Hey guys, remember me? Okay well, if you don't or don't know me, that's cool too. Anyway here's a small fix to tide you over as I work on my next chapter for Masters of Disguise. If you squint it's very obviously MorMor, don't get distracted by the Sebthea thrown in there.

Tragedy is king, after all

i own nothing but the typos.

"Kill her, the Ice man's bitch."

It'd come, the day she knew would arrive, had come sooner than she thought. It was always about time, about never having enough of it-yet always having plenty-about how they would never talk about time and how they'd never ask for time. Time wasn't a luxury for her and he seemed to always have plenty of it; hours spent behind a rifle, target down the scope, the perfect shot in the barrel, waiting, waiting for that precise moment, the perfect time to squeeze back that trigger to let the bullet fly. It was always hurry up and go for her, waiting-wasting hours away in stuffy hotels with men she had no interest in, sometimes contemplating dialing his number, knowing the trouble it would cause her.

Yet she'd do it anyway and he'd be instant in a reply and the conversation would be silly and pointless. Sometimes he was working, sometimes he'd been sleeping, sometimes he'd been out and clearly drinking. Yet he was always there to pick up the phone. And while it was nothing romantic, nothing clichéthere was something soothing about the way his smokers voice and lilting accent sounded in a hotel room in a city like Hong Kong, fingers pressed to the cold glass as she stared over the buildings beneath her, the lights and streets below. She'd never wish him there, because that would be completely unprofessional on a professional trip, but that never stopped the thought from sneaking in when right before a dream, that silly state between awake and asleep.

Jim knew, of course he knew, because he knew when Sebastian's about in the flat, or when Sebastian's on his phone waiting for a target. She wasn't enough a distraction for his radar and she flew by just barely detected. But there was always that lingering irk, that lingering eyeball when the master criminal meets with Mycroft (voluntary or not) just enough of a glance to make her seal up and grow cold-Sebastian who? She'd said the first time, There are quite a few Sebastian in London, sir. Her smart tone was never forgotten though, because a man like James Moriarty never forgets anything, significant or not. And he's always there, just knowingbehind his bone china, gold rimmed tea cup, sipping deviously on a tea she could've dropped a few bits of poison in and the problem would disappear. Many problems would disappear. Many problems would arise.

She'd always flown just under the radar-because it's her job-and then Mycroft takes a step out of line one night, a step that causes the smallest of country deletions from the map, a nameless country sandwiched between Bulgaria and Greece. It's a small enough country that the economics of the United Kingdoms doesn't flux, but a big enough country that Moriarty had his fingers in, swirling around the neck of the dictator, lining up some business for his own. And this 'accident' (she doesn't believe it to be an accident, not one bit) has certainly upset the balance of power. Mycroft's one step ahead, not evenly paced with the criminal, and that's not about to happen.

It's a hotel in Milan and she's in a Dolce-Gabana original, a red dress when he arrives. They pass each other in the lobby and pause for a brief moment. She's not sure to be relieved or on red alert. Mr. Holmes's has stayed behind this trip, the dealings just minutes to be written-no questions, no answers-that she needs to take down. She can handle it herself. Her shoulders chose to relax, because it's just a brief passing (she's not even sure he's staying there or not) and nothing more serious. And it's that night that she calls him up, and, instead of secretly wishing him there, they take the moment they have to see each other. Sebastian knows it to be the last night he'll get with this mysterious yet enthralling woman and he doesn't intend to waste it. Made of stone he spends the time with her, and between the couch and the bed he'd almost slipped and spilt his plans. It'd get him shot if he did. And like she always told him, work first, pleasure later.

He's gone the next morning but she's got a delicious ache and a wonderful glow as she showers and does her hair for work. Meetings start at nine am and she needs breakfast. She's rested enough (mind and body) that he doesn't cross her mind at all during the morning meetings, doesn't phase into her afternoon ones and never crosses it again as the evening meetings begin. She'd have told herself he left, if she thought of him, but the minutes were beginning to get confusing and she was too focused on work for anything else.

The last meeting would have gotten eight p.m. on the dot and she'd then go upstairs to her room and soak in the large claw foot tub in her room, drinking down a glass of cool champagne to relax. But it never happens that way. The doors to the conference room open, and there are two gun men. One is Sebastian Moran.

Make it messy, something personal, Moriarty's words echo, I want him to know how much he's disturbed my….business. Nothing says up close and personal like a Mach 10-two-perfectly cleaned and trapping the exit. Panic spreads through the room and without a second thought, a second blink, the two begin firing. Stoic and cold he watches the woman stand up, not making a move like the panicking politicians. He's got maybe 30 more seconds before security arrives, and he needs at least 5 shots to take them down and walk out. He lifts the piece with ease and turns it at her. Nothing personal. Work before pleasure. And the last look on her face is a mix between heart break and understanding, and then she's falling and he's turning before her body even cools.

Nothing's as cold as dying, nothing as bitter as the numb that starts where the bullet hits and slowly shuts down each of the firing neurons, shorting out, stuttering to a stop. Her breaths are short and fast, one bullet to the lung, one to the shoulder, one to the hand and another, the fatal shot, to the chest, not close enough to kill instantly, but close enough to ensure she'd be dead before help could arrive. She just stares at the ceiling, watching brown and red and black dots marring her visions. Its one last shaky breath, a life before the eyes, the last smile of Sebastian Moran, her almost lover and she exhales it all.

There was never enough time, yet somehow, he made it feel like she had all the time in the world.

Okay, what do you think? Yes? No? let me know~