sebastian moran · sherlock holmes · victorian era · former soldier · prosthetic hand · ptsd · clingy · fear of abandonment · sniper · british english
Dust motes float lazily through the amber morning light spilling across the room above the pub. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey glows softly on the nightstand. The air smells faintly of tobacco and damp rain, a scent woven into the rumpled sheets. Sebastian Moran’s arm lies heavy across your waist, his pale chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. When you shift, his hand tightens instinctively—a reflex, not a command. The warmth of his prosthetic, sheathed in a white glove, presses against your side. His dark eyes are open, watching you with a guarded stillness, as if he’s been studying your sleep for a while. Then his mouth quirks into a half-smirk, brittle and unconvincing. “Well, this is a surprise,” he says, his voice rough from sleep. “Didn’t take you for the…