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You always feel it, but you don’t have to fear it

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Jim watches the boats in the dock. All tethered. All knowing their place as they bob predictably on the water.
Maybe if…
...no.
No. He had to be as stone.

***

Sebastian had discovered what Jim planned to do to solve the final problem he and Sherlock had. Bastian said he couldn’t be there when Jim did it. Not even as a sniper, watching from a nearby window. So he should end it now.
They sit facing away from each other on opposite sides of the bed. Both looking anywhere but at the other one.
It’ll be too hard if I look at him.
Don’t look at him.
He doesn’t bother with the reasonable: Do I even get a say in this? Don’t you realize your life means something to others? To me?? Don’t you know that I love you, you colossal arsehole?!
The expected clichés. But then, this was never reasonable. When you sign on for a relationship with Jim Moriarty, you lose all access to reason.
Seb leaves, walks the 48 steps to his motorcycle, kick starts it, lowers the visor on his helmet, drives the 5.15 km to his flat. 25 steps to his door, 5 to collapse on the floor as a flash of those brown eyes, glittering with mad genius and mischief enter his mind.

***

He downs another mouthful from the bottle. Didn’t even bother to look at what it was. Didn’t bother with a glass.
No ceremony.

That’s what he had said. No mourning. No wake. If Jim could chase oblivion in the ultimate game of chicken with the detective, then perhaps Seb could chase it in that way most tried and true, at the end of his hand.

He knows. Knows it’s waiting for him. Glances at the time. (He told himself he wasn’t going to check. Didn’t want to know when it was time…)
Don’t look at it.

But there’s nowhere left to look. He sees afterimages of those eyes everywhere. Crinkling with laughter, flaring with murderous intent, twinkling with...something more.

Fine. You bastard.

He picks up the box. Rubs his calloused fingers over it. Plain. Small. Wood.
No ceremony.

Lifts the lid, and slowly removes the piece of paper with a delicacy that surprises him.

He unfolds the note, carefully, and reads:


Do something for me. One last job.
Seb rolls his eyes. Business to the very end. He continues.


Hold out your right arm. Make your hand into a fist. Cross it over your chest. Keep me there,
Tiger.

***

It’s been 2 months.
Sebastian stares out at the sea.
Don’t look away.
Lean into it.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the salt spray hit his outstretched hand.
His fingers wind around a loose thread on his jacket. He walks back, salt spray still hitting his hand.