Chapter Text
He could’ve made the shot. Should’ve, even. Watson was there in the open, and even without the call ordering him to do it, his fingers itched on the trigger finger. Even through the night, Watson’s lighter hair was easy enough to see. Perfect shot. But he couldn’t do it.
Watson moved out of sight. Sebastian cursed and pulled his rifle back. Three times now he’d had the man in his sights, and three times he couldn’t pull the trigger. Orders from Moriarty were clear: Watson had to die. But just like Moriarty couldn’t seem to kill Holmes, he couldn’t seem to end Watson’s life.
It wasn’t because Watson was an innocent. He was innocent, all right, even though he’d gone to war. And it wasn’t because he’d been in Afghanistan, either, and served much like Sebastian had. No, it was something else. Something that stayed his quick finger every time.
The first time he’d locked his sights on Watson, it had been obvious. The red dot had been a clear sign to Holmes that Watson would suffer a quick fate if either stepped out of line. Watching Watson stand with the bomb on his chest, though, had…unsettled him. And if there was anything Sebastian Moran was not when it came time to taking a shot, it was unsettled. It hadn’t been because of the bomb possibly going off. The look on his face had brought almost a memory to mind that Sebastian couldn’t quite catch.
Then Watson had taken Moriarty captive, and hadn’t that been a shocker. Bravery and stupidity in its finest forms. He’d given the doctor an approving grin. Laying his life down for someone he obviously cared for. Too bad it had backfired on him, but still, points for effort.
He hadn’t been able to finish the job then, though, and he couldn’t do it now. Even if Moriarty gave the kill order, he wasn’t quite certain he could do it. Put Holmes in his sights, he wouldn’t have a problem, but something about John Watson wouldn’t let him pull the trigger.
He cursed under his breath and watched Watson reappear near the edge of the square. He bet Watson didn’t even know he was being watched. Sebastian was very good at what he did. He should be, for the amount he got paid. It wasn’t like he really used the money. For some reason, the thought of the fortune he had stored up only ever made him sick to his stomach. Most men would appreciate the wealth, hell, even spend a bit of it. Not Sebastian. He kept his clothes practical and comfortable. The long black coat had been the most expensive purchase he’d ever made besides his motorcycle. That was all he’d spent it on, truly.
Thinking about the wealth only made him think about the price tag Moriarty was promising on Watson and Holmes whenever he deigned to allow their deaths. Watson…Watson would be hard to do, for whatever fucking reason that kept Sebastian from doing his job. A man with such a small frame, sharp eyes, and lighter hair should’ve been easy to take down. And yet…and yet he couldn’t do it.
Holmes, though. Something dark and deep rose in his chest whenever he thought about Holmes. The man was brilliant – no doubt there. But his eyes only left Sebastian with an unparalleled sense of fury…and fear. God but what he wouldn’t do to pull the trigger on that man. No matter what face Watson would carry when the deed was done.
He all but threw his rifle into the case, furious at himself. The hell was it with that man? Why couldn’t Sebastian do what he needed to do? Maybe he was losing his touch. He needed to work with anyone else besides Moriarty. Maybe then he could get his edge back. He’d taken down dignitaries, stopped men with missiles, brought down entire camps of men. There’d been no fear, no second guessing.
Yet this one man, this one, small man…
“Fuck,” Sebastian muttered. He grabbed his case and descended from the rooftop he’d been perched on. Moriarty hadn’t ordered a hit today, but he’d wanted to know if he could do it. If he could take Watson out. When he’d reached for the trigger, though, his fingers had frozen. Just as they usually did. He couldn’t do it.
He swung himself off the fire escape and landed in the small alleyway between buildings. Maybe he could knife the little bastard up close and be done with it, when the time came. Maybe this wasn’t a distance thing. Maybe he had to get up close.
And maybe he’d get up to Watson’s face and see those eyes up close and flounder even more than he had on the rooftop.
