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After Constantinople, James thoroughly expected to forever be past the point of loving Sherlock Holmes; or at least past the point of wanting it to be requited.
He’d broken their friendship in a spectacular way, and it set off what was supposed to be a rivalry for the ages. Bridges burned, trust destroyed, only ever to meet again in ways that hurt. That was how it was supposed to be. Two sides of the same coin, a lost love, the perfect tragedy–because James couldn’t see a future where he could live with anything less than the power he so craved. James wanted to be a king, and Sherlock was only going to stand in the way of that.
Never mind what they could have been, because being enemies was simply how this story was meant to go: Moriarty and Holmes, to the bitter end.
And it had gone on that way for two years. Two long years, where they chased after and avoided each other in equal measure. Where James got the power and wealth he’d always wanted, and Sherlock got the truth he so desperately needed. And they did horrible things, and they said horrible things, and it felt so certain that they would never meet again unless it was to hurt each other.
But in the end, James never could escape that gravity, the incessant pull that would never stop drawing him to Sherlock, and Sherlock to him. It seemed to be a constant of the universe: once they collided, they could not be apart. The battles had been enough, at first, enough to dull the longing; but as the years wore on, James knew it couldn’t last like this. He couldn’t last like this.
And Sherlock–God, Sherlock was too good a man. James couldn’t break him, though he’d tried and tried. So, James was forced to break instead, though he preferred to think of it as a bend. A shuffle, a rearrangement.
In the end, he had chosen love, instead of power; turned to one half of his soul, and did his best to ignore the other. James Moriarty allowed himself to be tamed. Incredibly, Sherlock helped–but of course he would. Sherlock was the success story, after all, the model citizen (well, the best outcome for people like them). They were cut from the same cloth, but Sherlock had turned towards the light over and over again, from the very beginning.
James was a smart man, he could figure this out–if only he observed the model closely enough. And so, he found Sherlock, off investigating in some godforsaken part of Italy, and they made their truce. And then they bought a house.
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It was a nice house: a reasonably-sized townhome for two men, with two bedrooms that they furnished with identical large beds. They only used one of those beds, of course–but it was vital to keep up appearances, and having a spare room for any visiting Holmses was useful. The house was located in a lively part of London, where there were dance halls and restaurants and intrigue around every corner. Men like them needed plenty of interesting things to occupy themselves, if they had any hope of trying to walk the straight and narrow. Well, more of the rather curved and somewhat squidgy ‘round the edges, but they weren’t going to let their talents go to waste. That would simply be a tragedy.
Holmes & Moriarty, Private Detectives was still a relatively young business, founded six months ago, at the same time they bought their house–but business was going well. Business didn’t necessarily need to go well, between Sherlock’s family fortune and James’ wealth from the criminal empire, but it was good to know that they were succeeding. They were able to keep each other in check, with James balancing Sherlock’s tendency to apathetic boredom or overenthusiasm, and Sherlock reminding James that he was stronger than his worst impulses. They worked together near-flawlessly like that, and allowed themselves to fall back into the synchronous partnership that had always been there.
Working with, above, and around the police, they chased down killers and thieves–and spent enough time running ahead of the law and outsmarting everyone, that it calmed the fire in James’ blood somewhat. It was still nothing compared to the thrill of manipulating kings and governors, and was somewhat like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a rusty bucket, in that regard–but it was enough. Between the chases and Sherlock, it was enough.
Of course, there were still slip-ups, times when James’ impulses got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist charming his way into somewhere he ought not to be. (Or looking down at the gun in his hands, and up at the fleeing suspect, and fighting the urge to pull the trigger–and only the thought of Sherlock’s pained disappointment could hold him back.) James often found himself setting up the dominoes for something that would have fallen oh-so-deliciously, if not for Sherlock’s immediate dismantling of the nearly unintentional plots. The bastard always managed to catch him. (In some part of his mind, James could acknowledge that maybe it was because he wanted to be caught, somehow.)
It was after one of these failed and swept aside plots that Sherlock apparently decided to strike back, to take a turn of his own. James supposed he couldn’t blame him, since even the half-baked setup of the scheme had taken three hours and quite a bit of uncomfortable explaining to dismantle. Perhaps Sherlock was due a scheme of his own–but that didn’t mean James had to be happy about it.
