When Jim Moriarty awoke, disorientation settled around him like a heavy blanket. His breaths were coming out heavier than they had any right to be, and while his skin felt sickly hot, he could feel it was glossed with a sheen of cold sweat. He was in his bed, yet he distinctly remembered he'd originally been in his study. Must've dozed off – but how had he gotten here? He answered his own question immediately when he realized he was half-curled against Sebastian Moran's sleeping form; the man must've carried him in here. Now, why was Sebastian in his bed? The answer to that question wasn't within his grasp at that moment. It lay somewhere within the minutes or hours in which he'd been sleeping. Dissatisfied with that unknown, he carefully pries himself away from the other man, sitting up.
How long had he slept? He didn't have the faintest idea what time it had been when sleep had claimed him. The shaft of light lazily drifting its way through a space between the curtains was a dull gray, suggesting it might've been very early morning or late afternoon. But he couldn't be certain.
Jim then realized that his attire had mysteriously changed as well. Sebastian had apparently thought to remove his boss's suit in his sleep. Otherwise, a good deal of complaining about wrinkled fabric would have ensued. He'd been stripped down to his underclothes, and upon looking about, spotted the pieces of his suit draped neatly over a chair.
By then, his breathing had calmed to an acceptable rate, and his quickened heartbeat returned to normal. With a heavy sigh, Jim laid back once more. He gave a long, cat-like stretch, arms reaching behind his head and towards the headboard. He felt immeasurably lazy, for some strange reason. Jim tugged a bit at his undershirt, which clung to him uncomfortably due to the sweat that still lingered on his skin. Why was he in such a state? Seemed silly, to him. Had he had a nightmare? He couldn't remember it, if he had.
Jim's thoughts drifted back to the man snoring gently beside him, and the unanswered question that accompanied his presence. Laying on his back as he then was, Jim turned his head to allow his gaze to wander over Sebastian's sleeping form: scars and hard lines that slumber managed to soften just a little. He smelled faintly of green onion, which made him smile. The scent meant that the man had been cooking at some point before he'd collected Jim and put him to bed. He'd most likely intended to surprise Jim with it, but had found his employer to be asleep, instead. Sebastian was no five-star chef, or really much of a three-star one. But he made the effort. The green onion suggested that he had been making a special effort, tonight (today?), for some reason; he usually would never think to use that sort of ingredient for flavor.
He allowed his eyes to close again, breath slipping from his nose in long, slow intervals. A metronome to keep time with the heavy sighs gently raising Sebastian's chest, next to him. When he opened his eyes once more, his head was still turned in the man's direction, so his gaze was immediately on his form. He felt some urge to move closer to him. That feeling one gets to shift closer to the only other form in a bed with them, like the gravitational pull between two objects. It made Jim feel uneasy. He swiftly and silently removes himself from the bed, to retreat from that tempting pull.
He hides himself away in the bathroom. He starts the shower running, then strips down, setting his clothes on the counter. And then he stepped under the spray. The water was scorching hot, just the way he liked it. It scalded his skin and left it a satisfying pinkish hue, while creating a heavy roll of steam to fill the room.
Once Jim reemerged and returned to his bedroom, he found his bed empty. Sebastian was gone. He dressed himself before wandering downstairs. There he found Sebastian in the kitchen, muttering complaints as he reheated the meal he'd made before. Chicken with a jerk marinade and white rice He was upset that he'd managed to burn the chicken, somewhat. Jim never did question Sebastian about the hours beforehand. Why he'd been in his bed.
Thus, Sebastian never told Jim that he'd been thrashing and yelling in his sleep. That only Sebastian's presence beside him had calmed him enough to slumber soundly. The information was never imparted upon him. Jim preferred it that way.