Sebastian Moran

The name is Sebastian Moran: bastard extraordinaire and professional, err...troubleshooter. Late of a school that wouldn't let in an oik like you and of a regiment which nowadays serves primarily as a masturbatory aid for various back-bench MPs. True story. Thank you Mr. Fry, for your brave exposure of the truth. (written by irregolar-mente.tumblr.com)

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Took this picture three days ago, a little after dawn.

Not bad for a phone camera, don’t you think? - SM

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Well, the heatwave was nice while it lasted. - SM

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sebastian come back

That isn’t really a question.

Back from where?

See, that is a question.

[flynnsonlyfans]

you weren’t active for DAYS, so back from wherever you went.

glad youre back tho

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Oh I’m here - just lurking about,

like any good sniper.

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sebastian come back

That isn’t really a question.

Back from where?

See, that is a question.

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The news in itself is amusing in the most juvenile of ways, but - the Daily Mail just had to go full force on it, huh?

Oh - oh God. I just made it worse, didn’t I?

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I love racing.

It’s the adrenaline, of course, but it’s calming, too: an ideal mixture of the excitement of hand to hand combat and all the focus and quietness of a perfect sniper shot.

I’ll admit, it feels good to be able to achieve that perfect stillness of mind and deep satisfaction without having to kill anyone, for a change.

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I feel lonely without you. Got heaps of friends and I’m never factually alone, but - I miss my best friend.

Did you even know? Have I ever told you how much I valued our conversation, your companionship, that comforting feeling of belonging? God, I hope you know.

Funny how things change: when I first found you, and I first lost you, I was an idiot blinded by passion. It was all very intense, gut wrenching, there was so much pain, so much anger. But then there was calm after the storm, and I’ve grown enriched by all I’ve learned through my relationship with you. Now that I know myself a little better, I’m also better equipped to go on living despite your absence. And I do. Really, I do. I’m even genuinely content, if not happy, but sometimes when I’m tired and it’s all too much and I need refuge - then I miss the pair of arms that’d wrap around me without having to say a word. I miss your harsh care, your grounding effect, the way you could snap me out of intrusive thoughts with surgical efficiency. You know I think too much, and I always feel like I need to carry it all: you were the only one who knew how to relieve my pressure.

Mind you, this is not a ‘j’accuse’. I’m not mad at you and I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.

We all do what we have to, in the end. I certainly miss you, but I don’t hold a grudge. Not when I’m sane, at least. Can’t say I never lose my mind, that I don’t hate you when the pain is too much, but I can’t say you’ve left me alone either: got plenty of love around me, my sweet, just - none quite like yours.

I hadn’t planned to grow old, let alone growing old without the one who knows me better than I do.

I guess I’m - a little scared. Perhaps a lot.

I don’t want to die this time, but occasionally I do wish I could put myself on standby mode, fall asleep like in a fairytale to wait for you, and you just wake me up when you’re back, hey?

Really, I shouldn’t be sad. Life’s alright, despite the stress of the last couple of years.

I have a dog now, you know? Irene’s idea of an intervention, I suppose. I didn’t need one, but I’m not complaining. He’s lovely. So perceptive. Named him after a videogame character - Diana’s influence of course. I can just see you rolling your eyes at that! I like him, but I’m holding back on him and I feel guilty about it, about begrudging him that he’s not our cats - I miss them too. I am also irrationally afraid that now I’ve a dog, and a German Shepherd to boot, no way in hell you’ll ever come near me again. Silly. As if there was a chance, otherwise!

The thing that gets me is that I’m beginning to forget you. Little things I can’t recover through recorded memories: your scent, the light touch of your fingertips on my lips…it’s all slowly fading away. I don’t even talk with the same register as you anymore, other influences inevitably overwriting yours, familiarity lost. Such small unexpected episodes of loss and grief drip like poison on my everyday life.

I spend my days like a traveler, wandering the world with interest, even enthusiasm…but I miss home when the night falls. And you’re my home, Jim. I have no other.

I’m not a traveler, but an exile.

Odysseus, and Ithaca is lost.

It hurts me more than I want to admit.

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Most people appreciate closure, but he’s never been “most people”.

Me, on the other end, I’m as average as it gets, I would have loved a nice period at the end of the sentence, instead of turning the page and finding it surprisingly blank.

My affection has been used and abused, yet I still wonder sometimes if there had been signs I failed to read, still wonder where did I go wrong.

“You’re a sweetheart like that, soft...like clay.”

“Visceral boy”

I think of anything he’s ever said to me and I seem to suddenly see, behind every word, an insult that I could swear wasn’t there before. Doubt feels like a disease rotting whatever sweet memory I thought I had.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again. Maybe he’s really dead, maybe not... does it matter?

He left.

If he’s not dead, I’ll still have to face that ‘we’ are.

-SM

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You’re here, reading my words, because of him.

If I am ever remembered, it will be because of him.

Do you know how incredibly annoying that is?

It is, particularly, when you’re left with a legacy to fire you up during the day and nothing to protect you from the freezing cold at night. There’s no coat, blanket, nor heater that works against it, because it comes from within.

I’ve kept the world hooked on the legend, I’ve still got criminals, terrorists and wrongdoers of all sorts, the worst of the worst, trembling at the mere mention of Moriarty. And it works, you know, bloody damn does, because I’m brilliant, thank you very much, maybe not a genius, but the goddamn next best thing.

Yet here I am, underestimated, discarded and forgotten, left behind, left... alone.

God, I hate him. - SM

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“A sniper can forget to eat, to drink, to breathe even, but a sniper never, ever forgets to care for his rifle.”

Here I am, casually adapting the words of wisdom of the Witcher Vesemir of Kaer Morhen.

I swear my instructor used to tell us just the same about rifles, only with more cursing involved, as I recall.

This one here is a CheyTac M200 intervention. The range of effective fire varies from 6003 to 6889 ft, 1830 to 2100 meters, for those of you who live in a country with a more logical length measurement system. I pushed it to 2300, still worked fine.

Range and accuracy wise this rifle is still pretty much unrivalled. It is, however, hard to transport because of its size. It is also rather expensive, reason why most countries didn’t choose it as dotation for their snipers. One thing I seem to have in common with the British government : price is none of my concern. Admittedly, though, I leave this at home when the job doesn’t require a long range accuracy as much as a fast retreat.

I have mixed feelings about this particular rifle: we’ve got some damned history, together.

-SM

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Listen to the wise man. - SM

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I should make a proper introduction of myself.

Captain Sebastian “Basher” Moran, former Eton and Oxford pupil, and sniper in the SAS: “Who dares wins” and all that shite.

I’ve been called a hero...

Bunch of bollocks if you ask me;

I was never one, merely I was reckless, addicted to adrenaline and not particularly eager to bring my hard skin back to London for Lord Augustus, the hated father, to spit his bile on me all over again.

Two things he despised in me: what I was, and what I refused to be.

His long monologues all boiled down to the good ol’ threat of disinheritance, as if I’d care... and he would’ve kept to his word, the old bastard, for sticking my famously skilful manhood in the wrong hole, wasn’t it for the fact that I had been quicker on skinning him alive for...well. A similar, yet substantially different reason.

After that, I was on the run.

In need of a specialist.

And that’s when I met my fate, in the likeness of a skinny little Irish thing who claimed to be King of London, James Moriarty: my companion, my lover, my heathen idol, my fortune and terror and rapture. The one you’re TRULY here for.

It’s always him. - SM