And oh, was he unhappy about it.
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It had been a quiet day, which was unusual for them. No cases, nothing to do. They’d had a rather lovely time delaying getting out of bed for as long as possible, staying in until it was nearly ten, and having– “simulating philosophical discussions”, in that time. That was a damn good way to start a day, if James did say so himself. He went about the rest of the morning with a spring in his step, expecting the rest of the day to go just as swimmingly.
A delectable breakfast, some more kissing in the parlor, a brief turn on the piano and the violin. Retire to the library, some more kissing, read Machiavelli in the way that made Sherlock crinkle his nose, kiss the crinkles away. The kissing was very necessary–they were still making up for two years apart, and for all the raging tension of those years. Resolving it really was an excellent endeavor. A damn fine day.
It was round about three when Sherlock announced that he was leaving for the market, assuring James that he was just going to buy some ingredients for dinner. James had offered to go with him, but Sherlock waved him off–that really should have been a clue.
But alas, James had been lulled into such a state by this wonderful, ridiculous man, that he didn’t question it, settling back down in the library with a new book while Sherlock donned his hat and headed out to the market.
Little did he know, his unusually peaceful home life was about to be upended.
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James, despite himself, had begun to worry when Sherlock took nearly two hours to come home from the market. It wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to get distracted when he went out, what with that undying curiosity of his (the curiosity which was just so damnably endearing), but the market was only three streets away, and it shouldn’t have taken this long.
God, if James from a year ago could only see himself now–he’d probably keel over right then. Or maybe laugh himself sick. One of the two. As it was, he was simply worried, because Sherlock had a damn heart of gold, and was still too easily tricked by those in the dark with ill intentions (James should know, he had been in the dark, and with every ill intention). But he wasn’t going to go running out to the market just to find Sherlock, because that would be ridiculous–he was a grown man, and a very capable man, and maybe James would just give him a bit of a cold shoulder if he took too much longer to return.
So he read for a while, then worked on his latest essay, then played some truly menacing chords on the piano to vent his frustration. Then he wandered the house, rearranging things just because he could (and because Sherlock’s grumpy frowns at the rearranging helped to quell James’ eternal hunger for mischief). And then he resigned himself to reading once more, returning to the library with Machiavelli, and in a decidedly unpleasant mood now.
James would forever deny that his ears pricked up at the sound of the door opening (just like every time), or at least that the reaction was borne of anything but alertness. He stayed right where he was as Sherlock’s familiar voice called out an “I’m back, took longer than I expected,” and responded only with a nonchalant hum, refusing to allow the acknowledgment of lateness to soothe the ruffled feathers.
The feathers were going to stay ruffled for quite some time; a conclusion which James’ brilliant mind crashed to at the sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway to the library, a beaming smile on his face.
Sherlock was holding a massive orange tabby cat in his arms. A cat James had never seen before, and which he sincerely doubted Sherlock was supposed to have. It had clearly seen better days, with a slice through its ear, dirt on its paws, and dust in its light fur–but it still managed to retain a gruff sort of dignity. As though the world was merely its stage, and it would make its curtain call when it damn well pleased. At the moment, the cat seemed content enough to allow Sherlock to hold it, perched in his arms and blinking languidly, though it was still visibly sizing up its surroundings. Ordinarily, James may have been endeared by such a sight–this was different, because it was in his home.
“The hell is that?” He asked, going very still, and set his book aside in slow-motion, as though moving too quickly would trigger some predatory instinct within the intruder.
“It's a cat.” Sherlock announced proudly, and set the cat down, straight in the middle of the library. It immediately began waltzing around as if it owned the place, brushing against the furniture and leaving orange hairs behind, and then moving for James’ legs.
“Jaysus, I can see that, I mean what the fuck is it doin’ here?” He hissed, drawing back into the armchair and away from the creature. It looked up at him balefully, as though James was denying it some God-given right. This was not an acceptable situation, and was quite possibly the worst surprise Sherlock had ever brought home. A surprise was supposed to be something fun, like a new bottle of whiskey, or a delightful something related to the bedroom; this was the exact opposite of something fun.