Those eyes. He’d seen them before, somewhere. Maybe in Afghanistan. But he knew those eyes, knew the face that went with them. He just…couldn’t place it. It always seemed right there, in the front of his mind, and them the image would fade. “Why can’t I remember?” he growled. And now here he was, talking to himself in an alleyway. Lovely. He headed for the street.
He got two steps before something caught his leg and tripped him. Taken completely by surprise, he hit the ground – hard – and swung around to his attacker. An elderly man in a dark coat stood above him, face hidden in shadow, his cane already stopping Sebastian’s movements. Sebastian stilled as the cane approached his neck. Knife, gun, it didn’t matter: if the man before him was capable of sneaking up on him without a sound, he’d have a weapon in that cane of his. It came up higher, resting against his forehead, and Sebastian tensed.
Piercing eyes caught his in the dark. Then, he took Sebastian by surprise for the second time that evening. “Do you want to remember?” the man asked.
Sebastian stared. The cane tapped his forehead, and he flinched. “Do you?” the man asked, his voice echoing in the alleyway.
Unbidden, the response tumbled from his lips. “Yes.” God only knew what his mouth was saying for him when he should be wrestling the cane from his skull-
The cane fired. Gun, Sebastian managed to think, except everything kept getting brighter and brighter. There was no pain as what he assumed was a bullet went through his head. Just the bright light that burned and engulfed him.
When it came to him, it was like a flood. Names and faces he’d never known but known so well. The journey they’d shared, the loss of Erebor, the reclaiming of the mountain, the battle, dying with clarity, too much clarity, Kili and Fili falling, casting out his friend, his dear, dear friend, his last words he’d never said to his friend-
Bilbo.
When everything came back into focus, the face above him was no longer hidden. “Gandalf,” he breathed.
Gandalf smiled. “I go by a different name now, Thorin, as do you. I am part of the British government that you fought for as Sebastian Moran…before you were discharged.” He tilted his head down. “Dishonorably discharged, I believe it was.”
“Unfairly,” Sebastian countered angrily. “And if you know so much about my current life, you should know it was unfair. They were looking for an excuse to get rid of me, and they found one.”
“Agreed,” Gandalf said calmly. “But you were still cast out.”
The blow hurt a lot more than he’d thought it would. Betrayed for doing the right thing, cast out and left unwanted. He’d been angry about it then. Furious, livid enough to turn into a gun for hire.
Now, though. The memories filtered in from a lifetime ago; now his discharge was almost just. He’d cast Bilbo aside, and the remembered look of the hobbit’s resigned hurt was almost enough to crack his heart into pieces. Bilbo had done what he’d thought was right, too. To save them all. And in the end, he’d been right. His face when he’d been exiled-
He froze. That face. Those eyes. He knew that face, had wondered all this time-
He was halfway to his feet when the cane nudged him down. “He doesn’t remember,” Gandalf said, almost sounding apologetic about it. “I’ve been following him – and you – for quite some time. It’s evident he doesn’t remember in this lifetime.”
“This lifetime?” Sebastian sputtered. It was all he could do while his mind chanted the same shocking truth again and again. Watson is Baggins. John is Bilbo. Oh god, John is Bilbo. No wonder he’d never been able to pull the damn trigger. The thought of it now, of shooting his good friend, of killing Bilbo-
“Easy does it,” Gandalf said as Sebastian nearly upheaved onto the ground. A hand, warm and familiar, rested on his shoulder as he choked. “Gently, Thorin. Be gentle to yourself. You didn’t know, which was why I intervened.”
“You wouldn’t have, otherwise?” Sebastian rasped. Or was he Thorin now? God his head was fucking spinning. “You would’ve left me to shoot him-“
“I’d planned on telling you at a time, since I had finally found you, you blasted dwarf, but your insistence to follow Watson stepped up my timetable!” Gandalf took a breath, then let it out slowly. “I am trying to help you,” he finished, voice much softer.
