Work Text:
James shouted, “And you’re losing your mind, but I forgive you because that clearly runs in your blood!”
Because that clearly runs in your blood. All Sherlock could do was freeze for a moment and then pull his fist to James’ face, hitting him straight in the nose. Blood leaking immediately.
“Ow!” James yelped.
Sherlock stopped and composed himself, anger still laminated on his face. James just held his hand over his nose, pain streaming through the area.
“Why did you do that?” James asked, the pain still raging, his hand still over his nose, trying to hold it in place. It felt like its bone was broken and shattered. Who knew Sherlock’s punches could be so powerful?
He snarked, “Why did you say it?”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Then why say it?”
Sherlock stared at him, effectively going inside his mind. Thinking of the words he had just uttered, placing them into this specific spot. James could only feel the sorriness he was feeling, like the words weren’t his actual feelings, just things that came out in that moment.
“I didn’t mean it, truly,” he said in a tender voice.
Sherlock didn’t believe him. “You think I must be going mad? Do you think that to be true?”
James just gazed at him, his eyes wandering over each of Sherlock’s perfect features. He took his hand off his nose and let it dangle to his side, fidgeting with his fingers himself. His Irish tongue subdued. The nose problem still evident for anyone to see.
Sherlock tensed up, walking closer to James, scanning the sole injury on his face. He just scanned and scanned until he finally said something more. “So you believe it?”
Ghosts were everywhere for Sherlock. But that didn’t make him insane? Did it?
“Sherlock—“
“You do. By the way you look at me now, you certainly do.”
“Sherlock,” he called his name again, this time only filled with warmth, like by saying his name, Sherlock would release himself from this sudden anger and return to the genius angel James generally saw.
Unable to hear or continue this conversation, Sherlock quickly swung himself towards the door, stepping forward, hoping to be left alone in his jadeness. But contrary to what he believed would occur, James grabbed onto his wrist, tightly. His whole hand covered it, and he dragged Sherlock back, almost letting him collide with his own self.
“James,” he breathed, his breath hanging over James’ lips. “What are you doing?” He tried to pull his wrist away from his grip but James held on harder—tighter—not wanting to let go. And for a moment, nothing in the air existed. No dust, no irony, no blood, no heat, just their breaths slowly hinging closer. Breaths effortlessly growing colder.
Sherlock wasn’t stupid. Hardly anyone could call him that. He knew of James’ rather intriguing affections, the rawness he felt for Sherlock. But similarly, that rawness was equal to that of playfulness. Like by acting on that affection, the whole world would come around and accept them—accept them as one person. When it wasn’t true at all. “What you’re thinking…”
“What do I ought to think, Sherly. Huh? The pain you have given my charming nose…” he paused, then continued as he foolishly crept his lips closer to Sherlock’s. “Or that perhaps there could be far more between us?”
Sherlock brashly sighed and broke free from his grasp, letting his hand fall to his side.
James jumped further to where he shouldn’t. Like a ghost was inching on him, like it was something he was obligated to do. Reveals he had wanted to be heard for quite some time.
“As men,” Sherlock firmly began, his gaze tempted by their newfound proximity. “We shouldn’t. You understand?”
“As men, how does it matter?”
“Matters overwhelmingly so. Love is… between husband and wife.”
James just stared at him, slightly fixated by his views. James had these affections—these feelings—for a tremendously long time. He never cared for their sex, never much a thing for him. And he’d imagine in the end, love was simple as that: love. “And you believe in that, with certainty. You’ve never…” he pulled Sherlock closer, gripping his hands down to his waist, their closeness beyond sentences. “You’ve never thought of this?”
Sherlock avoided eye contact, struggling to plant his eyes in a single direction. Yet, their contact could not be redirected or controlled—it was to happen. And so it did. Sherlock just began to admire James. His eyes. The way his mouth moved along with the mnemonics of his Irish accent. “Your nose,” he remarked, as if two seconds ago it hadn’t been mentioned. “It's not bleeding.”
