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Sherlock Holmes is not always right.
A gun for hire, he says of Sebastian Moran. Moran the dishonourably discharged soldier, with a hot temper but an ice-cool nature when it comes to taking life. Moran who shamelessly cheats his way through card games. Moran who would happily murder his father and sell his own mother into slavery, if she weren’t already in the ground. Moran whose loyalty is mercurial, fleeting and easily bought. Moran who would likely assassinate the great Professor Moriarty himself were anyone to offer him enough money to do so.
Yet that’s not quite right, now is it?
Entirely lacking in empathy, Holmes says of James Moriarty; incapable of feeling the softer emotions; certainly of feeling anything that even resembles love, being a great mind and nought else. He disposes of everyone sooner or later, ensuring every loose end of the trail that could lead back to him is tied up neatly. Surely one day he will dispose of his pet sniper as well, putting a bullet through his head without flinching; without feeling anything at all save perhaps for a little bit of pity that such talents had to be wasted, but no sadness; no grief. He could never mourn for the loss of Sebastian Moran.
Yet that’s not right either.
Moran lies under Moriarty on the bed in that Parisian hotel room and he looks up at him with, well, it’s not quite adoration but it’s close to it. When the professor is inside him; when his mouth is on Moran’s; when Moran holds on tight to him and curses as he comes, it’s not just sex; not just the relationship between master and servant taking a perverse new course. He’ll kill for him and he’d die for him and if the professor is taken from him then he’ll burn the world to avenge him, not caring if the flames consume him too in the process.
Moran was disloyal to others, yes, but they never treated him as the professor treats him. Others looked down on him, because of his hot temper; because of his sexual proclivities; because of his rough edge and his accent. You are not good enough, they said, over and over again, if not in words then in the looks they gave him; in their tone of voice. Never good enough for anything or anyone, was he? Not even the British army, when he was the best bloody marksman they had. Only the professor has ever regarded him as good enough. He saw past Moran’s exterior; past the seething fury and resentment and mistrust; he saw potential in that volatile, unstable man who too often thought with his heart or his fists or his loins and not his brain, and he put his trust in Moran.
After, when Moran lies quietly beside him, Moriarty contemplates his companion – his companion, not an employee; no mere acquaintance or lackey; no pawn to be sacrificed with barely a flicker of regret as he has sacrificed others. It is imprudent to put one’s absolute trust in anyone else; improvident to love another more than oneself. Still, he is not immune to loneliness. In fact because of his great intellect he frequently feels isolated from his fellow men. A sense of smug superiority can only be amusing for so long before it becomes irksome. Moran’s mind is not like Moriarty’s but it is sharp nonetheless, quick and keen, meaning that Moran is usually able to keep pace with Moriarty even if he does not always understand him. The colonel also possesses the grand gift of submissiveness without passivity and sycophancy. Combine this with his skills with weaponry and those talents of a more… intimate nature and he is fine company indeed. Moriarty would certainly never trust the colonel with everything, but more than most; more than any other. It would pain him to lose Moran.
He kisses Moran’s freckled shoulder and smiles at the contented sigh that the sniper lets out. What they have, it’s not love, is it? Or leastways neither of them will ever admit that it is, but still they work together; they fit, this gun for hire of fickle loyalty and this man who is all brain and no heart. They belong together, because sometimes Sherlock Holmes is wrong.