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1.
Sherlock was incredibly smart. He was so smart that it was sometimes impossible to overestimate his ability to connect the clues for a correct conclusion.
He was smart, and he was funny, and he was kind. He also had those eyes, that hair and those cheekbones. So, it was only natural for James to catch feelings for him and his love for stupid hats.
It was hard to determine the exact moment it happened. Perhaps when they first shook hands, and Sherlock was standing there, in front of the board, charming, with a smile and a bruise on his cheek, James was already a little in love. Perhaps when he climbed to inspect that window in the library, and he was a little mischievous and so undeniably himself, James was already head over hills for him.
So yes, standing next to him in front of the constables, breaking him out of jail, and fighting for him were, for James, as much a necessity as generally being on his side. It wasn't a want, definitely not a favour or an accident.
And it was incredible to be by his side. James didn't care about the lost scholarship - it wasn't Sherlock's fault anyway, and he did restore their names. James would get it back if it wasn't for a rich moron with an ego so huge none of the stupid sheep in that hall could even dream of comparing.
So, the boring university was now unavailable, Sherlock, however, wasn't - and that was all that mattered.
Sherlock was in front of him in a room they got into on a semi-legal basis, for which none of them cared. They were fresh out of a fight, because of course they were, and while teaching Sherlock to stand his ground was pretty fun, watching him fight was mostly hot but also worrisome. He was better already, and James wanted him, strong or not really, to fight together over facing a fight alone at any time.
Sherlock took his jacket off, and James watched his shirt tighten over the muscle of his shoulders. After catching himself, James averted his eyes elsewhere and started to search for something to deal with their wounds. Sherlock had had some sort of bruise on his face for at least half of the time they were friends, and while it was starting to get old, things didn't seem to change anytime soon.
Everything James managed to find in their tiny room was a piece of cloth and a way to wet it. He turned around to see Sherlock already looking at him.
- Take a seat, - James smiled, gesturing to one of the beds. Sherlock furrowed his brows but complied. James got closer and used his index finger to lift Sherlock's face by the chin. His lip was cut, and there was a rip on his bruise near the temple; blood poured all the way to the neck of his shirt. James started to clean the blood from his cheek, trying not to smile at Sherlock's puzzled expression.
- How do you dodge all their hits? - he finally asked, lips barely brushing James's fingers as he wiped his chin.
James's smile widened at that.
- I don't. They don't aim at my face exclusively, you know.
Sherlock stirred at that, suddenly sitting straighter and meeting his gaze upwards. James also straightened slightly so their faces wouldn't be that close.
- Are you hurt elsewhere? - the man asked, rising his hands to, seemingly, run over James's torso.
James huffed amusedly, batting his palms away.
- No, not really. The body is not as fragile as the face. You'd need to hit a lot harder to leave a bruise.
Sherlock nodded lightly, and James nodded as well. He used his fingers again to tilt Sherlock's head to clean his neck. The man complied thoughtlessly, and James nearly envied himself over the trust they had in their relationship.
He muttered:
- I really don't know why they hit you in the face so much. - His features were so handsome, James couldn't imagine genuinely wanting to hit them. Sherlock chuckled at that.
- Well, it's easier to knock me out that way, now isn't it?
Finishing with Sherlock's neck, James could only sigh in answer. His gaze ran over the cleaned skin, warm and smooth to the touch. The temple started to turn purple in the low yellow light of the sunset, and the lip was swollen, the cut still raw. Sherlock was the most beautiful man on Earth.
- Show me your hand, - James asked after noticing the blood on his knuckles. Surely Sherlock could wipe his hands by himself, but why would he, when James was right there by his feet.
Sherlock slid his fingers into James's palm, deep in thought, then met his gaze upwards for the second time. It would be a lie to say it didn't affect him, so James focused on his work.