“It was wandering around the market, and clearly didn't have a home, so I decided to give it one.” Sherlock seemed entirely unperturbed by the situation, and in fact rather pleased with himself, calmly hanging up his hat and coat like nothing was wrong in the world. “Took me a while to gain its trust, though I think it’s friendlier than the average cat. I’ve only been giving it food for a week, but I was able to carry it all the way home!” He turned to smile at James with that sentence, and James had to take a sharp breath, reminding himself to think before he spoke. God only knew how long he would remember to do that–this had been a damn plot, a scheme. And Sherlock had the audacity to act so innocent, though there was that unmistakable smugness to his smile. James saw through him.
“I won't have that in my home-” he said firmly, as though the alternative was simply unthinkable. “Christ alive, Sherlock, it's probably got every disease known to man–and then a couple more!” He tried to reason his way out of this mess–Sherlock had liked reason, once upon a time. Apparently not anymore, though.
“I disagree–it seems to be a perfectly fine cat. And it will be useful for your rehabilitation,” Sherlock announced with utmost confidence, swaying forward on his feet with that infuriatingly selfsure look in his eyes. “You need to learn how to look after a living thing besides yourself–” James opened his mouth to speak, and was immediately cut off, “–one that isn't me.”
The cat wound itself around James’ legs, and reached up to claw at the tapestry chair he was sitting in. He glared at it; it backed off. He turned the same glare on Sherlock; Sherlock did not back off. What an utter prick.
“If you keep on calling it my rehabilitation, I’ll no longer allow you the privilege of being involved in it,” James threatened, pointing an accusing finger at his best friend/former enemy/housemate/lover. At this, Sherlock proceeded to only cast his eyes skyward, as though praying for mercy, before going to pick up the accursed feline. James fumbled for the first response his mind threw at him, and flung the words like a grenade. “The cat goes, or I go.”
The effect was lacklustre.
“Come now, James, surely you know better than to attempt a bluff with me. You know it hasn’t worked since Constantinople,” Sherlock said with the matter-of-fact tone he so often adopted to close arguments, the one James never let him get away with (at least, not without ensuring the difference was made up later). He scratched the cat's ears, and the blasted thing purred like a motor engine.
“God, must you bring up Constantinople again?” James groaned, leaning back in the chair and pinching at the bridge of his nose. It spared him the sight of the cat, for a moment. “How many times must a man say that he apologizes–especially since I wasted my potential, even in my prime. Never actually toppled any governments.” He noted, with more than a touch of surliness.
“That’s not true– there was the time in the Maldives.” Sherlock raised his chin, pretending to study the far corner of the room. He was being more of a choirboy than usual today; it was both endearing, and infuriating.
“Oh, forgive me for forgettin’ the Maldives! That was never actually intentional, you know–it wasn’t my fault that the ambassador didn’t get that telegram–” he was cut off midsentence by a frustrated growl as Sherlock whipped around to face him properly, the motion jostling a displeased meow from the cat.
“People died, James! So many people were hurt because of your actions! And yes, I will never be ungrateful that you’ve changed, but you still need to acknowledge the harm you caused!” Sherlock was in a proper tizzy now, and James couldn’t entirely kill the twist in his heart at seeing the man in such a state. He could also never tell if that twist was excitement, disappointment, or something resembling pain–the confusion made him angry, but James had always been a master at deflecting, at ignoring one emotion for the sake of another.
“You’re right–of course you’re right,” he sighed, allowing himself to appear defeated, and Sherlock’s fever pitch dulled slightly, washing into familiar curiosity. At the change, James leaned forward in his chair, casting his eyes up at his friend in the way that never failed to send Sherlock reeling, and let a faint smile play across his lips. “Is there any way I could make up my wrongness to you, Sherly?” James asked, voice intentionally sinful with the possibilities of that statement.
Sure enough, Sherlock’s throat bobbed with a harsh swallow, and he had gone very still where he stood. A long moment, a stalemate, and then he spoke.
