Work Text:
There is blood on the towel, and it isn’t his.
Sebastian has been away fixing problems for Jim and the first thing he had done upon arriving home was head for a hot shower to wash off the past few days. There was rarely any point announcing his presence to Jim first: he’d be holed up in front of his glowing screens and always responded snippily to interruptions.
So Sebastian had dumped his things in ‘his’ room, and gone to the bathroom, and reached for one of his monogrammed towels. Jim insists on those, and it seemed frivilous – pretentious – to Sebastian, but… it always seems kind of nice that Jim likes him well enough to have things custom made for him that no one else will ever see. The towels aren’t like the suits Jim insists Seb wears to the office which reflect on Jim to his clients. These are fucking towels in their shared bathroom. With Sebastian’s initials on.
Jim goes mad if Seb uses one of his towels. He can always tell somehow.
But Jim has no fucking problems using Sebastian’s towels. Everything is his after all, even Sebastian, so of course he can use what he pleases. Seb wouldn’t even mind, except…
The fucking bloodstains.
It’s not that Sebastian has a problem with blood: he couldn’t be in this business if he did. And it’s not like he hasn’t got his own blood on the towels often enough. He used to constantly have things soaking in cold saltwater until Jim pointed out that they could absolutely afford to replace anything that got soiled.
Other people's blood isn’t really a big deal either. He’s not supposed to bring it into the house for DNA purposes, but now and again Seb hasn’t managed to clean up properly before coming home. Likewise with Jim being covered in all sorts of nasty things he shouldn’t, when he’s manic and unreasonable and on a disembowelling binge.
It’s Jim’s not quite dried blood on Sebastian’s monogrammed towel that’s the problem. Sebastian hates to see Jim’s blood anywhere (except on his own knuckles, now and again…) but it’s somehow worse when it’s on his towels. He’s supposed to keep Jim safe.
Feeling even more unsatisfied than he did before he arrived home, Sebastian throws the damp towel in the laundry hamper and washes up. There’s not so much blood that he needs to urgently seek Jim out, and he’s always such a little arsehole it’s better to get other necessary tasks out of the way first.
These days most of the clothes Sebastian uses regularly have made their way into the bedroom he sometimes shares with Jim. It might be touching to have a couple of his own drawers here if it wasn’t for the fact that Jim has an entire fucking walk in wardrobe heaving at the seams with expensive clothes.
Sebastian lets himself into the bedroom and stops up short.
Jim’s in bed.
That’s a bad sign: Jim only ever goes to bed of his own volition when he’s stayed awake for days on end until collapsing with exhaustion.
The towel wasn’t dry yet, so he hasn’t been asleep for long. Although he’s in deep: he’s a light sleeper at the best of times and even Sebastian’s silent tread is normally enough to make him stir.
“Fucking trouble,” Sebastian whispers. “I should never let you out of my sight.”
He finds his pyjama bottoms on his side of the bed and pulls them on. Normally he keeps them under his (singular) pillow (Jim always has three, which he rarely uses) but Jim is passed out across it in the middle of the bed. He’s a restless sleeper, so it is possible that he started with his head reasonably closer to the gem-studded headboard.
If Sebastian dumps his towel on the floor, Jim will have his head once he wakes, so Seb hangs that up before climbing onto the large bed to get a better look at Jim.
Jim still has his shirt and undershirt on, although the shirt is gaping, unbuttoned, by his throat and his sleeves are loosely rolled up.
The sores on his wrists are obvious against his pale skin. He scratches there when he’s agitated, and picks and peels at the fresh scabs when he’s in a mood. His forearms are a fucking mess.
His collarbone’s bad too: scratched to fuck down one side with a few nasty gouges rippling towards his neck. It’s hard to tell through the patchy black stubble – Jim definitely hasn’t moved from his computers in days – but Sebastian thinks he can see a few nasty little scratches on Jim’s cheek and jaw.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Seb tells the unconscious Jim, not for the first time. “You’re going to get sepsis or some shit.”
Jim ignores him, although it’s not deliberate this time. Sebastian sighs and inspects the bloody mess soberly, wondering whether getting the disinfectant out is worth waking a sleep-deprived Jim Moriarty for. Jim’s already a nasty cunt on his best days.