- Where did you learn to fight? - Sherlock wondered, now looking at his face attentively and certainly noticing the slightly crooked nose, the pale scar over the brow bone and while at it, probably all of James's secrets as well. James hummed, thinking of how to answer.
- Well, I've always been a troublemaker, Sherlock. - James tried and failed to keep his voice boring, as if talking about trivial things. He wasn't ready to discuss his own background, and honestly, he wasn't sure he'd ever want to. While their eventful acquaintance wasn't that long, Sherlock would surely notice James's avoidance of related topics at all costs. Surely, he was going to ask him directly at one point.
Sherlock kept the uncomfortable silence for a moment, until he squeezed James's hand.
- That makes the two of us, - he said, keeping his voice light. - Except I usually end up in jail.
James chuckled, surprised, and met Sherlock's gaze. The man had a matching grin on his wounded lips.
-It's because you can't run nor fight, - James teased, giving in and cupping his face with a free hand, the bloodied cloth long forgotten on the bed beside them. He slid his finger over the bruise gently to keep the appearance of helping with the wounds, but Sherlock seemingly didn't mind. He stayed there, in James's arms, and there was something glittering in his eyes James couldn't figure out for the life of him. Sherlock was thinking, as he always was, connecting the clues and analyzing the contexts. Only this time, James wasn't sure if he wasn't the one being analyzed.
He dropped his hands and took a step back, followed by a few steps to the side. He hung his jacket on the back of a chair, then his vest and necktie. He debated over taking his shirt off as well, but decided to keep it for the, well, no particular reason.
Sherlock stayed silent, as he was when deep in his mind, and while James loved to be there with him, in his thought process, he knew there were places he couldn't follow.
They settled for the night silently, James refusing to interrupt Sherlock's reflections. Tomorrow, he would probably hit him with new insights and a plan to follow, and James was in for the ride.
2. On the one hand, the new development in their adventure was pretty fascinating. Not only did James get to visit Sherlock's childhood home, but he also got to meet his wonderful mother. Genuinely, all Holmeses seemed to be wonderful people, and James even almost didn't feel jealous over his relationship with his family. On the other hand, behind the closed doors, the Holmeses were hiding dark secrets. And as James peeked in that darkness, he thought maybe they were instead hiding from them.
Sherlock's charming mother was sick because she couldn't bear the death of her youngest daughter. Sherlock was haunted by the ghosts of the past, and as hours went by, James watched the house's shadows swallow him, thought after thought.
James spent quite some time with him and knew how Sherlock was when focused on a memory, picking it piece by piece. Sometimes he wasn't aware of the real world, other times he was; he could be silent or really talkative - it didn't matter as his concentration was clear in his eyes, in little movements of his hands and head. Right now, though, he wasn't moving like that, subconsciously, he wasn't talking or remaining silent - he was a mess. He was in and out, speaking to empty spaces and reaching out to the corners.
James watched him. And while yes, he always did, finding quite the enjoyment in the sight; now the feeling was less of that and more of whatever heavy weight he had under his lungs. He tried to breath around it, tried to understand what it was that made him want to avert his eyes, but also not to miss a single second of observation, to not miss the moment when…
James found him standing in the middle of the stairs in front of a covered picture of his sister, deep into the night. He was motionless and appeared not to be aware of his surroundings as James called him gently. Maybe the childish nickname was a mistake - it startled him, and it took quite some time to calm him down. James felt the cold sweat run down his own back at the scene, such a twisted replication of what he saw just a little earlier: Sherlock running into the water after his mother, trying to make her come back to the house, them both screaming and holding each other.
So, the feeling James had was fear. He was scared Sherlock would lose his mind, his beautiful, precious mind, and their friendship would never be the same. If the sickness ran in the family, there was nothing they could do, and Sherlock would fall apart right next to him, under his gaze. It wasn't his fault, he did nothing to deserve it - too bad the world was precisely like that: cruel, twisted and unfair.
They were doomed from the start.