Sebastian didn’t say anything. His eyes were fixed on the street out before him, outside of the alleyway. Somewhere, a little south of here, John Watson was walking without a clue that someone had tried to snipe him, had tried to kill him. He was walking out there with no clue that he was Bilbo Baggins of Hobbit lore, like something in Lord of the Rings.
Wait.
“Those books-“
“Ah, yes, the Tolkien books,” Gandalf said as Sebastian whirled around in bewilderment. “That’ll take a bit more explaining. Up on your feet; there’s a coffee shop nearby. I have to tell you, that’s perhaps my favorite part about this century. A good espresso and latte can warm up your insides just as well as the ale from the Green Dragon Inn.” He paused, and Sebastian watched as his face turned soft with what looked like longing. Sadness. Regret.
He knew what those felt like. In the span of his last day alive as Thorin, he’d encountered all of them far too vividly for his own liking. All of them had involved one hobbit who had been his friend, his protector a time or two, the gentle Halfling soul Thorin had begun calling his own. And he’d cast him out for that damned Arkenstone.
“Thorin Oakenshield, now is not the time to face the past. There’s coffee and sweets down the lane. I’ll answer what questions I can there, but not here in the dark.”
Gandalf was all but out of the alleyway. Sebastian slowly pulled himself to his feet, remembering at the last minute to grab his case. After a moment he headed off after Gandalf. If there was one thing he remembered about the wizard, it was that he wasn’t one to wait.
“The Tolkien series,” Gandalf said, coffee to his lips, “is quite literally the most surprising thing that ever came around. Until that point, I’d assumed I would have to be the one to tell the story.”
Sebastian only nodded. The shop was nearly empty, though at least still open for a bit longer. Currently he was nursing something dark but aromatic. It felt warm between his hands, almost too hot to bear. Gandalf was drinking his as if it was ale from the Shire.
And goddammit there he was again, thinking about the Shire and hobbits and Bilbo. He wondered if Bilbo had ever thought of Thorin’s last words, if they’d meant anything to him from a dwarven king who’d cast him out.
“You talked of previous lives. Have I ever been reborn before…now?” Sebastian asked, pushing aside the topic of the novels for a moment.
“Not that I know of. Possibly. Bilbo, however, I know has been reincarnated several times. This is his sixth time around. Even without that mop of hair I would’ve known him anywhere. His eyes are too deep and knowing.”
Sebastian could attest to that. “Why do we get brought back?” he asked quietly. “What’s the point?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t get brought back, I simply live on,” Gandalf replied. He took another long pull from his mug and let out a soft sigh. “You know, I will give this century one thing: they know their coffee.”
“Gandalf,” Sebastian said firmly.
“It’s all in the books,” Gandalf told him. “Tolkien somehow discovered the truth, the history, of Middle-Earth. One can only presume that it was Bilbo who told him.”
Something akin to hope began to flutter in his chest. “Then he remembers,” he said.
Gandalf almost looked like he pitied him, and Sebastian barely managed to quell the urge to reach for his hand pistol. Meddling wizards. “He did then,” Gandalf said. “Not now. He’s given absolutely no indication that he remembers a thing in this lifetime. And if anything should’ve tipped him, it should’ve been Holmes. Given that he interacted with Holmes more than anyone else did back in Middle-Earth.”
Holmes was in Middle-Earth? “I don’t remember his face,” Sebastian said, frowning. “I don’t remember him at all.”
“Yes you do,” Gandalf said. He cradled his mug and gave Sebastian a long gaze over the top. “You know exactly who he was. Think about how you react to Holmes now. Think about what draws you to recognize him.”
It was his eyes. That fierce, glinting gaze that was both calm yet filled with too much knowledge all at the same time. Sebastian paused, thinking of his journey with Bilbo. They’d been apart a short amount of time, but only once had he seen a being whom just Bilbo had spoken to at length.
