Chapter Text
Sebastian watches the first thin rays of dawn as they move across the floor and strike the counterpane, before, ever stronger and wider, they begin to edge up the length of his prone body. He has not slept; he is now lying on his back, still dressed, although he has kicked off his boots, his left arm curled under his head, and his right laid across his stomach. He has smoked too many cigarettes to count - out of the window, of course - the Professor cannot abide smoke in the bedrooms and, even given their violent disagreement the previous evening, he cannot bring himself to go against his employer's wishes.
He sighs, deep in thought. He knows, of course, that Moriarty's cruel words were born of his anger and pain at the frustration of such a well-planned and so very nearly successfully executed stratagem, and that no doubt the Professor is this morning feeling as wretched as he. But Sebastian has a resilience that his employer does not quite possess; he can and has been knocked about by life on more occasions than he cares to recall, and always he has arisen, stronger and more cynical - oh yes, more cynical - for it, but he does rebound. Moriarty, on the other hand, has a certain blackness within him, a deep abyss which Sebastian supposes (he has a working knowledge of Newtonian laws of motion, after all, as well as an appreciation of the wonderful and vast symmetries of the universe) must be the equal and opposite of the soaring brilliance of his genius, a chasm within which which the Professor finds far more difficult to avoid being swallowed up than Moran does to defeat his demons.
And so, with this knowledge weighing heavily upon him, he pulls himself from his bed, cleans his teeth, face and hands in the basin and combs his hair, before pulling on his boots and jacket and wandering quietly down to the kitchens.
~*~
The Professor's bedroom (their bedroom, he thinks, wryly) hasn't been slept in. Sebastian makes his way to the sitting room-cum-study, deliberating as he goes on whether to knock before entering. He decides against it, and turns the doorknob, stepping into the room quietly. Moriarty is sitting on the sofa in front of the long extinguished fire, the chill air in the room thick with the smell of tobacco smoke. Sebastian eyes the brimming ashtray as he walks over to the hearth and sets about raking out the remains of the dead fire and setting a new one. Before long the room is noticeably warmer and brighter, as the flames lick and leap in the grate.
Sebastian moves to the sofa and sits, kicking off his shoes. He leans back against the end of the seat, arranging the cushions to support himself comfortably, and gently draws Moriarty towards him. The Professor is stiff and unresponsive at first, but with gentle coaxing Sebastian manages to arrange them so that Moriarty is lying against him, his back against Sebastian's chest, and his head on his shoulder. Sebastian gently kneads the stiff muscles of Moriarty's shoulders, rubbing his thumbs up and down the sides of his neck as he does so, all the time murmuring a quiet litany - James, James, my sweet James - into the glossy auburn hair against his cheek, taking in the faint scent of the Professor's hair oil and his warm, familiar, masculine smell.
He feels Moriarty relax against him, and moves his hands up into his hair, pressing and slowly rotating the heels of his hands against the sides of Moriarty's head whilst massaging his scalp with strong, clever fingers, exerting just enough pressure to smooth away the knots and tangles of tension.
Just then there is a soft tap at the door, and Sebastian gently pushes Moriarty from him, settling him comfortably against the pile of cushions on the sofa. He returns from the door carrying a tray laden with breakfast items - morning rolls, toast, croissants, fresh butter, jam, and a steaming pot of tea. He pours two cups, adding milk to both and a spoon of sugar to his own cup, before breaking off a piece of croissant and spreading a little of the butter on it.
"James. Eat." He proffers the morsel to Moriarty, who eats it from his fingers, his pale eyes not once leaving Sebastian's, licking a stray smear of butter from his lips. They continue in this way until the croissant is eaten, and Sebastian then lifts the tea to Moriarty's lips. He sips, the tea reviving and hot, working its warm magic through him, the very last of the tension that has wracked him with black anger and wretchedness leaching away through Sebastian's gentle ministrations, to be replaced with the comfort of knowing that he is held, warm, cherished and cared for, in the arms of someone who does not badger him with recriminations or ask for apologies he cannot give.
He takes Sebastian's hand and rubs its back against his cheek, before pressing his lips to the palm and kissing it tenderly. Then, leaning back against him on the sofa, his head cradled in the warmth of Sebastian's shoulder, he at last allows his eyes to close.