"Bastard," Seb tells Jim's corpse on the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. "You cold gone bastard." He tries not to think of the irony of his words.

For a long while, he just sits on the edge of the roof where Sherlock Holmes jumped not an hour ago. Sherlock fucking Holmes. He deserved the end he got: the satisfying snap of bones on the pavement; the pooling of blood in that fucking stupid hair of his; his beloved Watson turning grey with the sight of it all. More therapy is order for Dr Watson, Seb guesses acidly.

But maybe… Watson didn't deserve it.

He can feel even Jim's fucking corpse judges him for that thought; you're going soft, Seb. But it's Jim's fault. "It's your fault," Seb says out loud, like Jim could hear him. He almost laughs then, remembering what his mother said about his father's death, going to a better place, that'll be right. Jim's not getting near the pearly gates. And frankly, even if he did, Jim would find it boring and demand to be re-categorized. Mind you, Seb doesn't think he'd cope well in Hell either. Or rather, Hell wouldn't cope with Jim. Lucifer himself would be Jim's bitch within the hour.

No. Watson didn't deserve it.

Not that Seb particularly liked the 'Good Doctor' as Jim called him. Too stoic and fucking ordinary. The war veteran with a limp and PTSD who didn't seem to quite know how he fell in league with Sherlock Holmes, but secretly enjoyed every second of it. Maybe Seb didn't like him because he reminded him too much of himself, without the limp and PTSD. He's only really had one encounter with Watson himself; at the pool last year bundling him into a van and then into a semtex vest. Even then, even when he had a gun pressed to his skull he hadn't begged for mercy; offered to spill secrets about Holmes in return for his life. Boring. By that time, Seb had spent enough time with Jim to want something a bit more interesting than stoic acceptance of his fate.

But here, on top of St. Barts, staring at the blood around Jim's stupid fucking head, eyes staring and unseeing, and the gun next to his hand. Seb knows. He knows what it's like to be left behind.

He stands up and kneels by Jim, who stares back morbidly. He's not really sure what to do. Jim's blood seeps through his jeans and stains his fingertips where his hands rest, but he could care less at this point. "Fuck you, Boss. Just fuck you." Seb sighs, swallowing thickly. "You got yourself into this fucking mess. Knew it'd kill you one way or another. But you never listened, you never did. The game, the dancing, the I O fucking U, Holmes. Fuck, I hope it was worth it, Jim, I really do."

Seb stops for a moment. "You know, we could have gotten away from this. You and me. Gone to Monaco, El Salvador, or… I don't know, fucking Mauritius. I'd have gone with you, anywhere. But you knew that." He pats Jim's still chest. "You couldn't let it go. Your own fucking fault, Jim. Your own fault." Seb roughly wipes a blood-stained hand across his own face. He's not crying.

He rips the cufflinks from Jim's shirt and shoves them in his pocket, a keepsake of sorts. He knocks Jim's teeth out and removes his finger tips with the finesse and emotional detachment that only experienced hitman could possess. Once the body is charred, Seb walks away without looking back.

He knows what its like to be left behind.