“Smaug,” he breathed. When Gandalf said nothing, Sebastian shook his head. “No. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I do not know why Smaug was reborn,” the wizard said, leaving Sebastian to stare in disbelief. “Only that he was. Currently, he is busy becoming ‘human’ through the careful friendship between himself and Dr. John Watson.”
Watson. Bilbo. “You’re leaving Bilbo in the hands of Smaug,” he said, stunned. Then he was leaning across the table, fury coiled up inside him like a snake ready to bite. “Wizard or not, I will tear you apart-“
“I make this decision to better both of their lives,” Gandalf said shortly. “When I found Bilbo, he was alone, recovering badly from being wounded. When I realized I had also found Smaug, I hoped for a chance to help him. It’s done good things for the both of them. John and Sherlock have sort of strengthened one another. And I intend to leave it that way.”
“Gandalf-“
“He was alone, Thorin. Wounded. Hurting in more ways than one. This was about helping Bilbo.”
Sebastian sat back in his chair. The thought was almost more than he could stand. “I had hoped Bilbo’s life would be more pleasant, were it to repeat,” he murmured, and he felt more like the king he’d been than the marksman he was now. For a moment, he could almost imagine he was in Erebor, in front of the fire, speaking with Gandalf about matters of dwarves and land and one Halfling who’d meant so much in the end of all things.
“It has been, to an extent,” Gandalf assured him. “He’s lived a long life, saved fellow soldiers when he was wounded, was declared a hero.”
“Those are all things inside of him, not things the world inflicts upon him.”
Gandalf slowly raised his eyebrow. “For someone who washed his hands of the hobbit, you seem awfully focused on defending him.”
Sebastian could feel his cheeks warming, and just like that, they were back in the shop, and he was no longer a king. “I wronged him,” he said. “I buggered it up, and for what? When he was right all along. He saw what I couldn’t. I only hoped my last words would try and repair some of the damage I did.”
“You loved him.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes went out the window to the street instead. It felt like forever since he’d been just Sebastian Moran, wondering why in the hell he couldn’t shoot one man. God, had it only been an hour or so since he’d become a man with two lives inside his head?
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Thorin.”
“It’s not…that love,” Sebastian said, eyes still gazing outside. “I don’t think it was. It might’ve been, if I’d given it a chance. But he was dear to me.” So, so dear. The hobbit had stood taller than some of the dwarves he’d known, in more ways than one. His courage, his quick thinking, his innocence in looking at life. His devotion. That had been worth more than all the gold in the mountain.
“Not like…like Fili and Kili,” he managed, and the thought of his nephews, his sister-sons, was almost more than he could bear. He wondered if they’d been given a second chance at life. God he hoped so. “He wasn’t like family. He was…an unexpected friend. A cherished friend.” And if Thorin had been happier when Bilbo had smiled, well, it was of no consequence to anyone but himself. Bilbo had burrowed a small hobbit hole in Thorin’s heart, and god, he was a fucking sap. Besides, it wasn’t of much thought now, now was it?
When he finally pulled his gaze from outdoors, Gandalf was eyeing him in that same way that meant the wizard was up to something. “You’ll keep your spells to that side of the table,” he warned.
Gandalf just seemed amused. “I have no spells here. I was merely observing a man who’s listening to his heart a few lifetimes too late.” He took another long sip of coffee, then finally set his mug down. “Did you ever read the Lord of the Rings series, Thorin?”
“Sebastian,” he corrected for the first time. “I want nothing to do with the fool I was.”
“Do you not discount who you were as nothing for the mistakes you made,” Gandalf said firmly. “And I’ll call you whom I wish. Did you read the books?”
Sebastian sighed. “Back in school, I think. It was a long time ago.”
“Do you remember how The Hobbit ended?”
He rolled his eyes but tried to remember. “The Battle of Five Armies. Death. Destruction. Bilbo went back to the Shire.”
“After the battle,” Gandalf said, and there Sebastian paused. “In the book, Bilbo goes back to the Shire after the battle.”
“He left before that,” Sebastian insisted. “He left. I never saw him during the battle.” Oh god, Bilbo hadn’t really stayed, had he? Or been hurt?
