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Apr. 11th, 2012 11:31 pmSebastian Moran knew he should be dead.
He should have died facing down a wolf in the Spanish forest. They had surprised each other. The wolf had crouched and bared his teeth; the hunter had raised his rifle and taken aim. Then, simultaneously, the same thought passed between the two predators: I am not your enemy today.
He should have died by the hand of Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. His leg had been caught in an excellent trap, and he'd lost his opportunity to shoot either of them because he had been too startled by the appearance of James Moriarty. The silent bargaining of the geniuses had one surprising theme: Yours for mine.
He should have died at the hospital. There had been blood all over the backseat of the rented car. If the wound and surgery hadn't killed him, he had expected James to poison him or suffocate him. The doctor had said it right in front of James, after all: Even with physical therapy, he might never regain full mobility.
After two weeks worth of recovery in Spain, complete with a very pretty Spanish private nurse chosen by and paid by James, the mastermind and sniper had returned to the London penthouse. Sebastian had considered taking up residence in the decoy flat, but he knew he couldn't risk living alone right now. He might not be able to get up if he had a bad fall.
He did, however, sleep in the spare room. Save for a slightly deepened impression in the sofa and his chair, the rest of the penthouse seemed untouched. In the six months he'd lived alone, the formther soldier had altered nothing. He had not even slept in their-- in James's bed since that day on the roof.
Late one night, three days after their return to London, Sebastian woke with a shout. His skin was drenched in cold sweat. Memories of war blended with memories of what he'd thought he'd seen on the room mixed with memories of the hunt in the forest. Worse than the dampness of his skin was the wet, prickling feeling in his eyes.
He staggered out of his room, forced to limp along toward the kitchen. James was awake in the living room, he knew. No doubt enjoying every uneven step he could hear the soldier take. The pain was its own punishment for his failure. But James would only be amused for so long. Soon, he would grow tired of the useless man and decide to trim the excess. Sebastian steadied himself as he came into view of the lit room.
Perhaps tonight will be the night?
He should have died facing down a wolf in the Spanish forest. They had surprised each other. The wolf had crouched and bared his teeth; the hunter had raised his rifle and taken aim. Then, simultaneously, the same thought passed between the two predators: I am not your enemy today.
He should have died by the hand of Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. His leg had been caught in an excellent trap, and he'd lost his opportunity to shoot either of them because he had been too startled by the appearance of James Moriarty. The silent bargaining of the geniuses had one surprising theme: Yours for mine.
He should have died at the hospital. There had been blood all over the backseat of the rented car. If the wound and surgery hadn't killed him, he had expected James to poison him or suffocate him. The doctor had said it right in front of James, after all: Even with physical therapy, he might never regain full mobility.
After two weeks worth of recovery in Spain, complete with a very pretty Spanish private nurse chosen by and paid by James, the mastermind and sniper had returned to the London penthouse. Sebastian had considered taking up residence in the decoy flat, but he knew he couldn't risk living alone right now. He might not be able to get up if he had a bad fall.
He did, however, sleep in the spare room. Save for a slightly deepened impression in the sofa and his chair, the rest of the penthouse seemed untouched. In the six months he'd lived alone, the formther soldier had altered nothing. He had not even slept in their-- in James's bed since that day on the roof.
Late one night, three days after their return to London, Sebastian woke with a shout. His skin was drenched in cold sweat. Memories of war blended with memories of what he'd thought he'd seen on the room mixed with memories of the hunt in the forest. Worse than the dampness of his skin was the wet, prickling feeling in his eyes.
He staggered out of his room, forced to limp along toward the kitchen. James was awake in the living room, he knew. No doubt enjoying every uneven step he could hear the soldier take. The pain was its own punishment for his failure. But James would only be amused for so long. Soon, he would grow tired of the useless man and decide to trim the excess. Sebastian steadied himself as he came into view of the lit room.
Perhaps tonight will be the night?
