Work Text:
For six months after his return from Afghanistan, Sebastian Moran was missing without even a wisp of smoke to reveal where he had gone.
And then Jim Moriarty turned up with the tiger on a leash.
The two of them together became an unstoppable force of nature. It was like nothing the city had ever seen; it was like a black-and-white noir film, all dark alleys and bloodstained suits and cigarette smoke drifting through the cold night air.
And, of course, every good fairytale needs a hero in shining armor. Not the police; DI Lestrade was moderately clever, but the rest were bumbling idiots. No. Jim Moriarty needed an arch enemy who was every bit as brilliant as himself, which was where Sherlock Holmes came in. He was a sociopathic genius, the perfect playmate for the king of crime.
For the better part of two years, Sebastian watched as his boss played a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse with the detective. Moriarty would let Sherlock get close, reeling him in, and then send his tiger to put a few deadly holes in whatever leads Holmes had picked up.
Occasionally there were problems. Not all of them were Sebastian’s fault, but Jim was never one to accept the blame for anything. This being the case, the majority of his wrath- that which wasn’t spent on a handful of lesser minions- landed on the sniper’s shoulders.
Sometimes the punishment was physical: on one occasion the former soldier found himself locked in a large room with a metal pipe and six men who were being paid quite a lot of money to beat him to a pulp. He was allowed to leave only after his attackers were dead or incapacited. The marksman came out of it with a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder, but it was worth it to see the look on his boss’s face when he was informed that his tiger had walked free after just two and a half short hours.
Occasionally Jim would get bored with the game he was playing. Sherlock wasn’t picking up on this clue fast enough, Sherlock still hadn’t interviewed that witness, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. This was always a bad sign, because a bored psychopath was a creative one. He’d come up with things to amuse himself, like finding ways to deprive his best sniper of cigarettes for weeks at a time. He said it was good for Sebastian; Sebastian said he'd punch Jim in the face if he didn't stop being such a self-satisfied bastard. Jim would demand an apology. Sebastian, jonesing and displeased, would give one. Jim would give back the cigarettes and lift the order that nobody in London was to sell them to his tiger. And on and on it went, every other month like clockwork. Eventually Sebastian started stockpiling cigarettes, keeping them in the box under his bed where he stowed the Christmas cards his mother still sent him every year.
Sebastian took what came to him without complaint, mostly because Moriarty paid him a small fortune for every successful job. The marksman was able to rent out a flat by himself, with money left over for books and food.
This was, of course, before the slip-up.
Sebastian didn’t usually draw lines in the sand, but even he knew that Jim had found one and crossed it. No, not crossed. He had seen the line, winked at Sebastian, taken a running start and leaped as far as he could onto the other side. There was the whole business with the serial suicides- which, admittedly, had been fun while they lasted- but John Watson’s violent loyalty came as a rude shock and a completely unexpected kink in Moriarty’s master plan.
Things might have worked out alright if the doctor’s aim had been better, but unfortunately his murderous tendencies were not as strong as Sebastian’s. His shot did not quite kill Jim’s cabbie, and that left a loose end. Moriarty loathed loose ends. If his tiger had been present, it might have been tied up before the dying man uttered the king’s true name, but Sebastian was not there. Jim hadn’t thought that Sherlock would have such a loyal guard dog and that’s where things began to go wrong.
If Moriarty had been more careful, perhaps the story would have unfolded the way he had planned it. Perhaps the villain- villains, plural, if you counted Sebastian- might have come out on top.
But the king made a mistake, and it ruined him. He was forced to leave all of his connections behind, which meant giving up his standing as the ruler of London’s underground.
He also had to ditch his flat.
This, among other things, was why Sebastian found himself rudely awakened at an ungodly hour of the morning by a series of short, sharp knocks. Instantly alert, the man considered throwing on a shirt and decided that he didn’t have time. If it was the police, if they broke down the door-
“Answer the door, Mr. Moran," came a muffled voice from outside. It was unfamiliar, but nonthreatening. The tiger was loathe to speak to other human beings before he had had a cup of coffee and a shower, but this couldn't be business related. None of the people he'd ever worked for knew where he lived. He figured it was his landlord after the rent again. If he could deal with the man quickly, he could get back to bed and get another few hours of sleep before he had to get up for the part-time job he'd taken at the supermarket. He hadn't had any real work since Moriarty disappeared, but at least the man hadn't dragged Sebastian down with him.
With a frustrated sigh, Sebastian pulled open his door.
What the sniper saw made him immediately wish that he had ignored the knock. Standing just outside the door was his boss, dressed casually and holding a suitcase in one hand.
Unsurprisingly, Sebastian’s first instinct was to close the door, light a cigarette, and pretend that Jim Moriarty wasn’t making house calls. However, before he could do this, his boss let out six ridiculously unexpected words:
“I need a place to stay.”