“He survived a great many years, have no fear,” Gandalf assured him. “He lasted to a ripe old age before he sailed over to the Lands of Aman.”
The Undying Lands. “That’s quite an honor,” Sebastian said, impressed. Then he stopped. “If he went West, then he shouldn’t-“
“He passed on during the voyage,” the wizard admitted. “He never made it to Aman.”
As much as the stench of elves would never stop lingering in his mind, it was an honor to be taken to the Undying Lands. One no other hobbit had ever before been given. To know that he had almost made it, but died in the voyage, twisted something deep in his chest.
“To return to my point, the books are different than the truth. In the book, Bilbo stays. He is there with you in your dying moments on the battlefield.”
The wizard leaned back while that sunk in. “There was a farewell, in the book,” Sebastian said, remembering the ending now. There’d been forgiveness on both sides, reconciliation, as Bilbo had watched Thorin die. Everything Thorin had begged for in the letter he’d dictated for Bilbo as he laid dying.
Gandalf nodded. “Before you cursed yourself about for having been unfair to Bilbo, I thought I ought to tell you. Apparently he wished for the same, much as you did, and still do.”
“Did Bilbo write the novels…?”
“No. But every fiber of my being tells me that one small reincarnated hobbit met with one author, and a story was relayed. This was how Bilbo told the story.”
It wasn’t how the story had really gone. Thorin had all but thrown Bilbo out of Erebor himself, and hadn’t been satisfied until his dwarf scouts had assured him the hobbit was past Mirkwood. Then the battle had been upon them, and he’d been struck down. Clarity at what he’d done to his beloved Halfling had come too late. Bofur had found him, he thought. Thorin had dictated a letter to be sent to Bilbo. Begging for forgiveness, regret at not being able to reconcile in person. Hoping the words would mean something to him. Then, he remembered nothing.
It looked like his message had made it to the Shire. Sebastian smiled. “Good,” he said. “I’m…glad.”
“Good. Then I trust you’ll steer clear of Watson and end this debacle with Moriarty.”
Steer clear? “Excuse me?” Sebastian said.
“You can’t tell John that you’re Thorin. You’re Sebastian Moran; both Watson and Holmes would know you on sight. Moriarty’s tossed your name into the pot, and they’ll be armed and ready for you. You may have been Thorin Oakenshield in the life before today, but you are Sebastian Moran, gun for hire, now. Do not, whatever you do, tell him about his previous lives.”
His heart fell. “He may never remember,” Sebastian argued.
Gandalf stood, pulling his cane to him as he once had his staff. “He may not,” he agreed. “If he doesn’t, you’ll have to live content with the fact that Bilbo helped write the Tolkien novels, and rewrote your ending to a more favorable one. Do not engage or meet Watson or Holmes.”
“What if I need your help?” Sebastian asked as Gandalf headed for the door. The wizard paused, then cast a disapproving eye back at him.
“If you don’t know how to call for my aid by now, then I can’t help you, in this lifetime or any lifetime.” With that, he strode out the door.
Sebastian watched until he disappeared, then let out a sigh. “Bloody wizard,” he muttered. He took a quick sip of his coffee – ice cold now and absolutely disgusting – and stood to leave. A piece of paper on the table caught his eye, and he caught it before it could fall off the table.
Numbers were laid out in a recognizable fashion. Sebastian smirked and shook his head. Cell phone number.
“You’re still a pain,” he said to the paper as he tucked it into his pocket. Call for his aid indeed. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to, since his idea of helping wasn’t much help at all. Except the news about the books…that had helped ease something inside of him he hadn’t known was troubled.
He knew one thing, though. He couldn’t hurt John Watson. He’d let Sherlock go out of sheer respect to Watson. That meant he had to have a phone chat with Moriarty, and that was never fun. Add to that the fact that he apparently wasn’t allowed near Watson, and his life was looking so very chipper.
Lovely.