Chapter Text
Siberia at this time of year is beyond cold. Sebastian’s Russian is far from excellent, but from what little he understood when he spoke to the hotel receptionist, this is pretty mild for mid-December in Yakutsk. Still, minus thirty-five is below his standards for “mild”. As he takes off his lined leather gloves, he tries to remember he’s in the coldest bloody city in the world for a reason.
Jim has sent him to the coldest inhabited place on Earth, populated by barely a quarter of a million people, because he has business to be taken care of here, of all places. And apparently, it can’t be done by just anyone. Jim often employs gunmen for various jobs he doesn’t particularly care for. He values Sebastian enough at this point to reserve him the fun ones. Complicated assassinations have grown to be his cup of tea, more so than the mindless spot, aim, and shoot. So here he is, in the coldest of the cold, with instructions to terminate the career of a sixty-something man.
They’re staying in the same hotel, his target and him, both here on business. The target, from what Sebastian has gathered from watching him thoroughly for a few days, is not here to enjoy the local dried fish and boiled horse’s head, but to finish a transaction. He’s got a luxury car with a driver, tailored suits and the suite occupying the top floor, just above Sebastian’s single bed room, mid-day meetings every day since Sebastian’s arrived; must be someone important. In this region, someone important has got to be a business man, what with the gold and diamond market. And he’s British. For some reason, that sticks and, it’s not that it bothers Sebastian, but it’s surprising. Usually, when Jim sends him abroad to assassinate someone, it’s not an Englishman.
All that is printed out black on white in the file Jim had handed him back in London. Sebastian’s read it through. He decided to leave the file in London in favour of a more direct approach. While he can appreciate Jim’s way of planning, his organized information and ‘no alarms and no surprises’ policy, he has to admit he misses the hunt. For business back in London, he’d have done this quickly: he would have punched in the address into a GSP, drove to the location, taken one shot, disposed of evidence or the body if necessary, and called it a day. But here… he feels like he’s back in India, after that tiger. Except he’s much farther up north and the tiger is a shark. Still, it gets Sebastian’s blood going.
It’s almost four in the afternoon in Yakutsk and the man he’s after seems to be in. Sebastian knows it isn’t polite to kill a man before his four o’clock tea, but, for once, the man is alone, in his room and, from what Sebastian has observed, defenseless. He goes in for the kill.
--
While Jim has a few properties all over the city and a bit far out too, he always meets Sebastian either in his office or his flat. His Conduit Street office is a terribly posh Victorian study with staff that brings them tea and an assistant that Jim keeps around to manage some of his more casual business. This time, once he sends a “I’m done” to his boss, Sebastian is summoned to Jim’s flat.
Walking in through the building’s main door and making his way to the elevator, Sebastian starts to feel very warm. He doesn’t think much of it: it could simply be the contrast between outdoor or indoor, or Siberia’s bitter cold versus London’s chilly morning. He did feel like he couldn’t decide if he was warm or cold all through the plane ride, though, so he doesn’t rule out the possibility of it being the beginnings of a fever.
He hears the ding of the elevator and steps off into Jim’s apartment. It’s posh, but in a simpler, minimalist way that Sebastian appreciates for its efficiency. There are neat places to hide guns and the temperature is self-adjusted.
He finds Jim in the living room, sitting on the sofa, his back to the floor to ceiling windows. Jim looks oddly cozy, wearing a tightly knit sweater and slacks, sitting with a cup of tea.
“Morning, Sebastian. How was Siberia? You look terrible” his boss asks, an air of faux concern and a sarcastic smile painted on his face.
A smile tugs at Sebastian’s lips for he knows in some capacity that there is some care and fondness behind the jest.
“Cold,” he says smiling at Jim, sitting in the plush chair facing Jim, “Your man is dead and buried where no one will find him unless they are fond of horse shit.”
Jim smiles, but he isn’t as delighted as Sebastian expected him to be. His look is distant and he just nods absently.
Sebastian reaches for the second cup and saucer that were apparently waiting for him on the coffee table and grabs the teapot to pour himself a warm cup. Every since he stepped into the apartment, he hasn’t taken off his coat, feeling cold. A shiver makes him tremble slightly and he spills his tea.
