Tiger, Don't Shoot

Sebastian was ready. He knew that these would be the last moments of his life. And he wasn't afraid. He had escaped death many times, and now he would greet him as an old acquaintance.

He had nothing to live for. Jim was gone, and now he had no one besides himself. Sebastian walked toward the bedroom, where he kept his pistol.

Jim raced through the crowded streets of London, the rain poured down heavily. He had to get there. If he was even a second too late. . . He didn't want to think about that. The man wanted to tell himself that this wasn't really happening. That he was wrong.

But Jim knew what he'd seen. He knew what the words in Sebastian's note meant. Mycroft Holmes wasn't the only one with cameras in this city.

He loaded the pistol with care. He wasn't in such a hurry that he would risk damaging that beautiful gun. Really, he wasn't in much of a hurry at all. Sebastian took the time to carefully wipe down the barrel of the pistol before placing it in his mouth.

He pulled the trigger.

Jim burst into the house, not caring that he was making a wet and muddy mess as he ran through the room. The living room was empty. Where would he be? The bedroom. . . Jim ran up the stairs as fast as he could, his heart pounding. He wouldn't be late.

Nothing happened. Sebastian frowned. The safety was still on/ He sighed, letting the object of out of his mouth to fix the problem. Everything he did was impossibly difficult since Jim died. Even suicide was bloody problematic.

As he returned the gun to his mouth, he began to wonder if Jim had been this calm. Had he even looked back on his life at all? Had he looked backed on Sebastian? He liked to think he had.

Sebastian took a moment to look back on Jim. Those long nights talking, the nights when Jim was so tired after a job that he fell asleep on him. That night they had gotten a little too drunk and let those three little words slip out.

He'd never see those days again. He'd never see days again, period. Or nights. Sebastian's finger ghosted over the trigger.

The door flew open, slamming against the wall. "Don't shoot!"

The sudden noise and sudden sound of the familiar voice made Sebastian jump, almost pulling the trigger. He dropped the gun out of his mouth, and opened his eyes. Jim stood in a drenched suit. But it couldn't be Jim. No. This was someone's sick idea of a joke. Jim was dead.

The imposter ran to his side. "Sebastian."

God. That voice sounded like Jim's. Even the inflection and tonality were right. "Get away from me," Sebastian snarled in a low tone, backing away with his gun in his hand.

The man gave a frown. "Sebastian. It's me."

"No. Jim is dead." He pointed the pistol at the man. "I will kill you."

"Sebastian Moran. That is no way to welcome me home."

"You aren't Jim." The imposter was good. Scratch that. He was perfect. Sebastian watched as the man sighed and moved toward him. "Stop right there."

The false Jim obeyed. "What can I do to prove it to you?" The man caught a glimpse of a tear on the gunman's cheek. "Sebastian, don't cry."

He blinked away the tears he'd tried to hide. "Jim would never call me by my full name."

The man sighed, rolling his eyes. "Seb."

"You've got one more chance or I'll kill you." Sebastian was prepared to pull the trigger.

"Basher, please don't do this." Sebastian narrowed his eyes. That was closer, bit it could have been a guess. He cocked the hammer. The imposter's eyes grew wide. "Tiger, don't shoot," he begged.

The words hit Sebastian like a blow to the chest. He dropped the pistol and his jaw. It was really Jim. He didn't understand how or why or what. But he knew that he was there, alive. Sebastian started to shake. Jim was at his side, holding him in his arms in an instant.

"Shh, Tiger." He laid Sebastian's head on his shoulder. "It's okay."

Sebastian wanted to stop. He truly did. But he wasn't in control of his emotions. This was too much for him—relief, disbelief, anger, fear, joy, and gratitude all course through him. He closed his eyes, crying into Jim's neck. I'm so weak, he thought harshly. Then he breathed in that scent that was so distinctly Jim and decided that he didn't really care. "J—Jim."

"Shh, Basher. Just calm down. Don't speak until you can."

Sebastian nodded into his shoulder. "I—I'm okay. I'll be fine."

Jim stroked his back gently, humming.

"I'm afraid," Sebastian whispered.

"Of what, Tiger?"

Sebastian swallowed. "The end of the hallucination." When Jim was gone, when this dream came to an end, he would be alone again. He didn't want to be alone.

"I'm never going away. This isn't in your head. I'm here. I'm real."

Sebastian pulled away just enough to look Jim in the eyes. "You'd better be." After a short moment of thought, he said, "You know what.

"What?"

"You're a real bastard."

Jim smiled and placed a kiss on the other man's forehead. "I know, Tiger. I know.

.

.

.

A/N:

So. This is what happens when Valentine's Day is approaching and I have no one. I mean, the one weird guy asked me out, but he bullied me in fourth grade, and I still hold a grudge. Plus, boys have cooties.

I hope you enjoyed this at least a little. My librarian enjoyed the first two sentences when I was having a spasm in the library and read it aloud to myself.

I don't own Sherlock.

The author of this fic is not to be held accountable for any nosebleeds, feels, or fangirl squealing that may result of this fic.