The flat was quiet in the way it only ever was at odd hours— too late for London traffic to feel real, too early for the city to stir again. The glow of a laptop screen cut a pale rectangle into the dark, reflecting faintly in the window like a second, ghostly room.
Sebastian Moran had fallen asleep on the sofa— again.
It wasn’t graceful. It never was. One arm slung over the back, the other resting across his stomach, fingers still loosely curled as if they’d only just let go of something— his glass, his phone, a weapon, it hardly mattered. His head tilted at an angle that would ache later, jaw slack in a way that would have infuriated him if he were awake to notice.
Jim Moriarty didn’t look up immediately.
His fingers continued their restless movement across the keyboard, tapping out messages, instructions, fragments of chaos to be carried out by people who would never meet him face to face. The screen shifted— maps, numbers, names, a flicker of a camera feed— and then, finally, he stilled.
Not because he was finished.
Because he noticed the silence.
Jim’s eyes slid sideways, slow and deliberate, until they settled on Moran.
There it was— that stillness he never quite trusted. Moran was a man built for motion, for precision and violence and control. Even exhausted, even half-dead on his feet, there was usually tension in him, something coiled and ready.
But sleep took that away.
Jim leaned back in his chair, watching.
Moran’s breathing was deep, steady. A faint crease lingered between his brows, like even unconsciousness couldn’t quite convince him to stand down. There was a bruise forming along his cheekbone— fresh. Jim hadn’t asked about it. He never asked. If Moran wanted him to know, he would have said.
Jim’s gaze drifted, slower now, less clinical.
The roughness of stubble along Moran’s jaw caught his attention first. He imagined the texture of it under his fingers— coarse, familiar, grounding in a way nothing else was. His eyes followed the line of it down to Moran’s throat, to the steady pulse there, visible even in the low light.
Jim swallowed, almost imperceptibly.
There was something unfair about Moran like this. Stripped of the sharp edges, the defiance, the constant readiness to bite back— left instead with something quieter, heavier. Something that made Jim’s chest tighten in a way he refused to name outright.
His gaze dropped further.
Moran’s shirt had come half-untucked, exposing a strip of skin— warm-toned, marked faintly with old scars. Jim knew each one. Not just where they were, but how they’d been earned. He’d never asked for the stories, but he’d built them anyway, piece by piece, from fragments and inference.
Possession, in its purest form.
Jim stood abruptly, restless energy snapping back into him like a pulled wire. He crossed the room, stopping beside the sofa, looking down at Moran with something sharper now— something that flickered between hunger and restraint.
Jim crouched, slower this time, his movements more deliberate. Up close, it was harder to pretend this was observation alone. The heat of Moran’s body was there, subtle but undeniable. The faint scent of gunpowder, sweat, and something distinctly him— it lingered in the air, familiar enough to settle somewhere under Jim’s skin.
This time, he let his fingers brush Moran’s temple.
Moran shifted slightly under the touch, a quiet exhale escaping him, and Jim felt it like a reaction— sharp and immediate. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing, as if annoyed by his own response.
His fingers moved, almost without permission, tracing the line of Moran’s hairline, down to his jaw. The stubble scratched faintly against his skin, exactly as expected. Exactly as remembered.
There was a moment— brief, dangerous—where Jim just… lingered.
Not as an asset. Not as a weapon. Not even as something to be controlled.
And it hit, sudden and unwelcome— the weight of it.
A pull low in his chest, tangled with something sharper, something that bordered on hunger. Not just physical— though that was there, unmistakable— but something deeper, more consuming. The need to have Moran close, to know exactly where he was, to be the one thing Moran returned to no matter how far he went.
Jim’s mouth curved slightly, but it wasn’t amusement.
His thumb brushed, just once, along Moran’s lower lip— testing, almost curious.
Then he pulled back like he’d been burned.
Jim stood quickly, turning away, running a hand through his hair in a sharp, agitated motion. The air felt different now— too close, too full of something he refused to sit with.
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a blanket, movements brisk, efficient. He draped it over Moran with minimal care, like the gesture meant nothing.
But he stayed there a second too long after.
Watching as Moran instinctively caught the edge of it, pulling it closer, settling deeper into the sofa.
Jim’s expression shifted— something quiet, something almost fond slipping through before it could be stopped.
He turned away again, retreating back to his laptop, to the glow and the noise and the constant movement that made sense.
But his focus wasn’t as clean now.
His fingers paused more often. His gaze drifted back, again and again, pulled despite himself to the steady rise and fall of Moran’s chest, to the grounding certainty of him being there.
Jim exhaled slowly, tension coiling tighter rather than easing.
Complicated didn’t begin to cover it.
But the awareness of Moran— of his presence, his warmth, the quiet certainty of him existing just a few feet away— pressed in, persistent, impossible to ignore.
Jim’s hands slowed over the keyboard, then stopped entirely.
The room shifted back into shadow.
He sat there, unmoving, eyes fixed somewhere distant— until they weren’t.
Until they slid back, again, to the sofa.
Still there. Still breathing. Still his.
Something in Jim gave way— not dramatically, not all at once, but like a tension drawn too tight for too long, finally loosening by degrees.
No sharpness. No restless edge. Just quiet, deliberate movement as he crossed the room again.
He stopped beside the sofa, looking down at Moran the way he had before— but without the same resistance. Without the same need to pull away.
For a moment, he just watched.
Then, with a small, almost impatient motion, he shifted Moran slightly— just enough to make space. Moran responded instinctively, turning a fraction, his body yielding without waking.
He sat first, careful in a way he would never acknowledge. Then, after a brief hesitation, he leaned back, fitting himself into the narrow stretch of sofa beside him.
The warmth was immediate.
Jim stilled as it settled around him, as Moran’s shoulder pressed faintly against his side, as the rhythm of his breathing became something he could feel as much as hear.
For a second, he didn’t move at all.
Then, slowly, he reached for the blanket— pulling it further over both of them, adjusting it with quiet precision until it covered them properly.
Another shift— closer this time.
Jim turned his head slightly, gaze settling on Moran’s face at this closer distance, taking in the softened lines, the absence of tension, the rare stillness.
His hand lifted once more.
This time, it didn’t hover.
It came to rest lightly against Moran’s side, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt— not gripping, not demanding.
Jim’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, they closed.
The tension didn’t vanish, didn’t disappear— but it shifted, settling into something low and constant instead of sharp and restless.
And for once, Jim Moriarty didn’t pull away.