James stifled a grin, just letting his eyes wander over every fragment and slice of Sherlock’s handsome face. His jaw especially. The blood had slowly dried throughout their whole conversation. The pain had already dulled. It wasn’t something to attend to and Sherlock knew this. He was buying time but James wouldn’t let anything else affect this. Not now. Ignoring it, he said, “A man and woman. You respect both? As do I. But surely, there’s more there, yes?”
“More what?”
“Of what you truly desire.”
“Truly desire?” Sherlock repeated in disgust, beginning to glare at James. “Why do this?”
He whispered back, “I’ve desired this for an incredibly long time.”
Sherlock scrunched his face. “Long time?”
“Don’t act so shocked. You’ve noticed, too.”
“Noticed?”
He snapped, “You think I act like this with every female and male companion?"
“With women, yes,” he admitted. “You flirt with everyone.”
“But flirting doesn’t mean much. Not to me. I haven’t flirted with you?”
“No, you haven’t…”
“And that’s it, Sherly. I’ve never flirted, not outright, with you. Because… well,” he said, words lingering out of his mouth, unspoken but wishing to be elaborated on. “Well, I suppose I’ve come to admire you greatly. More than anyone.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t play games with me… You’ve flirted with my own mother.”
“As I said, I’ve flirted with many before. Doesn’t mean I desire to be next to them. Or do I? In your changing view?”
Sherlock just continued glaring. His blue eyes submerged under his eyelids. “Why does it matter?” He blinked.
“‘Why does it matter?’ Of course it matters. Undoubtedly, I’ve thought…” he corrected himself, “I believe I hold this form of affection beyond that of friends—of partners. My affection has deepened beyond comprehensible words. Beyond worlds.”
“What are you saying then?” Sherlock asked stupidly.
“I believe I’ve fallen for you,” James confessed.
“Fallen for me? Are you mad?”
“I doubt I am. I doubt I am, or have been. Or…”
“Or?”
“Or have I misjudged you? Misunderstood you… And this,” he said quietly, letting his waist go. He stood straight, apart from him. The misgivings showing on his face. Maybe he has misjudged him, misunderstood him. Has he seen something that has never been there? Was his mind playing tricks?
Sherlock returned to view him. The face still, his expressions petrifiedingly scared as ever. Scattered too. Like things were falling in his brain, the directions he had supposed was going ahead, hadn’t. “Misunderstood?”
“Yes, misunderstood… Have I then?”
Sherlock just gazed at him, lovingly. Like something was there. Like his previous words hadn’t left his mouth and struck James’ heart. “I…” he dropped his gaze. “I’m not certain. I… how could we? As men? As friends? This isn’t accepted. Not by society. Not by anyone.”
“Is that what’s stopping you? Society?” He asked earnestly. Sad eyes crossing his face.
“Yes.”
“Forgetting society, forgetting all this… I ought to ask you: do you share that same affection?”
He continued watching the floor, thoughts streaming through his mind. The beginning of this conversation already forgotten, with his fluttering feelings becoming full again. He couldn’t say yes or no. He couldn’t say anything. He shouldn’t. In what world would they be accepted? In what generation would this love be tolerated? He didn’t believe, even in the future, their unnaturalness, their abnormal attractions and love, would be attained and considered as a normality.
James took this. Took all this allure, all this silence as unfamiliar rejection. His confession. His confidence. His unique ability was something that didn’t help him in this instance. And now, he had confessed to his friend who was unable, unhappy to give the same impression, and the same attitude. He had squandered this. Whatever this he had thought it to be.
And he had to live like this until Sherlock finally took this as his own, as he decided if this attraction was worth the risk in society.
While society was never much of his forte, this was beyond that, it was something that could lead to irreparable consequences and harm to himself and his loved ones.
It wasn’t something to be. Not yet. And James and his bloodied nose would have to wait for that decision, whenever it would be.