“My, my, Sebastian, have we caught a cold?” Jim tuts.
“I’m fine.” and just as he says it, he starts to feel heated and he knows his face is starting to turn red.
“Oh, no, please, I have no time for this, Sebastian,” Jim says, eyeing Sebastian as he takes off his coat and scarf, “I have plans for you and I to go eat uptown, I have reservations, don’t you dare.” he says as he deposits his tea cup on the table, scoots over closer to Sebastian and reaches a hand to his forehead. The back of his hand feels frigid on his skin and Sebastian knows he’s sick.
It’s almost funny how disgruntled Jim looks. Sebastian feels like he’s had too much smoke, his head’s spinning and he has to lie down.
“Oh dear, here we go. Stay right there.” Jim fusses.
He thinks he falls asleep. He can’t be sure because he dreams of silly things, unreal, impossible thing, but also of things that have happened or that could happen. He hears Jim walking through the flat and the sound his hard sole shoes make on the floor feel like they echo around in his head.
The echo gets louder and he feels his body roll towards a warm weight next to him, but he can’t be bothered to open his eyes to confirm it is Jim. He feels a wet pressure on his forehead and a soft drag on his cheek. A wet towel, he thinks, blessing its cold temperature. Jim’s fingers, he thinks, feeling an odd comfort settle in his mind. Hands of a man as dangerous as Jim Moriarty should never inspire comfort.
Every instinct of survival in Sebastian should want him to flee, to crawl and hide someplace away from Jim, but those instincts were silenced months ago when he felt the electricity between then, in a dark smoky basement room, cards on the table. Felt it like you hear a whip cracking in the air before a lion jumps through a hoop.
So he lets his mind drift and come back to the hand that cradles his face, brushes his cheek, hold his wrist and feels his pulse. He’s so far away from reason that he doesn’t question the brush of lips on his forehead when the wet towel is removed.
--
It’s hours before he wakes up, head foggy, but clear enough to know where he is and to recognize Jim’s figure, sitting in the cushioned chair by the window, silhouetted by the inelegant orange light pouring from the streetlamps. Sebastian sits up, parched, thinking of a glass of water. Before he says anything, Jim’s head turns to almost look over his shoulder and he says;
“Bedside table”, his voice rough.
Sebastian looks and finds a glass of water with a straw from which he drinks large gulps.
“Thanks.”
Jim scuffs and looks back at the window. Sebastian can see his reflection. It might be the fever playing with him, but Jim looks somehow faraway, not quite here.
They sit in silence for a few moments, Sebastian appreciating the comfort of the bed, of Jim’s bed he realizes, and the quiet of the room. His body is somewhat sore and his head feels foggy, but he’s conscious and pretty comfortable, considering. Jim speaks up unexpectedly;
“He was my father. The man you killed.”
In his reflection, his jaw ticks. He continues, quietly;
“He, uh. He killed my mother, ran away and changed his name. The bastard.”
There’s a slight laugh at the end of that, bitter, sad.
“It had to be done, Seb. It had to be you. I needed you to kill him.”
Then, Sebastian realizes why this was so important to Jim, why he had to go all the way to Siberia to kill a single boring man.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
They stay sat in silence for another minute, then Jim gets up and sits by Sebastian’s side on the bed. He reaches out to touch Sebastian’s face gently, he palm warm against Seb’s cheek. Sebastian closes his eyes for a moment.
“Thank you.” Jim says, looking him in the eyes.
Seb nods gently, head still swimming. He feels so tired and so sorry for this little man.
“Of course. Anything for you.”
Jim smiles dimly at that, his thumbs stroking Seb’s cheek for a moment, then dropping his hand to his side and casting his eyes to the floor.
“Just rest, alright? Get well.” Jim swallows, then on an inhale, says “Then we can get breakfast tomorrow morning!” and gets up from the bed.
Before Jim crosses the threshold, Seb thinks to thank him for the care he’s showing him. He clears his throat, but what comes out is “Goodnight, Jim.”
“Goodnight, Sebastian” his boss says as turn the light off and closes the door.