MorMor One Shots | Sherlock BBC

The motorcycle

Finally a new part! Trigger warning for broken bones, blood, violent death, brief mention of sex and a nasty accident

Sebastian

The motorcycle had been one of the latest things he had asked Moriarty to buy for him. It was a Harley Davidson Road King, not exactly made for cross-country chases and worth at least twenty thousand pounds. Moriarty hadn't even checked the catalogue twice before he had placed his signature on the order form. Sebastian hadn't dared to ask but apparently his boss could see the question mark on his face and gave him a sweet smile that made a shiver run down the sniper's spine.

"Call it a motivational advancement, Moran. Now piss off. Daddy has work to do."

The motorcycle was crimson red and black and everything Sebastian had ever dreamed off. There had been a time when he would willingly have sold his soul to own something like this. Sentences he had dreamily read in the catalogue appeared in his head now.

Hiawatha headlights, Milwaukee Eight V-Twin Motor, Reflex Linked Brembo Brakes.

The pain made Sebastian gasp. Who the fuck memorizes stuff like that?

He desperately tried to die. Dying here would be a lot better than facing the wrath of his boss.  He didn't know much of his boss, even after almost a year of working for him and sleeping with him twice, but what he knew was enough to be sure that an amorous escapade wasn't enough to make up for an unauthorised mission.

Sebastian gasped again. Stupid, stupid, he had acted like an amateur. Maybe it was the bike's fault. It had been designed for tours but keeping up with two SUVs had felt like the easiest thing to do. He hadn't sat on a motorcycle since before Afghanistan but it had felt hilariously easy to keep one hand on the handlebars and draw his gun with the other, even aiming wasn't a problem, even though he was going way over 130 kilometer per hour.

If he could just take a deep enough breath he'd use it to curse himself, himself and his reckless, hormone-driven brain. Who had he been trying to impress? Moriarty, who was sitting safely in London and would skin him alive for this?

Aiming, that was a process he had memorized like nothing else in his life. AIming for the tire, the tire, and pulling the trigger. Once, twice. So easy, the feeling of the gun in his hand and the airstream and the green meadow and the trees down the slope next to him. It had been so easy.

Then the car had braked, abruptly and Sebastian, still captured in the adrenaline rush of the shot, had gone past them like an idiot. For a moment he had stared at the face of the man who was sitting in the backseat, then the car had lurched sideways and hit the bike.

The beautiful beautiful brand new bike. Sebastian had barely noticed what was happening, just that he was suddenly seeing the trees to his right from a completely new perspective. Then he and the bike had overturned. Three, four, five times and he had still been clutching onto the handlebars. Maybe he had been screaming. He wasn't so sure. The slope was a lot steeper than he had expected. For a moment everything had blacked out and from the ache in his throat he could tell that he was in fact screaming before that was cut off as well.

Sebastian gasped again, trying to fill his lungs with enough air to scream again. Pinned down like a butterfly, Moran, Moriarty's voice cooed into his ear. Look how pretty your face looks all bashed in.

The dead weight of the motorbike on top of him, the visual cover of the helmet fogging with his rapid breathing, the faint smell of wet soil and trees and rain, so very different than what he was used from London. Sebastian moved and there was the pain again, hot and white and comprehensive and his mouth filled with blood as he bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming. The world was spinning around the sniper and he was almost hoping that this was nothing but a feverish hungover dream, that he'd wake up covered in old sweat and another man's vomit.