Sebastian fetches the necessary first aid products and sets them on his bedside table. He’ll pin Jim down and give him a scrubbing later, once they’ve both slept some. Jim’s wrists could benefit from a few butterfly stitches, but they’re not too bad.
The sheets are a fucking mess, but that’s unsurprising. Considering how Jim goes off his rocker about crumbs in his bed, he’s surprisingly indifferent to bodily fluids.
Well. There was that time Sebastian got blind drunk and pissed the bed. Jim went fucking mental then, but they had a nice new mattress by the end of the day, not that Seb was allowed to sleep on it for ages.
The point was, Jim often got come and blood all over their sheets. Even when he was fucking unconscious. Jim is the only person Sebastian knows who is such a ball of stress that he actually has nosebleeds in his sleep. Those don’t just stain the sheets: they go through duvets like you would not believe.
Sebastian lets himself under the covers carefully. It’s a big bed, but Jim always finds the middle of it, and it’s best not to wake him.
Unconscious or not, Jim wriggles into Sebastian’s personal space anyway. He rests the unscratched side of his face and neck against Seb’s chest, which is sort of nice, but Sebastian is thoroughly aware of the frail and raw little wrist between their bodies.
Seb kisses the little bastard’s scalp lightly and tries to sleep.
Jim sleeps through the evening, and the night, and the morning. He’d probably sleep through the afternoon, but Sebastian forces him awake. He probably hasn’t eaten in days, and Seb is determined those nasty cuts are getting cleaned out too. For an alleged genius, Jim is ridiculously negligent about his basic needs.
Predictably, Jim welcomes being woken the way a cat welcomes being bathed. He’s a feral little beast, but Sebastian perseveres to get the prick clean and fed. He shaves Jim too, because the idiot can never be trusted to be patient enough near the tender parts not to cut himself open worse.
Afterwards, Sebastian carries Jim back to bed. Jim insists he needs to get back to work, but Seb ignores that and keeps him pinned down not only until he feigns giving up, but until Jim actually gives in and settles down.
He sleeps like the dead again for the most part, although a few times Seb had to stop Jim scratching at his fresh bandages in his sleep.
After a few hours Sebastian bundles Jim up in the duvet like a baby burrito and thinks – not for the first time – that perhaps he ought invest in some anti-scratch mittens for Jim like small babies get.
Sebastian cooks a nutritious meal that Jim will probably only pick at despite desperately needing the sustenance. A rustling in the doorway tells him Jim has padded in, dragging a blanket around his shoulders, and Sebastian has to hide a soft look at Jim’s deceptively sweet, rumpled appearance. Feral little fucking rabid kitten.
“I don’t like mushrooms,” Jim announces indignantly. “You know this.”
“I know they’ve got niacin in them, and you need all the fucking help you can get to heal,” Sebastian says sternly. “Your skin’s a fucking mess.”
“You’re not my fucking mother,” Jim complains.
Sebastian narrows his eyes. “If I was, you’d find it a lot harder to sit comfortably. Now plant your arse and eat.”
He shoves Jim down on a stool by his unmarked shoulder before Jim can attempt to refuse. Jim’s eyes are comically wide: he’s gotten surprisingly used to being yanked about, but usually Sebastian has more sense than to threaten to hit him. Although even if a good spanking didn’t teach Jim to behave even an iota better than usual, Sebastian is pretty sure he’d find it satisfying to humble the infuriating prick.
They eat. Jim attempts to leave the mushrooms as always, but Sebastian glares at him like he’s communicating that he’s happy to funnel the things down Jim’s throat until he chokes; Jim stabs a few with a fork and chews belligerently. Sebastian wonders whether all neurotic geniuses act like bratty toddlers in sore need of a good slapping, but really, little kids don’t know any better. Jim is actively being a little cunt.
Jim tries to sidle off of his seat and go back to his home office.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Sebastian growls. “You need rest. If you don’t take a break, your head might explode.”
“Worried you’ll need to find a new place to live?” Jim sneers.
“If you think I’m forsaking the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on, just because you refuse to keep yourself alive, you’re not as clever as you think that you are,” Sebastian tells Jim, although he’s lying. As maddening as the little Irish prick is, Seb never wants to sleep in Jim’s bed without him. Or lose him at all, insanely enough.
Jim huffs, but he must still be fucking tired, because he doesn’t throw out a witty nor threatening response.