“You could make it up to me,” Sherlock began slowly, softly, and took a step forward towards James, moving into his space. Another beat, a breath, and even James felt electrified, waiting for his answer, looking up at him. Then Sherlock’s expression broke into a bright smile, confident and winning, and he plopped the cat straight into James’ lap, drawing a surprised hiss from the both of them. “By taking in this cat! For your rehabilitation. Then, I’ll think about letting bygones be bygones.”
And Sherlock, the bastard, breezed out of the room with that, humming a jaunty tune to himself (though not before running a hand through James’ curls, letting his fingers catch on the long strands and tangles, promising more, later).
James was left holding an overgrown cat that didn’t look any more pleased with the situation than him, especially as James warily picked it up to look it in the eyes.
“Well,” he sighed, and regarded the cat with a mutually unhappy expression, two inherently mistrustful creatures forced to coexist. “Sherlock’s daft for thinking you’ll keep me out of trouble, but- there’s worse things in the world.” Like being deprived of Sherlock, for one. “So, I suppose I’d better get used to having you around, eh? I'm not evil enough to try and do away with you, at any rate–but I'd watch where you put those claws, hmm? If you scratch the furniture to hell, all bets are off the table.” He gave the threat his best menace, the cold and smiling kind that usually set grown men shaking.
The cat just blinked at him, and James sighed. So this was his life now–keeping a blasted cat just to keep peace in his house. Another nail in the coffin of his former greatness; and yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to be truly angry.
Not if this life was the reward.
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(James did make it up to Sherlock that night anyway, and was just as insufferable about it as could be expected. And then Sherlock made it up to him. Things went on like that for quite some time, until they’d thoroughly lost track of who was making what up to who. Neither of them were complaining.)
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Life with the cat was an adjustment; their reputation for being easy creatures to keep was apparently all lies. Even Sherlock seemed overwhelmed, and he was the one who stole the damn thing to begin with.
There were the everyday things: the feeding was hard enough to remember (despite both having near-perfect internal clocks, James and Sherlock were remarkably prone to forgetting the time. Thankfully for its own sake, the cat had no qualms with yowling loud enough to wake the dead, if it was condemned to any more than eight hours without food. It was like clockwork–James had counted). And the cat also seemed to greatly enjoy spilling its water dish onto the floor at every opportunity (it was creative about it too–when they gave it one that couldn't be knocked over, it simply switched to steadfastly batting the water out until none remained. And then screaming at them for more.)
And even beyond that, a more sinister truth made itself known: this cat was an agent of chaos, to the level James had operated at in his prime. It took every available chance to cause mischief, including but not limited to:
❁ Knocking things off tables, sometimes very delicate and/or expensive things. Both detectives had both been a victim of this at one point or another. James had damn near lost his mind when he returned from the theatre with Sherlock, only to find his antique Chinese vase (which he'd gotten in China) shattered on the floor, the cat licking its paws nearby. Sherlock had been forced to reckon with the cost of the cat's presence a couple days later, when his microscope was the next target. (James had never seen his eye twitch quite that much.)
❁ Attempting to trip them at any given opportunity, including while on the stairs or while carrying something heavy. Sherlock had actually sprained his ankle tripping over it–James helped him up, but took his time with plenty of I-told-you-so’s in the process. (He kept his arm steady around Sherlock's waist though, gently running a thumb over the ridges of his ribs, until he was safely sitting down.) Furthermore, the cat always disguised the hazards as affection–a master manipulator. James called it attempted murder; Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.
❁ An apparently hell-bent desire to claw all their lovingly selected furniture to shreds. The amount of times this cat had brazenly bolted straight for James’ favorite tapestry armchair was insulting, frankly. And it was such a large cat that dragging it away took a fair amount of James’ considerable strength–it usually escaped anyway. (Sherlock had more luck, but it was only because he bribed the thing, which was dirty pool).
It was also an adjustment to simply have another living thing in the house. The two of them were used to doing as they pleased, when they pleased, and neither took particular liking to that being interrupted. But fortunately for the cat, they were also perhaps some of the most stubborn men in London–so the cat stayed.