Then they were back in Sherlock's bedroom, and James sat him on the chair and left for a moment to find a burning candle to get some light in the room. When he came back, Sherlock was sitting with his head in his hands, elbows low on his knees. His shirt was wet around the collar, his hair tangled, and his hands shaking. James rushed to his side.
-Sherlock? What's wrong? - Was he having his visions again? Did he already cross the line of his mother's sickness? Sherlock said nothing apart from the small hum. James moved his hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, beginning to caress his hair. - Does your head hurt?
-It's too bright, - he complained in a pained voice. James didn't argue with him, just got up to close the curtains over the window, stopping the starlight from entering the room. He picked up the candle and went to get him some water as well. Then, as gently as he could, he said:
-You should lie down, dear, - and he blew out the last light in the room. Sherlock signed, and James heard him getting up from the old chair. After a few moments in darkness, with a quiet shuffle, Sherlock settled down on his bed. James moved closer, orienting in the dark by his memory of the furniture. As he put the water on a side table near the bed, Sherlock interrupted the silence.
-I am seeing things, James, - he said, and James hummed, hoping and fearing that he would continue. - I see this girl, and I think I started to on my first day at Oxford and, perhaps, even prior to that. I, James, I am not sure I can tell what's reality anymore. - James couldn't answer him, trying to contain the storm inside his head. He closed his eyes, no use for them in the dark. Meanwhile, Sherlock continued. - People keep telling me I'm going insane, just as my mother did. And I don't know if it makes me sound like I do too, but I know my mind, James, and I am sure it's not any different from my usual imagination. I know something is wrong, I just don't know what exactly it is, what bothers me. And my head, it's killing me, so I took some medication for it, and now it's even worse, and now I can't shake the shadows off, and I can't focus on anything for long enough to barely try to think and, James, now I feel crazy. Are you still there?
James huffed, despite himself. Well, where else would he be?
-Of course, I am here.
-Do you think I am delusional?
James took a moment to think, tried to analyze everything analytically. Sherlock just said he couldn't, and so James would for both of them. He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, and by the sound of it, knocked something moderately heavy on the floor in the process. He didn't care, deep in thought, until Sherlock chuckled at him.
-Are you trying to get comfortable on the floor? Don't be silly, come sit with me. I am not dying yet, am I?
James smiled, somewhat relieved at the tease. Of course Sherlock says he can't think, and then guesses what James was doing in the complete darkness just by the context. He stood up and moved to the bed, cautious of whatever was now possibly on the floor, then sat at the edge of the bed, his thigh touching something solid and warm. He ran his hand around himself to feel the rest of Sherlock's leg and climbed higher to rest against the wall.
-You know what I think?
Sherlock huffed again, quietly, and James felt the shift of the mattress as he moved beside him.
-You know I am incapable of that.
James smiled widely at the darkness in front of him.
-Well, you might as well be. I am thinking we should investigate your ghost properly. You see a mysterious lady? Let's find her. Then we'll figure out the rest.
-What if she doesn't exist, James? I don't know her, I am sure of that.
-Your brain doesn't just come up with new faces, Sherlock. It's not a thing. - James said reassuringly. When the moment lasted, he carried on. - You are just tired. Get a good rest, stop worrying about your mother, and we'll deal with your hallucination lady together. It's not the craziest case we solved, and honestly, you are not even under arrest this time. We are luckier than usual.
-Very funny, James, - he answered, smile clear in his voice.
-At your service, - James promised, jokingly imitating saluting with his hat. Sherlock couldn't see that, but he might as well guess. When he spoke again, his voice was sincere.
-Thank you, - he murmured, finally falling asleep. James hummed, choosing his answer. He listened to Sherlock's breath evening out as he reached his hand carefully, trying not to hit him in the face, and when he sensed his soft hair, he let his fingers run through it, untangling the ends. When he was sure the man couldn't hear him, he whispered:
-Don't be.
3.
