre of the explosion. The consulting criminal had slumped against Moran's chest, expensive suit ruined by rips, dirt and blood. It was obvious that he wasn't moving anymore. Then again, this was Moriarty.

Twenty meters.

Moran's chest was heaving heavily and he had blood on his parted lips. If Moriarty had slumped just a bit to the side John would have been able to see the bullet holes in Moran's black t-shirt. The fabric was sticking onto him with blood. His raspy breath was the only sound.

One more step and freezing to a halt. What did you expect, John?

Moran had raised a hand and in the hand he was holding a gun, the barrel pointing at John's head. His other arm was still wrapped around Moriarty's shoulders, clutching him protectively against his chest.

"Don't  touch him."

John did what he would've done in any other situation like that, he didn't move and stayed silent. Looking Moran over, trying to decide wether he'd be capable of shooting John. The very obvious answer was Yes.

Moran's blond hair looked dark with dirt and dust. His lips were trembling slightly, just as the barrel of the gun he kept pointed at John. If you believed all the stories told about the sniper this was a first. His breath was heavy and raspy and he turned aside for a few seconds to spit out a mouthful of blood. John cocked his head at that; one of the bullets must have grazed Moran's lungs. Meant he was slowly drowning in his own blood.

There were lights stripes in the dust and blood on the snipers face. It was obvious that he had been crying.

After a moment of hesitation John moved very, very slowly to sit down on the cold concrete floor. Not taking his eyes off Moran. Maybe the ex Colonel was just as mad as his dead boss, even though Sherlock had always doubted that. The sniper reminded him of a cornered cat. Wounded, but still going down fighting. Or rather, protecting what was his. John had no doubt that Moran would blow his head off if he'd try to take Moriarty away from him.

Eventually he broke the silence.

"We could still save you, you know."

In return he got a wet raspy laugh that ended in more blood spilling over Moran's lips and running down his chin to drop into Moriarty's hair.

"...We're soldiers, Watson. Stop mollycoddling me." He started to cough, turned his head away automatically so the blood wouldn't get on Moriarty's face. It was obviously exhausting and painful to talk. "...Besides, what for? He's dead."

Simple as that.

John looked them over once again. Couldn't help but imagine Sherlock and him in this position, with Moran looming over them instead of him. At the same time remembering one of the photographs of the two criminals that he had found in one of Sherlock's folders. A tall man and a small one, black and golden hair. Moran's arm loosely wrapped around the criminals shoulders. Both had been laughing. Had all that lead to this moment? Had they already known then that if they'd go down, they would do it together?

Again, the obvious answer was Yes.

The next time it was Moran who broke the silence and his voice was so quiet that John wasn't sure if he was still talking to him.

"...Always thought he'd be the one to bury me. It's better this way." Better this way. Together.

"Well, I won't believe it for a while. Due to recent experience Moriarty might have a stash of twin brothers tucked away somewhere" John commented dryly and got a smirk in reply. Moran's teeth were dark with blood. The hand with the gun was very obviously shaking by now but he wouldn't lower it, nor loosen his grip around Moriarty's corpse.

"Played you well" he murmured and averted his gaze.

***

Sebastian's averts his gaze to Jim's face. He looks it over for a long moment, taking in the soft mouth, the elegant eyebrows and high cheekbones. For a moment he wishes selfishly Jim's eyes were open. He makes sure to remember every part of this face before he buries his nose in Jim's hair again and closes his eyes.

"I wish we had had more time" he whispers.

***

Only one of the curtains is closed. Through the other Sebastian can see the sky, dark grey, and the snowflakes, pressing against the glass like they are curious to get inside the room.

It's five am and Jim is sitting at the piano.

It's February and he's barefoot, only wearing boxers and one of Sebastian's t-shirts.

It's unusual but he looks up and smiles, even though Sebastian hasn't made a noise that could've let him notice his presence.

Sebastian wishes he had listened to more music. Watched Jim more often. Had seen the snow one last time.

"It's okay, tiger. I've been waiting for you."

And Sebastian sits down next to him. And smiles.

Maybe this is what peacefulness feels like.