Disclaimer: All original characters and such belong to the BBC.

Summary: Actions create reactions, which means poor Seb is once again left to deal with Jim at an even worse than usual irritation level. Jim/Seb friendship. Jim Whump.

Chronology: None specific

Pairings: None for the moment

Rating: T for mild cursing

Author's Note: For Starkreactor, who's still a bit under the weather. Hope this helps!


Jim Moriarty limped into his spacious flat, glaring indiscriminately at inanimate objects and the general layout of the room.

"That you?" came a voice from the other room.

"No, it's someone entirely different," Jim yelled back, not bothering to keep the derision out of his voice. "I'm breaking and entering because I was too lazy and poor to continue downtown to do the shopping."

"So you had a bad day, don't take it out on me," the voice yelled back. Jim could hear the metallic clink of a set of weights being shifted about.

"I'll take it out on whatever I like," the consulting criminal muttered to himself, easing his body down into a chair, wincing as he did so.

The metallic clinking stopped and he heard a towel get pulled from a rack. Then there was a scuffing of bare feet on floorboards and Seb entered the sitting room, shirtless with a towel draped about his neck and his scruffy reddish brown hair slicked with water. "So what was it this time?" the sniper asked, a smile playing across his face as he grabbed the white cotton and tousled it across his hair.

Jim scowled. "Nothing."

"Oh come off it, you're clearly upset about something."

"Do go away Sebbie. You bore me."

"That bad, huh?"

Jim couldn't keep a pout off his face. "Just put the kettle on, would you?"

Seb almost instantaneously tossed the towel back around his neck, peering suspiciously at his boss. Jim didn't have time to readjust himself to better hide his injuries before Seb's keen eyes raked over him and noted several things amiss.

"How'd you get hurt?"

Jim rubbed his face with one hand, unsuccessfully hiding a wince as his damaged shoulder protested. "Leave off, Seb. Not that bad. Kettle. Now."

Seb ignored, him, picking a rumpled t-shirt off the couch where he'd dumped it earlier and pulling it over his head in one quick smooth motion. "You're making faces. It's bad enough. What happened?"

Jim moaned. "If I tell you will you stop talking?"

The sniper frowned, moving closer. "No promises."


"Start talking."

"Ugh. The Madisons decided they weren't happy with the evidence left after the demise of their dear brother-in-law, despite the fact that police still concluded that it was a poorly planned suicide."

"And you went and confronted Dawson Madison by yourself?" Seb was within a few feet of Jim now, and clearly was reviewing his field medicine skills.

Jim rolled his eyes. "He's one man, Sebby. And a fairly large man at that."


Jim scoffed. "He's very slow."

"Apparently not. What happened?"

"Parking garage," the consulting criminal replied, nonchalantly.


He shrugged and winced. "A very small parking garage. It was only the second level. Onto grass, no less. And I took care of him in the end – hard to keep threatening people when you've taken a bullet to the knee." He giggled to himself and winced again. "No more problems with the Madisons, I predict."

"Jim, this is why you always have backup," Seb scowled as he gently pried off the other man's jacket.

"You're a dear, Seb," Jim said, not bothering to protest Seb's actions, as the man had clearly reverted to combat injury mode. "But we're not in primary school anymore. I can take care of myself now."

"Oh yeah, you're brilliant at that," Seb muttered. He knelt next to the chair. "Completely bloody brilliant. Budge over and help me with this – you could have broken ribs and I don't want to make it worse."

Jim rolled his eyes but complied, closing his eyes involuntarily at the waves of pain that crashed over him.

"Sit forward a bit." Seb shifted him carefully, then with extreme gentleness ran his hands over his boss' back and chest. After a few minutes he leaned back. "Doesn't seem to be anything broken. Maybe some minor fractures. How bad does it hurt?"

"Enough," Jim admitted grudgingly.

"I've still got some morphine."

"Oh for goodness sake Sebby, I'm not dying."

"Heavy dose of aspirin then, and we're wrapping that ankle."

Jim narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Seb hadn't gone anywhere near his ankle.

Seb rolled his eyes as he stood, headed for the bathroom. "Right, like I couldn't hear you shuffling in here all off balance and careful."

Jim realized he was in worse shape than he'd previously surmised when Seb returned and he found himself allowing the other man to feed him painkillers, tuck him onto the couch with a couple of hot water bottles, and wrap his ankle with a stretch bandage and ice. Seb looked like he was trying to hide his surprise, and Jim pretended not to notice.

"You're pretty good at that, Sebby," he said as the drugs began to take the edge off the pain.

"Yeah, well, I don't just shoot people," Seb said, feeling Jim's other ankle for swelling or breaks. "I can put them back together again." He adjusted the hot water bottles soothing Jim's ribs. "Well," he admitted, getting up and heading towards the hallway. "More or less. Let me know if you need anything else."

Jim allowed himself to sink into the pillow Seb had tucked behind his head. "I might have to get hurt more often," he commented with a smirk.

A pillow came flying across the room and landed on his face. "Don't you dare," Seb called out. "Don't. You. Dare."