Archive of Our Own

James flirts with everyone, and Sherlock finds it strange, amusing, and curious all at once. James knows precisely what to say and how to attract attention. He bestows bows and kisses ladies’ hands. Sherlock thinks it would be better without all of it.

James is inquisitive by nature. He watches attentively, observing the endless games people play—nothing like chess or cards—and joins in if it seems sufficiently interesting, inventing and altering the rules as he goes. He has usually already guessed what will happen next, and Sherlock sometimes plays along—it is fun. Moriarty slips into his mind, his space, even his breathing. He finishes Sherlock’s sentences, steers the course of his thoughts, stands nearer than a proper gentleman ought, catches him by the shoulders, nudges him with an elbow, presses thigh to thigh, gives him sharp looks, and is always, always smiling. He rescues him from fists, from truncheons, from prison, and above all from boredom. It is remarkable to have a friend. At times it almost feels as though their soul were divided between two bodies.

They wander about the estate and, for the first time in a long while, manage to speak of nothing in particular, though still competing with one another in wit. Sherlock shows him the shelf with the most interesting books in the library, speaks of his old researches, and in the evening yields the favourite armchair before the fireplace—the only one Mrs Crowle has managed to free from dust—while he himself sits upon the carpet close to the fire and thinks about everything until the sparks and smoke begin to sting his eyes.

James reads one of the many volumes of Sherlock’s mother’s poetry, occasionally commenting on the more ambiguous passages. At some point he falls silent, and after a while the leather of the chair creaks. Sherlock feels a light touch of a knee against his back and lifts his head.

“You may sit here for an eternity if you wish, but I would rather retire. We shall meet in the morning. Good night.” Moriarty looms above him, looking down. He blinks tiredly, and there is a faint hoarseness in his voice, along with the slightest trace of an Irish accent.

Sherlock nods in understanding and is just about to rise when James suddenly runs a hand through his hair—from the nape up to his forehead—and the fringe falls over Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock shakes his head and frowns.

Sherlock does not wish to admit it, for shame is not an emotion he is accustomed to, yet he senses that he has made a mistake. He saw the contradictions from the very beginning, even if he kept their existence at the edge of his mind: the unfamiliar twitches on his father’s face, the brief pauses in his speech that Sherlock’s perfect musical ear cannot help but catch, the hesitations before uncomfortable questions, the odd, almost wrong way in which he sometimes looks at mother. The button burns in Sherlock’s pocket, he clenches it in his fist until it leaves a mark upon his palm. His thoughts return to that day. He blames the foolish and useless little boy he was then—the boy he, in truth, still remains. How can he trust his own heart? It fails him again and again, and in the end he can only protect himself by rubbing salt in the other's wounds.

Of course Sherlock knows about them. He may not consider himself the most empathetic of men, yet he understands human behaviour well enough. He watches faces and hands. He notices how much James enjoys spending time with the Holmes family, how attentively he listens to Sherlock's father, how he catches the gentle glances and touches of Sherlock’s mother. Sherlock would never have treated a friend so dear to him with such dishonour. Yet the words fly from his mouth like startled birds. He lets them go, uncertain and sharp.

Sherlock rides slowly, already nearing the boundary of his family’s estate. Anxiety tightens in his stomach and scratches at his throat as he forcibly drives away thoughts of the past, rejecting—for the first time in a long while—the advantage of his far too reliable memory. The horse has begun to ignore him, stopping every few yards to crop the grass, and in the distance Sherlock sees the slowly moving silhouette of his friend. It is not yet too late, the shadows blur the figure somewhat, yet Sherlock recognises that unhurried stride and the swing of those arms. Without thinking he presses his heels hard into the horse’s sides, urging it into a trot, at first losing the rhythm in the saddle, forgetting for a moment when he ought to rise with the motion.

He knows James will not stop—he has not even turned to look at him—so for a while Sherlock rides close beside him, tugging lightly at the reins while the curious horse stretches its muzzle towards James’s shoulder. With a heavy breath Sherlock swallows his pride, gathers what remains of his resolve, dismounts quickly, and in two equally quick steps catches up with his friend.

“Whatever the truth may be, I need to know.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?” Moriarty throws him a brief, irritated glance and stubbornly keeps his eyes upon the road, dusty and leading nowhere.

“Well?” Sherlock no longer holds much hope that they might rise above it, that both of them might simply forget the quarrel as though it had never happened.

“Well, it does not sound like an apology.”

“Well, I apologise.”

“Ah. Is that all?”

“I sincerely apologise?” It begins to resemble mockery, the words will not come.

“Still think you can do better.”

