Work Text:
You always said these cigarettes’d give me cancer. I always laughed it off because I knew you just wanted me to quit because you hated the smell. You’d tell me to quit and I’d just say, ‘James Moriarty doesn’t hire quitters.’ And you’d roll your eyes and give me this look like you’d kill me right then and there simply for being obnoxious, but there was always a glimmer of amusement in those black eyes of yours, too.
I miss that look sometimes.
All the time.
When you died- When you quit, Severin and Richard quit too, in their own ways. Richie changed his name and quit acting while Rin quit the job so they could both move out of London together to live someplace up north, someplace less hectic, less involved, less you. They told me I should quit too- move up there and stay with them.
But James Moriarty didn’t hire a quitter.
I was out on the balcony of my flat having a smoke- old habits die hard, I guess; you especially hated the smell when it was in our home- when I got the news. It was a text from a contact to tell me that the Russians had evened the score a bit; seems they never got over that business in Saratov.
Apparently old vendettas die harder.
I thought about quitting then- the work, that is- as I made my way up north, but it felt too much like disappointing you and I had a job to do. You would have approved of the Russian’s handiwork- it was quick and clean; they never even made it out of bed. I always told Rin to keep a gun under his pillow but the fucker never listened from the beginning so why should he listen in the end?
His brains splattered across the pillowcase is a good reason why.
There wasn’t much I had to clean up at the scene, but I double-checked anyway, even if I couldn’t stand being there long. Richie looked so much like you, staring up at the ceiling like that, but you didn’t have a bullet hole between your eyes. You taught me well when it came to erasing tracks and all about how well the legal system in this fucking country works. By the time I was done they looked like a normal couple that was the victim of a terrible tragedy. The police called it a senseless hate-crime with no leads and I had the pleasure of sussing out the real killers all to myself.
It only took three days for justice to be served and that scene wasn’t anywhere near as neat.
Not a peep out of the Russians after that and things seemed to quiet down for the most part. I kept up the work, kept up your empire, but I admit that I was never as good at stringing the web as you were. You had this way of making it dance that I could never get right no matter how hard I tried. Did I ever tell you that I loved to watch you dance- really dance?
I stopped dancing a long time ago, which is fine.
I only ever danced with you, anyhow.
I still smoked and drank and fucked in my free time though, as much as it would have irked you had you been around to see it. And it was easy to ignore the fatigue and the bloody cough that refused to let up, at first. I even dismissed the wheezing and chest pain as nothing more than an old man’s woes and only considered giving up late nights down at the pub, but you know how I feel about quitting by now. It wasn’t until I nearly hacked up a lung and spat blood in my palm that I figured I should see someone.
Stage 3 advanced lung cancer.
Well fuck you for still being right, even after all this time.
It should please you- annoy you, rather- that I lit up a fag the moment I strolled out of the doc’s office. I think he saw me, too, because I spied him shaking his head through one of the windows. Doesn’t matter, though; according to him I only got five years left- and that’s if I’m lucky. And there isn’t going to be any fucking treatment, either. I’m an old man so, really, what’s the bloody point?
When he broke the news I could picture you rolling your eyes and saying ‘told you so’ with such clarity that I laughed until I cried.
When I got home I cried because I didn’t think I still remembered your voice.
I didn’t tell you this then, but the reason I never put much thought into quitting smoking is because I never thought I’d live long enough for it to matter. Call me cliché, but I always imagined myself going down in a hail of bullets, or, at least, as the story goes. I’m a hunter, a hitman, a gambler- the head of a goddamn criminal empire, for fuck’s sake; I was never supposed to make it to my fifties, let alone my sixties and seventies, but I guess you just trained me too well.It wasn’t supposed to be like this.It wasn’t.
Back then, I imagined I’d go out taking a bullet for you. I imagined we’d be in some hellhole or another and I’d push you out of the way just in the nick of time and I’d die in your arms. You would have at least given me that, I hope. Sure, I would have ruined your suit, but I believe you valued me more than a fucking Westwood or Armani or whatever the hell other designer you fancied at the time.
Your tastes were always so changeable and yet you never tired of me.
I wonder if that meant—
Well, I may not be able to die in your arms now but that doesn’t mean I still can’t take a bullet for you and this gun has just been itchin’ to be used again. It hasn’t fired in thirty some odd years but that don’t mean it won’t work; you know how I am with guns and you bloody well know that if I got one that needs cleaning, it’ll get cleaned. No matter what the circumstances. Besides, it was brand new when I got it for you and it’s only been used once so it’s not like it’s got a lot of mileage on it.
It was a bitch getting it out of evidence, I don’t mind telling you.
It feels heavy in my hand and the metal tastes bitter on my tongue but I just don’t give a damn anymore. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of it all. It doesn’t matter how much I drink or who I fuck or what havoc I wreak- after you left I was empty. I woke up empty, I worked empty, I fell asleep empty, and nothing I did changed that because the world- my world never changed again after that day.
Now I know how you felt.
Maybe I should have quit all those years ago, should have moved away with Richard and Severin and started fresh. -Maybe they’d still be alive now if I had.- But I guess I was just too stubborn for that. What did you used to call me? ‘Stubborn, pigheaded, arrogant cunt,’ I think. You were right, yet again, on that; no surprises there.
But I’m not stubborn anymore.
I’m old.
And empty.
And dying.
So I guess James Moriarty hires quitters after all because I quit.
And I’m sitting here in a filthy fucking alley with your gun in my mouth and it’s just so fucking fitting.
I’m ending where I began and I began only when I met you.
Right here.
I’m just sorry that I’m ending as a disappointment.
But as I hear the gun cocking I can suddenly smell your cologne filling the alleyway and I think- while my brain is still in a position to think, namely, in my skull- that maybe, just maybe, I’m only disappointing you because I was so bloody slow to pick up on your lead.
As always.
And I’m sorry for that because I know how you hate to be kept waiting.
But you don’t have to wait anymore because I’m finally on my way.
Jim, it’s been awhile but, you think we can get one last dance before we go?