Casebook - A Sherlock Musebox

Sebastian Moran and John Watson had, in the humble opinion of the former, done their late friends proud. Both had played their part exceptionally well. During the flight from London to Madrid, their fellow passengers must have taken them to be the best of friends. They joked and swapped war stories and discussed their sisters with ease. Surface level only, though. Any unpleasantness had been ignored, nothing but praises sung. Even in the rental car during the four hour drive, they had spoken in friendly tones and laughingly argued over what music to listen to. In the shops they found to buy more supplies, they eagerly discussed the week of camping and hunting ahead of them.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty would be proud. The soldiers who had been so close to them had learned a few tricks. They had both masked their motives and intentions well.

As the sniper got out of the car, everything was different. It had been for the last hour, the time it had taken to leave all signs of civilisation behind. For that span of time, neither one of them had spoke a word. Both had stopped pretending. Sebastian pulled his bag from the backseat and hauled it over his shoulder before he opened the boot. Two tents were rolled up, and two rifles waited with them. No scopes, no wind guages. Just the guns and the ammunition in their bags. Sebastian was sure John had concealed his service pistol in his baggage; he had done the same.

"So," he tried to smile, a remnant of the act, but the prevailing look on his face was that of a soldier about to go into battle. "Split up for an hour to get a feel for the land?"

An hour to get distance between them. They would go different ways, prepare their weapons, and maybe set up a camp.

Then... Then, after the sixty minutes ran out, the true hunt would begin. In London and in Spain, they had established a week before anyone would wonder where they were. They would have time to cover their tracks, more time if they got the job done quickly. After this hour grace period ran out, they would begin what would almost certainly be the most dangerous hunt either of them had ever engaged in, going after the deadliest prey they had ever faced: each other.

They both knew. The wolves and bears in this forest were unimportant. Their objective was entirely different. They were here to serve as proxies and settle the score between the two dead men; they would end the war neither of them had started. For almost five months, they'd flirted with the idea. It had laced every conversation, served as an undercurrent for every casual lunch they shared. Hours at the shooting range together had proven to one another that they were as deadly as they had ever been.

Perhaps they were more dangerous now. Sebastian, at least, knew the gnawing giref he could not shake had worn away much of what humanity remained in him. For as much as James and all his actions went against human decency, something about the man had kept the sniper feeling alive. John's text suggesting this outing had been perfectly timed. Sebastian was standing a crossroads with no way to go back. Destruction was the only answer. Whether he destroyed someone else or himself had been the choice to make, and John had made it for him.

Either he would have the satisfaction of killing John Watson... or he would know the quiet of death.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and picked up his tent. Sebastian extended his right hand to John. For a moment, he smiled. It was the look of a man who knew what waited for him and the soldier who was willing to take the risk.

"Best of luck."

You know what to do. Oh, and, darling. One more thing. Don't leave your post. Not until he jumps.

Sebastian Moran followed instructions. Especially when they came from James Moriarty.

He'd sat on the rooftop across the street and four buildings down from St Bartholomew's Hospital for six hours, watching the comings and goings. During the last hour, his scope had been focused solely on the roof, watching the encounter between his employer and the consulting detective. A feed in his ear let him hear everything as the mobile recorded it.

He listened, watched, and waited.

Until Sherlock Holmes laughed and hopped off the ledge. Until he revealed a mistake James had made. Until...

The sniper thought nothing could shock him. Not after Afghanistan. Not after his convey was ambushed and swarmed. Not after his second was shot for reaching for the rifle and he took bullets to the chest. After all that, he ought to be impervious to shock, calm under anything.

But then he'd heard James's voice, watched him pull the trigger of that gun. Close sight, thanks to the scope, but so limited. He'd watched the man fall.

How long had it taken him to recover? To realise what was happening? He wasn't sure. But by then, Holmes was back on the ledge. He was talking-- Watson, by the patches of conversation his mind could process. Then he jumped. A crowd assembled... and he'd packed up his things at the sound of sirens.

Two months later, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He'd avoided drinking. So far. Though, shit, a whiskey sounded like Heaven. To drown himself to oblivion, let alcohol claim him. But James wouldn't approve.

Then again, James wouldn't approve of late night texts to the phone number of Doctor Watson he'd found. They weren't cordial to one another, not really, but... Who else was there to talk to? Who else could understand? It was different than having been brothers-in-arms, as they once might have been, but Sebastian was aware of the almost-comraderie that the fierce clash of wills between consulting detective and consulting criminal that the suicides of both left between the Army men who had worked with them.

So it was that, in the middle of one brisk afternoon, Sebastian sent another text.

Still fancy a turn at the shooting range?