If you were worth anything in the London underground, you knew his name. A name that had spread like wildfire through the tube, skipping over lips like stones on water. And if you had any semblance of worth for you own skin, that name would send those stones sinking into your stomach.

Jim Moriarty.

There was hardly an adjective in any language that could describe his ruthless idiosyncrasies, his total disregard for thoughts and motives and lives, and his selfish actions. No one crossed Moriarty and lived to tell the tale. And sometimes, an often sometimes, even if you had followed his every order, he would have you killed anyway.

He was the personal harbinger of your very own apocalypse; even steel and diamond would part their pretty lips for him if he so desired.

Because Jim Moriarty had a set of teeth on a short leash. A military discharge, a man with not enough scars and not enough guns.

Sebastian Moran's name had only been spoken in whispers before his employment under Jim, and only by those who had required his skill and had the courage and the foolishness to believe they could control him.

But hadn't Jim said that the best way to keep a tiger from lusting for your blood if to turn its head to another source?

Jim gave Sebastian anything and everything he wanted, for the small price of his obedience, his blood, and live streaming of the interrogations. It wasn't bloodlust or sadism that made Jim demand the videos. He would rather hear the information from bloodied mouths himself, and his suits were too nice to be ruined by the failures of his clients.

Sometimes, he showed bits of the videos to newer clients who had no idea what they were getting themselves into. He liked to watch them squirm in the seats as they watched, eyes wide and horrified as he eagerly described the events.

Sebastian's name was never mentioned and his face was never shown, but the clients began to recognize the curve of spine as he bent over the individual being punished. They recognized the flick of the wrist that snapped open a switchblade, the telltale haze of smoke in the room. The way he liked to crush ribs with worn, steel toed boots. And while no one knew who he was really, his faceless form snarled at the end of a chain that only Jim Moriarty held.

If you walked by Sebastian Moran on the streets of London, you might balk from the scowl on his face and the smoke that clung to his jacket, but there was no other reason to fear him. He might hold the door open for a woman, or pick up a fallen wallet for a man, but God help you if you even bored Jim Moriarty. You would be insanely lucky to just wind up with a bullet in your head.

Not for a moment, however, did Sebastian believe that he was immune to Jim's wrath. Moriarty himself would flay the skin off of Sebastian's back if he made one wrong move. Yet, Sebastian was never one to live safely. He loved to taunt Jim, goad the man into a shouting match and a fist fight, but never, never into rolling up his sleeves and demanding Sebastian do the same. A cut for every major infraction. Sebastian had four.

The first was for a missed shot. The target had moved at the last moment and had gotten away unscathed. Not only had Sebastian beat himself up about it, but Jim screamed at him, ripping his jacket sleeve up and slicing his arm, just below the elbow. Jim had warned him never to get five if he valued his entire existence, and left him, Irish curses spilling forth from his lips. Sebastian would track the target down and make up for his mistake, but the mark would remain.

The second was for a delayed text. Sebastian had gotten the text during a torture session. Kill him. So perhaps Jim had gotten the information he had needed elsewhere. Sebastian had killed the poor man, a single slit to the throat. He had looked like he wanted to thank Sebastian as he bled out his life onto the floor. But the text had referred to a man he and Sebastian had been discussing earlier, not to this man. Sebastian realized it too late. Jim had grit his teeth at the explanation and had asked for Sebastian's switchblade. He flicked it open and held out his hand for Sebastian's arm, which he had bared for his boss. He didn't complain. He had deserved it, and was lucky he hadn't earned more.

The third was the most ridiculous. It was Sebastian's second night as a resident in Jim's flat, and Jim was gone without a trace. So Sebastian had gone out and invited a girl back from the pub. They had left a drunken wake behind them as they made their way into the nearest bedroom, Jim's. Sebastian had been fully absorbed in the taste of her lipstick and fruity drinks and the feel of the smooth skin of her thigh under his hand when Jim had returned. Sebastian vaguely remembered scrambling off the bed and standing before his boss, swaying. He held out his arm without being prompted, and when Jim sliced into his arm, hard and deep, the girl had screamed and run from the flat. Sebastian gave up the pub after that.

The fourth was his favorite. Another cut that had been earned in a drunken stupor, as he and Jim had downed glass after glass of hard liquor. They had laughed uproariously about Sherlock Holmes and his struggle to track down Jim. They had chuckled over the news on the telly. They had grown serious as they spoke of family.

"You know," Jim had said, a haze in his eyes and a crooked grin on his face. "My da always said that I was his favorite,"

"Your da fucking hates you, Jim. I see the emails he sends you." Sebastian blurted without thinking. Of course he had his boss's emails hacked. Of course he knew about the emails that his da sent him, loathing and full of admonishments.

Jim narrowed his eyes. "You have me on surveillance?"

Sebastian could only grin and rip his sleeve up, but Jim would sigh as he sliced into Sebastian's skin. "You're getting close," he murmured.

The fifth and last cut came the day before Jim was set to meet Sherlock Holmes. Sebastian had sat in a chair in Jim's flat, watching the man pace the room and go over the plan one more time.

"Don't take your eyes off Watson," he ordered. "Not until you are sure Sherlock is dead."

Sebastian nodded, expecting Jim to gloat once more, but he surprised Sebastian by stopping in front of him.

"Bastian."

"Boss."

"Would you die for me?"

"Yes," Sebastian answered. "It was in my contract."

"And what if I fired you?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He thought he would, if it came down to it, but what situation would that require? Would he take a bullet for Jim? Allow himself to be tortured to death as he kept Jim's secrets?

Or maybe not. Why not spill his guts against a man who had treated him with so little regard?

Jim slid his hands in his pockets as Sebastian finally spoke. "I quit, then."

"Your contract said you couldn't quit without my express permission." Jim hissed lowly.

"Too bad."

"That will be another scar, then."

Sebastian stood and ripped up his sleeve, holding out his forearm to Jim as he pulled a thin switchblade from his pocket. Snapped it out and held Sebastian's elbow roughly with one hand as he dragged the blade across the other scars, centimeter by centimeter as he leaned close to Sebastian, almost as if he would kiss him. Sebastian was stone still as he felt the warm blood trickle down his arm and drip onto the floor.

"That's five," Jim commented softly, the malice heavy in his voice.

"So what will you do to me?" Sebastian asked. Torture? Intimate, slow, and Sebastian wouldn't even scream for it to end.

"I'll do to you like I promised Sherlock," he whispered. "I will burn you. Now get out."

Sebastian didn't even protest or look back as he fled the flat. But the next day, he would report for duty, as always. He would watch Watson, only Watson, until he heard the gunshot from the roof.

And when Sherlock stepped to the edge, Sebastian knew. And when he finally jumped, Sebastian packed up his gun and ran to the roof, where Jim lay, blood flowing free across the concrete.

He would never know whether or not Jim had always planned to put a bullet in his mouth or if he had done it just to punish Sherlock Holmes, just to punish Sebastian.

And his heart burned in his chest, and wouldn't stop burning him even as the alcohol burned his throat and the scars burned his arm and the final text burned into his brain.

The empire is yours. Stay alive. x JM