James, to be completely honest (something which he tried to avoid, most days), found the cat’s presence growing on him, despite his best efforts. Perhaps his knee-jerk reaction of hatred was just somewhat excessive. As a man of logic and reason, James knew his own mind, and he could recognize that his initial response was less to the cat itself, and more to what it represented. The cat was a tame animal (theoretically): something dependent and owned. And this particular cat represented Sherlock’s attempt to tame him: James Moriarty, the shadowy figure that powerful people the world around had whispered of in fear. And although James had decided to leave that past behind, to make his best effort at changing (all so he could be with Sherlock)–there was still some of that old fight and malice in his spirit. The sort of fight and malice that hated to see such a straightforward attempt at making him domesticated.
But James was nothing if not determined and intelligent, so he tamed that reaction into the best he could: a disgruntled sort of dislike. He still had his pride to think of, after all.
He actually rather liked cats, as a rule, (terribly clever things, which he could respect), and having an animal de compagnie in the house had its advantages. Annoyingly, Sherlock had been right about its role in James’... lifestyle change (not rehabilitation). It ended up helping in unexpected ways.
Some days, they would come home from a case that had been thoroughly fucked over by some idiot constable, or a meeting where a clue slipped through their fingers, and James would still be seething. The type of rage that boiled through his blood all too often–though less, these days–and simply made him want to break. Break everything in sight, just because he could, because it would feel right, because he had that power and by God, somebody would have to take it from him over his cold, dead body.
The first few months of living here had been hard, as he learned to manage that anger, those impulses. Sherlock helped, because of course he did, and James knew it was better than he deserved. So he did his best to learn, and to his surprise, it got easier; turned out, an old dog could learn new tricks. It was still difficult, but it all felt less burning–less like a rabid wolf chasing at his heels, more like something he could tame in turn.
Somehow, the cat helped even more.
Three days after they got the cat, there was a difficult case, a useless police force, and a victim who shouldn’t have been hurt. Hell, even Sherlock was in a foul mood at the whole thing, violently twisting his hat in his hands the whole way home. James was just angry, that familiar kind of anger where he thought about breaking things, of shouting until his voice went– anything to make the fire in his veins be less.
But when they got home, the cat was sitting in the entryway, blinking lazily at them. The damn thing was sprawled out like a rug, getting orange hairs all over the floor, and looking utterly content with its life. At the sight of it, James paused, something in his mind freezing up. The cat was–completely incongruous. To his mood, to the violence that sang just below the surface of his skin, and that was just enough to disturb the spiral of anger, though it was by no means gone.
James found himself striding forward and picking up the cat, hefting it into his arms while Sherlock slowly called out his name, clearly wary of the unexpected action. He was ignored, for the moment, as James made his way straight for the den, leaving Sherlock scrambling to hang up his hat and follow.
If the cat was going to live here, it could damn well earn its keep, so James–sat down on the settee, and set the cat in his lap, and stared at it like one of his equations. Inexplicably, the cat looked back at him, blinked in mild disdain, and settled down across his legs, as though deigning to allow all this nonsense. It gently curled its claws into James’ pant leg, and began to purr, of all things, and somehow– somehow, it helped.
James was able to take a deep breath, and his heart stopped pounding in his ears quite so much, and the anger began to ebb away. On impulse, he dragged a hand over the cat’s soft fur. It was too rough, too heavy, but the cat didn’t seem to care, simply purring louder and happily digging its claws into his leg. James found that he didn’t care, either.
Sherlock slowly approached from where he had been watching in the doorway, wearing an expression of surprise that bordered on wonder. James couldn’t blame him; he was just as amazed. He sat down next to James–primly at first, as usual, but then relaxing to lean his head against his lover’s shoulder, a hand moving to rest on James’ wrist. The anger dulled further, to nothing but a flickering matchstick.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Sherlock admitted, that bewilderment still in his tone, and James huffed a quiet laugh, staring down at the cat. It was still happy as could be, unbothered by every strange thing in its new life–and for the first time, James thought that maybe it belonged here. What a ridiculous notion, but–
“It helps. Apparently,” he murmured, tone still kept begrudging, though the words were enough to have Sherlock smiling up at him, opening his mouth to say something– “And if you say I told you so, you’ll be sleepin’ in the guest room for a week.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes but let the comment slide, getting comfortable on the settee and gently squeezing James’ wrist, brushing a thumb over the pulse point. James allowed the comforting gesture to wash away the fire, and turned his head to rest against Sherlock’s hair; letting the dark strands brush against his face, breathing in the scent of him. Linen and paper and ink, and something that was his alone, like bright smiles and a brilliant mind. And James wondered again at how he was allowed to do this, allowed to be here, after everything. That Sherlock let him back in, and trusted him to be better. (Sherlock made him want to be better.)
