- me: *tryin to carry a bunch of stuff*
- parent: u can make more than one trip-
- me: NO
- me: U DON'T UNDERSTAND
- me: THIS ISN'T ABOUT CARRYING THINGS
- me: THIS IS ABOUT HONOR
- parent: stop being ridiculous just-
- me: HONOR
//What I need in my life is Jim slowdancing with someone to this song.
And I’m not ashamed of that.
//And yet all i can see is Jim flashing back to slow dancing to this song with Sebastian and then watching as he dies a bloody death at Jim’s own hand.
His last words to Sebastian?
He couldn’t get the damn song out of his head for months after burying Sebastian in an unmarked grave.
If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever
5.1.1976 - 10.3.2010
It hurt him, how a man with such a history would never be known to the world. How his authored books would have students researching to find the pen who scribed 'Three Months in the Jungle,' discovering he simply retiring to an unidentified home in Oxford, where he lived in peace with his hunting dogs and books.
And deep down, Jim wished that had been the case.
He wished that Sebastian could have had that life. That his blond hair would have turned silver, grey-flecked and peppered with bits of red and brown. He wished that Moran could have had the mutts, the equines, the peace. He wished that - that he, James, weren’t the damn most boastful man in all of London.
Because boasting, bragging, it’s what took his tiger away. Pride, in taunting the Iceman, dangling the sniper above him like raw chicken to an alligator, and… w-was he so fucking surprised when Mycroft Holmes took the bite?
He didn’t want his tiger touched. He didn’t want him found, moved, exhumed. He didn’t want people to come by, to say, 'Oh, here lies Sebastian Moran. You remember him? That Colonel with the dishonourable discharge, the one who turned into a criminal? The one who was found dead in Kensington Park, a hole in his chest under a lilac tree?'
'Crawled there, didn't he?'
So he g-gave the - gasp, breathe, Jesus - the tombstone a - a fake name… a name where only J-Jim could find. Where only he could mourn. S-So he stole a name. A name that started all of this. The cemetery was silent, snow falling to powder atop the black grave marker. His suit dusted at the shoulders with snow, with a wet glisten from where he’d been standing too long. H-How long had he been there?
The Irishman’s lips curled into a frown. In his chest, a rock sat heavy, sinking him in the waters of The Long Water, the small stream in front of the statue where his tiger had fell. Looking down, Jim raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, opening his phone and looking through his contacts.
Basher. A photo. Address.
And the ringtone? Oh, it was the first song they had danced to. Snogged to. Moran in the kitchen, insisting on Jim eating a home-cooked meal, the speaker on his phone blaring, ‘Goodnight Sweetheart, well it’s time to go-oh, I hate to leave you, but I really must say -‘
"Goodnight, Sweetheart," Jim muttered, fingers leaving paths in the snow where he brushed his touch along the ice-cold tombstone, and turned, tucking his head and changing his ringtone. Snow crunching underfoot, dead eyes sparked with irony, as his finger pressed ‘Save.’
'Stayin' Alive,' and oh, how fitting it seemed.