“Couch,” Sebastian decides. “You don’t have to go back to bed, but you do have to curl up with that blanket and rest for a bit, understood?”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Jim grumbles, but he allows himself to be guided into the living room.
Sebastian does not like this room. It’s too fucking big, and it’s always bloody cold. He presses close to Jim’s legs under the blanket on the couch, and doesn’t mind at all when Jim flops dramatically onto his chest.
“You’re like a fucking radiator,” Jim says.
“Maybe if you actually ate once in a while, you’d have some fat reserves to keep you warm,” Sebastian says, but he puts an arm around Jim and lets the little collection of pointy corners get comfy.
“I just fucking ate!” Jim squawks. “You made me!”
“I’ve seen sparrows with bigger appetites,” Sebastian scoffs. “If you keep skipping meals, I’m going to have to tie a ribbon around you so that you don’t float away like a helium balloon.”
Jim rolls his eyes and makes an unimpressed noise. Sebastian quickly fishes for the remote, because he suddenly has a picture in his mind of Jim, naked as a kitten, with a pretty bow around his scrawny neck.
Sebastian’s never entirely convinced that Jim isn’t telepathic. He switches the telly on sharply, before Jim picks up on any thoughts that might have Seb killed.
Jim takes the remote and flicks to some Russian YouTuber who talks a lot about stars. It doesn’t have enough violence to keep Sebastian’s attention, but it does get Jim to settle down some.
There’s a lot of this guy’s videos queued. If Jim’s been ignoring the notifications of the fun stuff he subscribes to, then he hasn’t just been neglecting eating and sleeping: he hasn’t been taking any breaks at all. Sebastian doesn’t know whether he most wants to thump Jim, or carry him through to bed and tuck him in for enforced bed rest for a week.
Jim’s blessedly quiet for twenty minutes or so, but then he starts fidgeting. The cute Russian guy is still enthusing about space, but Jim’s attention is on his wrists. He scratches at his bandages, and looks up swiftly when Sebastian sternly and protectively encloses a large hand over the poor things.
“Stop it,” Seb warns.
Jim’s gaze flashes. “They itch,” he says indignantly.
“They’d stop itching if you ever left them alone. You’ll have no fucking skin left if you keep going,” Sebastian counters.
Jim growls, and his unrestrained hand snakes towards his raw collarbone. Sebastian slaps that hand away, and Jim looks at him incredulously.
“It’s my job to keep you safe,” Seb says stoutly. “You’re not safe if you die of fucking blood poisoning or sepsis or something because you can’t stop ripping yourself open.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Jim complains. He squirms a little, trying and failing to get free enough to hurt himself.
Sebastian pins Jim’s arms and torso close to his chest with a growl, then lean over and gives in to the urge to give Jim’s skinny little legs a good slap. Jim flinches, even under the blanket.
“Stop hurting yourself,” Sebastian rumbles. “It worries me.”
Jim tries to yank himself free, and Seb lets him. Instead of storming off, Jim simply scowls and rubs furiously at the thigh Sebastian has swatted.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Jim mutters.
“James, I come back after a few days and you look like you’ve taken a tumble inside a cheese grater. Again. This can’t keep happening!”
“Relax; it’s just a stress habit,” Jim says quietly. “It’s not like I’m tanning my wrists.”
“And what if one time it is?!” Sebastian bursts out. “I can’t leave you to do anything else if there’s a real risk you’ll do the sort of damage when I’m gone that I won’t be able to patch up!”
Jim silently shifts his position then after a few beats looks up at Sebastian seriously. “It’s not that bad.”
“But you’ve thought about it,” Sebastian says flatly.
Jim closes his eyes and sighs. “Yes. I’ve fucking thought about it. But I haven’t done it, have I?”
“Why?” Sebastian asks, startling Jim. “Why haven’t you?”
Jim rolls his shoulders then shrugs with the least amount of poise Sebastian has ever seen from him. “I don’t know. Things aren’t as bad as before…”
“When?”
Jim looks up at Sebastian’s question, then away. “Before you… I was worse on my own.”
Sebastian’s chest tightens. He’s glad that he’s managing to do something right, even if it never seems like enough. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. And not just because of my job,” he says quietly.