Sherlock hears the smile in those words and reflexively catches James’s sleeve with his free hand, bringing them both to a halt. They turn to face one another and stand close, silent. James tilts his head slightly forward, looking at him from beneath lowered brows, waiting. Sherlock almost begins to think that Moriarty sees right through him—sees every trace of his nervousness—yet instead Sherlock finds himself studying the curious expanse of white between the lower line of dark lashes and the iris of his friend’s eye, and the strange effect it has upon him. His gaze shifts to the mole beneath the right eye, then to the raised brows and the creases newly formed upon the forehead.

“Well? Ought I to expect more?”

Moriarty leans closer still, filling all the space between them. Sherlock’s vision blurs. He turns his head slightly aside so that their noses do not collide, remembering the blow he dealt earlier—too weak to draw blood, yet strong enough to display his anger—and, rather foolishly, presses his lips to James’s. He feels the faint prickling of barely visible stubble against his skin and closes his eyes for a second.

Feeling no movement—neither of lips nor body—and making none himself, Sherlock draws back. Moriarty does not appear surprised. Instead he smiles slyly, and Sherlock’s gaze drifts again to the mole beneath his eye. Sherlock clenches his teeth unconsciously—his jaw has ached these past days after restless nights—and Moriarty laughs, throwing his head back.

“An unexpected move, Shirley! I should not have objected to a good honest apology, but I rather enjoyed all that.”

James gives him a friendly blow upon the shoulder, his hand sliding upward. His thumb touches the bare skin above the knot of Sherlock’s cravat—a little lower and it would press upon his throat. The remaining fingers circle his neck, the forefinger bends, scratching lightly at the sensitive skin. Moriarty studies him for a moment, then releases him and turns away, walking back the way he came.

“I do have a thought as to how we might gain access to my father’s financial records…”

When Sherlock disturbs his sister’s grave, a downpour begins in the most poetic way. The upper layer of barely damp earth gives way easily enough, but soon everything turns to mud that clings to his boots and the spade. The spade is too short, and Sherlock immediately feels the ache beginning in his lower back. The wet shaft rubs the skin of his palms raw, and the heavy fabric of his suit clings to him, dragging at his body like a weight. James wants to help, but there had been only one spade in the yard, and Sherlock will not give it up. Despite the burning pain spreading through his body, he insists on doing everything himself.

He scoops muddy water away from the small coffin with his hands. The mud has already worked its way beneath his clothes, he feels both cold and overheated at once, and his hands tremble as he lifts the boards of the coffin. He already knows where to look, and he already knows what awaits him in the moment before his eyes fall upon the unbroken bone of the skeleton’s arm.

They run back to the house, their shoes slipping dangerously on the grass. It is warmer inside. When Sherlock takes his jacket back from James’s hand, the latter places his freed palm briefly upon Sherlock’s arm—cold and slick with rain—and gives it a short squeeze in silent support before hurrying after his mother.

He can trust neither his memories nor his reasoning. The cry rings in his ears, his father pulls him close, and Sherlock collapses into the embrace. He reaches instinctively for the warmth, pressing his forehead against him, burying his nose in the familiar scent of childhood. Hands smooth his wet hair, pass in a soothing motion along his trembling back and shoulders.

His father rocks them both, and Sherlock is seven again, when his sister dies, five again, when he nearly burns with fever, two again, when someone hides and howls somewhere in the house at night. All his years gather into the simplest of needs—to be held just as tightly.

The clothes left to dry by the fire overnight are warm and smell faintly of clay—someone has carefully laid them across the back of a chair so the fabric would dry evenly. James must have taken care of him: helped him out of his wet clothes, put him to bed, and left a candle burning on the table beside it. The wick is short now, the wax having run down the candlestick through the night. Sherlock remembers opening his eyes again and again, watching the unsteady flame.

The care is comforting, and he clings to it so as not to sink too deeply into the events of the past day.

He hears the creak of the door and James’s voice. His head is too heavy to turn and look. His throat is too dry to speak. His eyelids keep trying to fall shut, and it takes all the strength he has left to hold them open. Through his lashes he studies his mother’s face. It still feels unfamiliar to see her fully lucid, not clouded by medication and, apparently, not by electrotherapy either. Yet she has never stopped worrying about him, and he wants her to keep holding his shoulder, wants his brother to keep caressing his cheek. But they let him go.

Their voices sound as though they are coming through water. He catches only fragments of the conversation, though he hears the anxious strain in his mother’s tone and the strange note of performative lightness in James’s voice. He thinks of Silas, and from his friend’s manner he cannot tell what the outcome was.