His current problem was the inability to deny the obvious: Sherlock knew about his feelings. How could he not? James wasn't even hiding them properly. And what friends did the things they do on a regular? The trip to Paris with him and his mother would be the last straw, even to the most open-minded observer.
James loved him, but he also knew the future of this feeling, and it was nothing. He loved a man who didn't reciprocate and seemed to have insane chemistry with another woman. James wasn't delusional, as much as he would want to be, so he knew, from the moment he realized his sentiments, what he should do. And the answer was quite straightforward: nothing.
So, he did exactly that, and he shared a flirt here or there, because he certainly wasn't obliged to die alone from now on. A girl couldn't hurt.
Still, Sherlock should have figured it out by now. James was a little too smiley to him, a little too nice, a little overprotective, and certainly too touchy. He also couldn't stop staring at him. James wondered if they would talk about it, or at least acknowledge it at some point, but Sherlock apparently wasn't hurrying with that. Then, he took James to Paris.
Crazy twist, and ironic enough now that they established that Sherlock wasn't actually insane, and neither was his mother, ever. Now, if James distracted himself enough from his romantic drama, he would have no choice but to admit that Sherlock had other things occupying his mind. For instance, his father poisoning his mother for years, hiding his sister, or being involved in something bigger, and so on. Those seemed like reasons good enough to delay their heart-to-heart talk.
So they boarded the ferry to the continent to track Silas down. And as they shared a pleasant conversation with Mrs. Holmes in one of the lodges, Sherlock excused himself and left the room. Now, James loved his mother's company and was trying to get on her good side just in case, but after the clock showed 36 minutes pass since he left the room, James stood up as well.
He found him in the open area of the ship, hands resting on the railing, facing the sea. The wind threw his short hair in all directions, and as James came closer to him, he felt the sea drops on his lips.
-James! The inside made me feel seasick, - he greatened, cheeks and nose red from the wind. Now that he said it, James also felt his slight nausea easing. He agreed and rested his elbows alongside Sherlock's. They watched the waves in silence until James noticed Sherlock pressing his fingers in fists. James looked him in the eyes instead.
-What's bothering you? - he asked, and winced internally at the wording. A whole lot of things, obviously.
-Mostly the wind, - Sherlock answered instead and moved his hands to show his red fingertips. Surely, he followed James's gaze earlier, and guessed his line of thoughts. They both smiled at each other, enjoying the feeling of being on the same page again.
-Maybe we should get back then, - James tried, - It is not nice to let your mother alone to the boredom of the ride.
Sherlock sighed, turning his head back to the sea.
-I really can't with this nausea. - He squinted as a few drops fell on his eyelashes. - Also, it is easier to think here.
-Well, then you should find yourself a blanket or something if you are cold.
-I can't exactly stand here like I'm in my own house, can I? It's not appropriate. - Sherlock reasoned, an easy smile in his voice. For some reason, despite the cold and the seasickness, he was in a good mood. James debated his next words and decided to go with them carefully, betting on the pleasant moment.
-I have a warmer jacket you could borrow, - he said, gaze trained in front of him. He ignored Sherlock's glance with all the nonchalance he could.
-That wouldn't be appropriate either, would it? - He asked after a short pause. And, predictably, he was right: while Sherlock was clearly not a woman, and a man's coat wouldn't seem unnatural on him, the implication of borrowing another person's clothes in the cold was clearly romantic outside the closest family, even if the only ones aware were the two of them. James, for obvious reasons, didn't mind. He assumed Sherlock wouldn't either, considering all their roleplaying with the theatre's costumes and whatnot. Besides, they shared a friendship closer than some, and unless it was all in James's imagination, Sherlock was an equal participant. So, he made his bet.
-Not unless anybody found out, - he said, and after fishing the key out of his pocket, he placed it in Sherlock's palm. - Just go and get it from my room, if you'd like. Alternatively, feel free to freeze to death out here. - He smirked and patted his shoulder twice, turning away to get back. - I'll go entertain your lovely mother, if you don't mind.
