Jim had brought Sebastian to his house only a few days after the construction on his house was finished, something Sebastian never would've guessed; Jim moved around the house like he had lived there for years. Plus, all of the stuff in his house made it seem very unlikely that he hadn't been living there for years. To move in completely within a matter of days did not seem normal. But then, this was Jim Moriarty.

Sebastian hadn't seen it for himself, but one of Jim's employers mentioned in passing that the architects had been replaced every couple of weeks for no reason. Sebastian understood this to be so that no one would know the exact layout of Jim Moriarty's sanctuary, but that was guaranteed anyway.

The house was a maze, with several different levels that didn't seem to connect at all. The top floor was Jim's study and his makeshift armory, which was a large room filled to the brim with various weaponry. Below that was his "apartment" as Jim called it- he claimed the American word suited his "vibe" better. In his apartment were three bedrooms with a sitting room connecting them in the middle, complete with two bathrooms and a very extensively stocked bar. Below his apartment was the real kitchen, a sprawling thing with expensive countertops and new appliances that Jim rarely used. The living room and dining room were beneath that, on the ground floor, and the basement housed the shooting range.

There were other rooms of course, but they were kept away from Sebastian with locked doors. He didn't waste time wondering what could be on the other side of any of them-- it was useless to guess when it came to Jim.

It had taken Sebastian weeks to figure out the layout. On the days that Jim left him alone in his house, he would usually go up and down the staircases, looking for a certain room on a certain floor, and be exhausted from the stairs by the time he found the right room.

Now, five weeks after Jim Moriarty admitted a drunk and stumbling Sebastian Moran into his home, it was as if Sebastian had been living there for years.

Sebastian bounded up the last two steps, arriving at the topmost floor barely out of breath. He knocked on the door once-- according to Jim, "any number over one is simply annoying."

"Enter," Jim called.

He was seated at his desk, his head slumped forward and propped on his forehead.

Sebastian moved towards him cautiously, not quite knowing what to do.

"Boss?"

A low rumbling sound escaped from Jim, twisting Sebastian's insides. Then it got higher and more choppy- Moriarty was laughing.

He lifted his head slowly, staring at Sebastian under the hood of his eyelids.

"Sherlock has figured it out."

Sebastian sat down at the chair on the other side of the desk-- the chair added to the room only in the last five weeks-- and propped his own chin in his hands, eagerly waiting for Jim to divulge him.

"He's in his cab as-- we-- speak," he said, jamming his finger into the desk between each word.

Both boys grinned wildly at each other.

"I need you to go over there, Basher," Jim said suddenly, pushing a small device across the desk. It had a map on it, with a small blue dot blinking slowly as it moved down the road. "That's the cab--" he gestured at the dot. "Get there as fast as you can, I instructed the cabbie to come somewhere near here, so it shouldn't take too long."

Sebastian made to leave, but Jim caught his elbow from across the desk and pulled him back.

"Moran," he repeated. "Do not kill Sherlock. I don't care if the detective himself is holding a gun to your head. Do-- not-- kill-- him."

Sebastian nodded obediently, but Jim kept a tight grip on his arm, so his sniper stayed where he was.

"Just... monitor the situation." He released Sebastian's arm, then clasped his hands together, smiling broadly and unable to control his glee.

Sebastian paused at the door, turning around. "Congratulations, boss. Phase one is complete, yes?"

Jim nodded, still grinning savagely.

"Oh, and Basher?"

"Yes, boss?"

"The cabbie has served his purpose."

Sebastian nodded, slipped out the door, and shut it behind him, leaping into the air with glee as soon as he was alone.

His boss was doing the same thing on the other end of the door, jumping and punching the air triumphantly.

Five weeks of several serial suicides. Five weeks of the two men anxiously poring over the morning papers to see if the Yard or the Detective had made any leads. And now... well. The game was on.

~

Sebastian adjusted his Mossberg for about the fifteenth time since he had taken up his position on the roof. He moved the scope from the cabbie to Sherlock, both of whom were sitting at opposite sides of a table.

From what Sebastian could see, and from what Jim had told him, there were two pills between the two of them, one good, one bad. Sebastian could care less about the game, about the details, but Jim liked that sort of thing.

There was a faint sound from the building underneath Sebastian's stomach. Damn. He had taken his eyes away from the scope, but the sound brought his attention back, and he looked through it frantically now, to see the scene now spilling out before him.

The pair was standing now, pills to both of their mouths. Then Sebastian heard another, louder noise from beneath him.

"SHERLOCK!"

Sebastian looked down on instinct, as if expecting to see whoever it was through the building, but, obviously, he only saw the concrete.

In a split second, there was a loud bang, a clanking, and then the sound of shattering glass. Sebastian jumped despite himself at the noise. Half a second later, there was another shattering sound, and the window leading into Sherlock's room shattered into tiny pieces.

Sebastian leapt up, carrying his rifle but abandoning the scene in the room. He knew the cabbie would be dead, and Sherlock unharmed, simply because he had a hunch of who the shooter was.

The two buildings were separated by a narrow alleyway below; only a few feet. Only a few feet of empty air, but a great many feet of falling if he were to miss.

Shaking his head and thumping his hand against his thigh to stop it shaking, Sebastian gripped the rifle by his side and backed up, jumping slightly at the end; a spring recoiling.

Then he was sprinting, running across the short distance left of the roof, flying through the air, and landing on the opposite roof, toppling forward and rolling a few feet on the hard concrete before steadying himself.

Sebastian was up again, running down the length of the building, setting up his rifle along the ledge of the roof.

John Watson stood in the opposite room, looking down at his hands, which clutched a small pistol.

Sebastian sighed, then cursed loudly. How was it that Jim was always right?

He pulled away from the scope and heaved himself down onto the roof, falling back completely until he was staring up at the sky, chest heaving and blood pumping.

"John Watson is going to be important," Jim had said.

"The doctor with a limp?" Sebastian had scoffed at the idea.

They stood over Jim's desk, staring down at a photograph of the man leaning dependably on his cane.

"Army doctor," Jim corrected.

"I've dealt with my share of army doctors, boss. They're scary in the ward but got nothing on the battlefield."

Jim smiled faintly. "We shall see."

Sebastian blinked, watched Watson for a few seconds more, then packed his rifle away. Luckily the buildings were identical, and he found the far fire escape easily and managed to climb down without a problem. The car Jim had sent with him started as Sebastian approached; he tossed the gun into the seat and climbed in after it, wiping his face free of the mist of rain that had come down on him since he had been up there.

"Home," he instructed the driver, who was peering up at him through the rear mirror. He nodded silently, and the car drove off, joining the police cars and journalists who were rushing to the scene, only Sebastian was going the opposite direction, fleeing the scene.