Sherlock tries to gather saliva in his mouth, attempting to wet his throat at least a little. James sits down on the bed, the springs answer with a long groan beneath his weight. Sherlock feels the edge of the mattress sink, and then a hand settles on his ankle beneath the white sheet.

“Did you stop her?”

He pauses between the words. His throat feels as though blades are cutting through it, and once the question is out, James lets go of his leg.

“I did.”

xxx

Sherlock returns to his room with a heavy feeling in his stomach, despite not having eaten a single bite during the “family dinner,” and the conversation with his father in the garden has left him with a headache. He is disappointed in him, in his treacherous brother, and in his sister, who refused to heed reason. The room is richly furnished, with no hint that anyone has lived here before. The furniture looks unused, entirely new, and the air carries the lingering scent of burnt incense.

In the corner sits James, leafing through a book and pretending not to notice the visitor—more accurately, the owner of the room. Sherlock sighs and moves into the adjoining bedroom, hidden behind sheer curtains. The stifling heat of Constantinople had sat in his lungs all day, and he loosens his suffocating tie with clear relief as he hears the book snap shut and the bright footsteps on the tiles suddenly muffled by the patterned rug laid beside the bed.

“Silas wants to make me his heir,” Sherlock says, removing his jacket and waistcoat and placing them on the edge of the bed.

“How kind of him. And did you agree?” James steps almost right up to him, tilts his head.

Sherlock turns to face him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Of course, my greatest dream is to save Europe by handing dangerous, unknown weapon to the Queen.”

Moriarty snorts. “Didn’t expect you to join your brother so quickly. Well, I suppose I can only console the heart of your poor mother,” he adds, sighing theatrically and drawing his lips into a playful smirk.

“You’re a terrible man, James. Stop it.”

“Me?” James raises an eyebrow questioningly. “I’m the most modest, polite and good-natured of the two of us, dear friend.”

“I doubt any of those qualities have ever been observed in you,” Sherlock snorts, shaking his head. “If this is your attempt to comfort me, it has failed.”

“I am comforting you, and yet you allow yourself to insult my dignity!”

“Your dignity will survive this.”

They are standing too close. Sherlock can feel his breath. His eyes flick from James’s to his mouth and back again.

“You’re nervous,” James says, almost in a whisper.

“Observation doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock replies.

“And pretending that you want me to step back doesn’t suit you either.”

Sherlock says nothing. His eyes wander again—from shoulder, to collar, back to eyes. James notices and leans slightly closer.

“See,” he murmurs, “you’re not even trying.”

His hands drop to the trim hips, find the hip bones, anddraw circles around them with his thumbs. James draws him closer, and the buttons of their clothing rub against each other. Sherlock feels his breath on his cheek, a cautious touch, and the familiar prick of stubble. James moves deliberately with his lips, as if letting Sherlock have a moment to think. If he could think rationally at all. Sherlock had always believed they were equals, but now he feels completely out of his depth, utterly unsure what to do or where to place his hands. He decides to rest them on James’s chest, wanting to say something, parting his lips slightly, but James emits a soft approving hum and runs his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip, brushing against his teeth, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

James gently pushes his hands away and, smiling with his mouth open, quickly slips off his jacket, then cups Sherlock’s face, inviting himself back into a kiss, drawing a quiet sound from Sherlock that he didn’t even know he could make. Sherlock’s stomach tightens as James presses him onto the bed. James leans over him, deftly undoing the top buttons with one hand, pressing kisses to his neck, striking the pulsing artery, and smirking.

He moves lower with each released button. Sherlock holds his head, fingers curling into the tousled curls, and when the sensations overwhelm him, he tugs upward. James responds, tracing his tongue along the bare skin of Sherlock’s chest, dangerously close to the nipple, then lifts his head. Sherlock, dishevelled and flushed, breathes heavily. A sly expression crosses his face; he tugs James’s hair at the roots one last time, fingers brushing over his ears, stopping at the shoulders, pushing and turning them, trying to pin him to the bed.

James, intrigued and curious, complies, lying back and bracing himself with his elbows, as Sherlock settles over him and, from above, slips off the half-undone shirt, unwilling to waste another moment. James runs his hands over his hips, admiring the taut fabric of his trousers. Sherlock leans close, waits a heartbeat as if considering, his slight smirk turning into a full smile. He runs his tongue along James’s cheek, breathes into his ear, and then lightly bites his earlobe, drawing a long exhale in response. Sherlock feels the pressure beneath him and shifts his hips in the familiar motion, the same as when commanding a horse to step forward.

This is a game for two.