Sebastian crossed his arms, blocking the doorway of his apartment with his body. “You were underground for two months, Jim. Nobody's hired me-"
Moriarty smirked and interrupted him, muttering, “Probably worried that I’ll get mad at them for playing with my favorite toy while I'm away.”
Sebastian’s frown deepened, if that was at all possible, and he continued from where Jim had cut him off. “The landlord’s getting impatient for his rent, I’ve been reduced to bumming cigarettes off of my neighbors, and I’ve been bored out of my fucking mind.”
Jim put on an exasperated expression of shock. “Watch your language, Sebby!”
Sebastian growled, then rolled his eyes. “What are you, a nun? And don’t call me ‘Sebby.' It’s the worst nickname I have ever heard.”
Jim ignored him. “I need a place to stay. And not just one night. It has to be permanent lodgings.”
There were a few moments of silence, during which Moriarty stood calmly in the hall and his tiger glared out from the shadowed doorway.
Then Sebastian said, “You’re not kidding, are you.”
Jim frowned at him, a mockery of admonishment in his voice. “I’ve never been more serious.”
The hitman rubbed his face with both hands, then ran long fingers through his already sleep-tousled hair. It was too early in the morning for this nonsense. “There is no way in hell I’m letting you move in with me, Jim,” he told his boss.
Moriarty flashed him a cocky grin. “Not even if I buy you a drink first?”
“Fuck off,” was Sebastian’s firm reply.
“Sebastian,” the king whined, squinching up his face like a toddler who was about to throw a really nasty temper tantrum.
“No,” the tiger answered, his voice showing that he was quickly growing tired of his boss’s childish antics.
Moriarty sighed, switching the suitcase to his other hand. “Then I’ll have to make you a deal you can’t refuse, won’t I?”
Sebastian’s face remained impassive, but he crossed his arms and held his tongue. Jim took this as a good sign.
“I’ll pay your rent,” he continued. “Money’s no object. I won’t buy you cigarettes because you’re going to give yourself cancer, but I promise you’ll have books.”
Sebastian’s left eyebrow quirked upwards fractionally; Jim assumed that this was his natural response to an offer of free reading material.
“Charles Dickens, Jules Verne, you name it. I have access to a very large collection of very old books.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to steal from a library,” growled the tiger. “Because contrary to popular belief, I do have standards.”
“No, no!” Moriarty interrupted. He smiled- although it was more like a grimace- and added, “They’re mine. Or, were. A long time ago. But they still belong to me, at least until I give them you. Which I will. But you have to let me stay in your flat.”
Sebastian kept quiet, thinking it over. He still wasn’t sure if it was worth having a self-proclaimed evil genius as a flatmate.
“I have a copy of Treasure Island, signed by R. L. Stevenson himself.”
The tiger’s eyes lit up, and Moriarty knew that he had him. “So that’s settled, then,” he said with a smile.
Sebastian sighed heavily, then stepped backwards so that his boss- and now his roommate, apparently- could get through the door. Jim grinned as he hefted his suitcase, and in short order he had found and inhabited his tiger’s bedroom.
“Oi!” protested Sebastian when he found Moriarty sitting on his bed. “What are you doing? This is my room!”
Jim bounced up and down, frowning a bit as the springs squeaked loudly. “Not any more, I’m afraid. It’s the only room that doesn’t stink of cigarette smoke, and that makes it mine.”
“You are such a bas-" Sebastian began, but Moriarty cut him off with an ever-widening smile.
“Language, Sebby, language!”
The tiger snarled furiously at him before turning and stomping out of the room.
“And do put on a shirt, darling!” Jim called after him.
Sebastian flipped him off, and Moriarty laughed.
Living with Jim was awful. It wasn’t that the man was particularly intrusive, but his obsessive organization was completely out of hand. Sebastian was awakened one morning to the sound of his new flatmate rearranging the pots and pans in his kitchen.
Eventually, though, the king and his tiger settled into a routine. Sebastian would wake up first, put the kettle on the stove, and go outside for his first cigarette of the morning. The kettle’s whistle would wake Jim, and by this time Sebastian had finished his cigarette and collected the newspaper. Moriarty made tea; if they had eggs, the tiger would fix an omelette for himself. While he ate, Jim would go into the next room and fold the blankets on the couch that doubled as Sebastian’s bed. Sebastian would light another cigarette, Moriarty would complain, Sebastian would ignore him. Moriarty would stomp off to take a shower and get dressed while Sebastian finished his cigarette and started the crossword puzzle from the newspaper. Then, when Jim was done washing up, they would switch; the tiger would take his shower and Moriarty would clean up the kitchen.
Most days, the king was gone by the time Sebastian got dressed. Sometimes he wasn’t, and then the tiger had to listen to him complain about how utterly boring everything was.
It was mutually agreed that Moriarty wasn’t Sebastian’s boss until ten in the morning.