-I do, - the instant reply, and James chuckled, carefree.
Later, when James got his key back and entered his room to extract his things before landing, the jacket hung precisely how he had left it. James investigated it in an attempt to determine whether Sherlock ended up borrowing it at all, but couldn't find any undeniable clues. His guess: yes, he did, because the buttons were a bit colder than the other wood in the room, but that could be caused by many reasons, one of which: his delusion.
In any case, Sherlock didn't openly confront him back on the deck, which was already something. It wasn't like James hoped for a certain development in their relationship, that would be foolish, but he saw Sherlock not being uncomfortable with him, which eased one of James's concerns. They could continue with the way things worked between them, and it was all he could ask for.
Now, if he'd like to entertain himself for a minute or two, he could speculate on why did Sherlock say it wouldn't be appropriate, "would it?"
+1
They were back from Constantinople, after all the adventures and downfalls. London met them with powerful autumn rain, and their shirts were clinging to their shoulders as they climbed the stairs in Sherlock's home, once again.
Something shifted between them after the trip, and it was almost palpable in the air. Not exactly tension; but the glances Sherlock threw his way were a bit longer, his words a bit more careful. The key in his pocket - James still didn't know what it was for. This shift made him anxious, made him wait for the inevitable: a talk, a fight, the end of their friendship - something. But it was also exciting, for some reason.
When Sherlock was shot, James was… Well, it didn't matter what he was doing prior, because the moment it happened, everything else faded to the background noise, including the people James pushed out of the way, the lethal gas spreading in the room, the culprit - the Chinese princess, again. It all didn't matter anymore, and then Sherlock was in his arms, and he was struggling in pain, and then he was pushing him away, and James obliged, because of course he did.
And then. Then James killed a man.
The shift, it happened right there. The air, it became… not worse, not better, just different for James. And although Sherlock wasn't there, he surely felt it the moment they met again. It was inevitable, after all. They were too close, too coordinated for him to miss it.
But Sherlock was alright, and he was back to planning, and he sat there at the restaurant in his light-colored suit, and the blood soaked through it. James thought he was long gone for him, but that image was certainly the last nail in his coffin. It was just something to see him in a bad-boy setting. And while for an outsider, Sherlock surely was a borderline criminal, with him being in jail more than once and whatnot; but to James, Sherlock was unyieldingly, genuinely good, and to see him sitting in a restaurant pretending he wasn't shot at just a day before was, well, he was hot.
Now they were back in his house, with his sister back and his father probably dead. And the conversation they had about the formula was unfinished, an awkward elephant in the room.
So, they walked upstairs, and James was running over his memories of their friendship in his head, and he was already sorry that it would end so soon. They were what, a month together? James knew nobody would be able to fill the hole Sherlock was going to leave in his heart and even more so in his mind.
Sherlock opened the door and let him go inside first. It was a room with a large table in the center, a big window behind it showing the raindrops winding violently against the glass. James heard a click of a lock from the door and, as he turned around, Sherlock came closer to him to help him out of a drenched jacket. He then gestured to the chair for James to sit in, and he did precisely that.
With his back to the window, James followed Sherlock with his gaze as he hung James's jacket on a coat rack, stripped his own and did the same. Sherlock then went further into a room to a cabinet from which he took two glasses and a whisky decanter. He poured them both a drink and came closer to him.
There was an anticipation in the silence as Sherlock sat on a table in front of James's chair, their knees touching, and handed him his glass. They tasted the alcohol simultaneously, and Sherlock finally spoke.
-You still haven't decided what you're going to do with the formula? - He asked, his voice light as he swirled his drink.
James couldn't find a reason to lie to him.
-I didn't.
Sherlock left his glass on a table and put his hand on James's shoulder, caressing any folds away.
-Okay, - he whispered, as he closed the distance between their mouths.
The end.