a/n: Even more crossposting. I figured I might as well, since I'm unlikely to post my Hetalia fic over at my livejournal, and it would be nice to keep all my fic in one place devoted solely to fic. That place happens to be here.

The original prompt for this came from the lovely kinkmeme and can be found here: http:/ /sherlockbbc-fic. livejournal. com/14213. html? thread=75987333# t75987333

All feedback is loved.

Jim Moriarty's brain is (to use an outdated simile) like a runaway carriage, all spinning wheels and mad-eyed horses, with the promise of death or serious injury at the end of whatever path it takes. He thinks faster than anyone else he's ever known (except Sherlock Holmes, but that's why they're archenemies), which makes complicated, organised, intricate crime the only thing that can occupy him for long. He's good at his job, loves doing it, loves the thrill of the tangled plot and the adrenalin rush after a big scheme.

Sometimes, however, the pace is too much. Sometimes, his brain spins and spins and spins with nowhere to go, and if it were a car the tyres would be worn through, the bare rims of the hubcaps sparking off the pavement, sending the car skidding into a flaming wreck. At these times, he wants nothing more than quiet, wants nothing quite so much as he wants to be ordinary, for his mind to plod along like anyone else's so he doesn't have to think anymore. When he was younger, before he gathered his empire around him like a security blanket, he would go running until his lungs burned and his muscles were trembling and his mind was gloriously, wonderfully blank. He stopped just after he started consulting—there just wasn't enough time—and never got back into the habit.

Now, when his mind spins its wheels uselessly, he drops himself onto the couch in the flat he shares with Sebastian and stays there, unmoving, until his brain can finish picking apart whatever problem occupies it. He doesn't much pay attention to whether Sebastian's currently on the couch or not, which hasn't been a problem yet, but since anything that can happen will, one day Jim flops onto the couch to a startled "oof" from his second-in-command.

"Jim, what are you doing?" Sebastian asks, once he's got his breath back.

"Thinking," Jim says distractedly, his eyes unfocussed.

Sebastian raises his eyebrows, but only goes back to the book he's reading, ignoring the consulting criminal draped all over him. After a few minutes, apparently without his noticing it, his free hand starts stroking through Jim's short hair. Jim blinks, abruptly distracted from his latest scheme by the soft, gentle touch. He glances at Sebastian's face, but there aren't any clues there—Sebastian doesn't appear to know what he's doing.

Jim frowns, trying to drag his mind back onto its previous track, but it doesn't work. His eyes are closing slowly, and his racing, scrambling thoughts have been replaced by a sort of warm, fluffy blankness. He finds he doesn't really mind.

When Sebastian finishes his book, he notices that the muttering criminal mastermind clinging to him has been replaced by a sleeping man, still clinging, but more gently, like a child with a stuffed bear. Sebastian smiles softly at Jim and settles in to remain still for as long as Jim will sleep.

A few minutes later, Sebastian's asleep too, his book fallen from his hand to lie beside the couch. The spinning wheels have been laid to rest for the time being, the mad-eyed horses stabled and calmed, and just for a few moments, there is peace.