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turanteRating: Pg-13
Characters: Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran
Word Count: 221
A/N: a quick drabble for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crocodile_eat_u, because today it's her birthday!!!
Warnings: ANGST, CHARACTER DEATH, DARK!FIC
Title: Knife
“Jim...”
He stares down at his hand, at the sticky hot mess that’s in his hand, and he’s not moved in any way. Not disgust, nor horror or regret. Those are hollow words to him; they mean nothing, they are empty. Like him.
Blood.
Not his, at least most of it. His hand is covered in blood, such a pretty sight, such a rare occurrence these days. He rarely even gets his own hands dirty anymore. He has people to that for him.
Had.
Hitmen, killers, assassins, explosive experts. Seems all he does lately is sit behind a desk, in front of a computer to type orders and make threats.
Remotely.
One has to love technology, so much time has passed from poor Carl Powers, so many corpses, so many murders, so many weapons. Keeping up with the discoveries of forensic science, to always be on top, never to get caught. Killing growing more and more impersonal.
Until now.
He stares down at his hand, at the sticky hot mess that’s in his hand, at the knife he’s still clutching, the knife that ended the life that was at his side all those years.
“Sebastian.”
Who would have guessed that it takes more effort to carve your own initials on a tree trunk than to plunge a knife in someone’s breast?
Characters: Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran
Word Count: 221
A/N: a quick drabble for
crocodile_eat_u, because today it's her birthday!!!Warnings: ANGST, CHARACTER DEATH, DARK!FIC
Title: Knife
“Jim...”
He stares down at his hand, at the sticky hot mess that’s in his hand, and he’s not moved in any way. Not disgust, nor horror or regret. Those are hollow words to him; they mean nothing, they are empty. Like him.
Blood.
Not his, at least most of it. His hand is covered in blood, such a pretty sight, such a rare occurrence these days. He rarely even gets his own hands dirty anymore. He has people to that for him.
Had.
Hitmen, killers, assassins, explosive experts. Seems all he does lately is sit behind a desk, in front of a computer to type orders and make threats.
Remotely.
One has to love technology, so much time has passed from poor Carl Powers, so many corpses, so many murders, so many weapons. Keeping up with the discoveries of forensic science, to always be on top, never to get caught. Killing growing more and more impersonal.
Until now.
He stares down at his hand, at the sticky hot mess that’s in his hand, at the knife he’s still clutching, the knife that ended the life that was at his side all those years.
“Sebastian.”
Who would have guessed that it takes more effort to carve your own initials on a tree trunk than to plunge a knife in someone’s breast?
