Sometimes I wonder... maybe all of this was a mistake. Maybe three relationships are too much. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be with anyone and I’m just wasting everyone’s time. Maybe I should leave and let them be happy, go away on my own so no one could be miserable because of me.
Requested by SebastianWouldBeAppalled: ↻ an AU where our characters are caught in a time loop
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Bang. Right back to the start.
Every morning’s the same; twelve days in a row, now. He’d been counting.
And no, this wasn’t in a metaphorical scene. He wasn’t going stale, he wasn’t bored, he wasn’t living a dull life that repeated. Sebastian was quite literally reliving the same day over and over (and over and over). An eternal Friday. One day that he’d rather forget. He had no way of explaining it.
The alarm buzzed on his night-stand, and a heavy hand shut it off. Today was the day. And he couldn’t remember falling asleep. He stretches and moves. No time to run, so instead he sets to work in the flat. Muscles rip at his skin like it’s stretched too thin: push-ups. Sit-ups. Pull-ups. Weights. Shower. Toast, pop. Grab your gear. Out the door. Smoke, i n h a l e.
Set up. Wait. Wait some more. Watch. Smoke, e x h a l e. Watch. Wait for the signal. Bang.
Back to the start.
Buzzzzzz
Slam.
Lucky number thirteen, he leaves the flat early. He gets to the roof at St. Bart’s before he knows Sherlock will arrive.
“…I've been kicked around since I was born. And now it's all right, it's O.K. And you may look the other way—”
“Sebastian. You’re not supposed to be here.”
He takes long strides towards Jim, stopping a few paces short. He shakes his head in slow, nominal movements. “You’ve got to stop this.”
He almost looks amused, probably because he’s so close to the end. He can entertain this last feeble attempt. “Leave.”
“You can’t shoot yourself.”
His eyes narrow, as he watches Sebastian with more attention, “Leave.”
“This is going to sound… fucking insane, but I swear to Christ it’s real. I have relived this morning the past two weeks in a row. It starts the same, and it always ends with you shooting yourself.”
There’s a long silence that passes between them. Like a deer after hearing a snapped twig in the woods, Sebastian remains still but alert and waits for Jim to speak.
“…Feel the city breakin', and ev'rybody shakin'—”
“You’re being ridiculous. Leave, now.”
A last attempt, his tongue runs across his lips and his fists clench, “let’s just say I’m not full of shit. You won’t remember this next time, but I will. Tell me something I can say tomorrow to make you believe that this is real. Anything, but something I wouldn’t know.”
Those dark, dark eyes stared into Sebastian’s for longer than they had ever before.
“Baxter was a bad boy. Baxter got what he deserved.”
Sebastian swallows. And he leaves.
On the thirteenth day, Jim looked at the window he knew Sebastian was watching from. Bang.
“Sebastian. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You’ve got to stop this.”
“Leave.”
“You can’t shoot yourself.”
“Leave.”
“This is going to sound… fucking insane, but I swear to Christ it’s real. I have relived this morning the past two weeks in a row. It starts the same, and it always ends with you shooting yourself.”
“…You know it's all right, it's O.K. I'll live to see another day—”
“You’re being ridiculous. Leave, now.”
Sebastian hesitates for a moment, unwavering, “Baxter was a bad boy. Baxter got what he deserved.”
Jim (in a sight to behold) looked suddenly quite surprised, and then suspicious. And repeated himself, “leave,” but with less hostility this time. Sebastian left, again.
“Somebody help me. Somebody help me, yeah.”
Watching from a distance, this dance between the Angel and the Devil. Timeless, now. “You’re not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number.” He swallowed and watched still, through the scope of his rifle. In the pit of his steely heart, he wondered if he could possibly stop this broken record from spinning and simultaneously save Jim. Witnessing his death day after day, he had yet to actually grieve, and he hoped that wouldn’t happen. He prayed he wouldn’t have to.
Bang.
No matter what Sebastian could tell Jim, it wouldn’t stop him from pulling the trigger. Jim knew on that rooftop as he talked with Sherlock, as clearly as he had when he threw Sebastian a bone with the Baxter thing: the only reason he would kill himself is if he had planned to all along. If he killed himself, it was just a bow on it all. He had won, Sherlock was dead, he wasn’t alone, it was over. He had no reason to stay behind, and he didn’t care what that meant for Sebastian because as soon as he stepped this plan into action, their relationship was more or less terminated.
On the fifteenth day, Sebastian decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. He would kill Sherlock before Jim got the chance to kill himself. So, when he stepped up to meet Jim, it took only a few moments to squeeze the trigger and take Sherlock out. Jim’s eyes followed the direction of the shot to Sebastian, smiled, and he walked off the roof. Thud.
On the sixteenth day, he tried again.
Seventeen, again.
Eighteen.
Twenty.
Thirty-nine.
He lost count.
Every time he killed Sherlock, Jim followed him – either at his own hand or by some incredible accident. He tried in so many different ways. He tried to fuck up Jim’s plans so perfectly. He tried to get Jim off that fucking roof forcefully. He tried and tried and tried {and failed}. He was tired.
On the one hundred and seventh day, Sebastian had a weary epiphany. His purpose was not to save Jim.