“I know,” Jim says. Heavily, he repeats himself, then says, “I don’t do it to worry you. I know I’m a spiteful prick, but… I swear I’m not trying to be with this. I just can’t stop.”
“If it’s a stress thing, then let’s reduce the stress,” Sebastian says. “Take a holiday. Delegate. Take some fucking time to breathe.”
“I can’t,” Jim says. “It’s worse if I don’t keep busy. My head… I can’t shut it up.”
“You seem okay when I fuck your stupid brains out,” Sebastian says.
Jim laughs weakly. “We can’t do that all of the time.”
“Why not? I’ll fuck you all day and night if it keeps you calm and safe,” Sebastian promises.
“I do need to work too,” Jim says. “I’ll go mad if I don’t.” He frowns. “Madder.”
“Okay, but only on a set schedule,” Sebastian says. “You can’t keep working yourself to death. You already look like a ghost. You’re too thin and you’re too tired and you can’t sustain this lifestyle.”
Jim squeezes his sunken eyes closed for a minute. “I know,” he says. “But I don’t know what else to do.”
“You start doing what I tell you,” Sebastian decides. “You eat and sleep when I say, and you only work when I let you, and you take breaks when I tell you to. And you go back to using that steroid cream to give your sores a chance to heal up.”
Jim nods a little but, “What do I do about..?” He agitates his bandages but doesn’t scratch. “I want to do this all of the time. Well, not want: need. I can’t breathe when I don’t-”
“I’ll hurt you,” Sebastian says. “Whenever you want, but in a safe, controlled way. No more broken skin. No more blood on my fucking towels. No fighting over the iodine and worrying myself sick about you.”
Jim looks pale and hot all at once. “What do you mean?”
Sebastian considers. What does he mean??
“I’ll spank you,” he says. “Whenever you need me to. Whether it’s a few quick licks to stop it starting, or you need to be able to feel the ache for days, I’ll help. I’ll look after you.”
Jim seems embarrassed and appalled and… like he’s seriously considering this. “I don’t want to change things in the bedroom. I like what we do.”
“We don’t have to,” Sebastian says. “Spanking you doesn’t have to change anything else: I’m still yours, and I’ll always give you whatever you need. Bend over backwards for you. I don’t want to dominate you: I want to take care of you.”
“You’ll hurt me so I don’t have to,” Jim says shakily.
“If that’s what you want,” Sebastian says. “We don’t have to. And you don’t have to make any decisions now-”
“I want to try it,” Jim says. “Not right now,” he adds quickly, fighting the urge to claw at his arms out of sheer embarrassment, “just… the next time I start, slap my hands away. And if I can’t stop, then… we try it.”
“Alright,” Sebastian says. He squeezes Jim close. “And we can stop any time you want.”
“No,” Jim says. He sighs. “No. I can’t be trusted to have control over… this. If we’re going to do this, I need to trust that no matter what I say, you give me what you think I need. You’re always much better at that than I am.”
“You never listen, even to you, I know,” Sebastian says gently, although inside he is reeling about the unprecedented control Jim is offering him. Seb says, “You can trust me.”
“I know.” Jim looks at him. “I do. I know I’m horrible… but I do trust you.”
Sebastian pulls Jim close and kisses his forehead. Jim makes an embarrassed noise, but doesn’t pull away.
Seb lifts Jim into his lap and stands. “Come on. We’re going back to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” Jim whines. Little brat.
“I’m not tucking you in: I’m going to fuck your pretty little brains out,” Seb promises. “And then you’re going to take another nap, and then I’m going to feed you a big dinner.”
Jim rolls his head back ungratefully. “I’ve already eaten today…”
“And you’re going to clear your plate when I tell you to, or you’re going to eat dinner with a sore little arse,” Sebastian tells him with some satisfaction.
“I can’t eat a lot at once, you know that!” Jim protests.
“I know; I’ll take that into account,” Sebastian promises. “Going to start feeding you every four hours, like a little baby kitten.”
Jim squirms indignantly in Seb’s arms, like a kitten. “What did you call me??”
“Nothing, Boss,” Sebastian lies contentedly. He kisses Jim’s neck every time the man tries to complain, and wonders idly whether he’d get away with giving his darling disaster a tongue bath.
He probably shouldn’t push his luck. Jim has no problem at all about scratching Sebastian when he’s annoyed, and Seb really would like to keep blood off of his towels.