“I won’t say I told you so,” Sherlock said after a long moment, soft and genuine. “If it helps, then that’s enough for me. I’m glad.” He gave a slight nod, as though finalizing the thought in his mind, and James pressed a kiss to the crown of his head in acknowledgment, gentler than he usually allowed himself to be.
“S’pose it’s not so bad after all,” he sighed, scratching behind the cat’s ears, which only made it purr more. “At least it can be useful this way, since it hasn’t caught any mice yet.” Sherlock snorted a quiet laugh at that, and James let himself smile, though it turned slightly more annoyed when his fool of a lover had to have the last word.
“So, the cat’s officially staying?” Sherlock asked innocently, lifting his head to look at James with eyes that spoke volumes. Mostly volumes of laughter. “Because it’s been useful to your rehabilitation?” It was close enough to an I told you so that James was tempted to make good on his promise–but maybe he was more rehabilitated than he thought, because he just rolled his eyes, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders to drag him even closer.
“Fine– the cat stays!” He announced, voice as begrudging as he could keep it, though he quickly tacked on: “But don’t you go getting any more ideas!” And when Sherlock finally laughed out loud, James couldn’t help but smile.
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It was a week before Sherlock learned the cat’s name–at least, until he learned that James had been saying the cat’s name all along.
You see, James quoted Shakespeare at least once a day, which oftentimes devolved into a major theatrical production. These reenactments usually involved most of a scene, and Sherlock’s varying degrees of enthusiasm in participation. (Though honestly, it was one of the things that endeared Sherlock most about this tempest of a man: the light in his eyes as he launched into some new scene, quoting the words flawlessly from memory alone).
As such, it was no surprise when James would cast a longsuffering “Et tu, Brute?” towards the cat, when it scratched at the furniture, or splashed about in its water dish, or laid across the book he was attempting to read.
“Et tu, Brute?” James grumbled, for the third time that day, as he dragged the cat away from clawing at one of the chairs in the library, and the creature did its best impression of a fish on land in its efforts to resume the task. Sherlock folded his newspaper down with a sigh, casting a weary look at his friend from his place on the settee. It had been two steps forward, one step back in regards to the cat. Though James had agreed to keep it, he still managed to butt heads with it on a daily basis, which often involved the sort of dramatic complaints he was so very fond of. Sherlock suspected it was a way for him to save face–as though they weren’t able to read each other like books.
“James, has Julius Caesar become your favorite play, or are you merely at a loss for words? If it's the latter, I must say, I never expected to live to see the day, and I’m rather concerned,” Sherlock drawled, tilting his head to the side and watching James. The other man set the cat down (it immediately scampered away, likely off to go plot some new mischief), and straightened once more to place his hands on his hips, looming in that disgruntled way of his.
“Oh, I didn’t realize his highness was tired of a bit of culture. You’ll have to forgive me, because it’s the only proper thing to say–creatures ought to be called by their names, don’t you think?” James snarked, and Sherlock frowned up at him. The former mastermind felt a brief thrill at the sight, the kind he’d never really managed to sort out or suppress–what could he say, repartee with Sherlock never got old.
“What on earth are you talking about, James?” And there was that curiosity mixed with annoyance, the kind that was just too damn delectable when it came to Sherlock. James’ pettiness still won out though, if only barely.
“I've decided: the cat’s name is Brutus. It seems only fitting, don’t you think?” He gave one of those lazily sharp smiles, which always managed to border on feral. It was an art form–one which Sherlock was unaffected by. He merely seemed to think for a moment, tilting his head, though James could see the light of mirth in those colorless blue eyes.
“You are aware it’s a girl.” Sherlock informed him, cordial and teasingly solemn at the same time. James actually hadn’t been aware, but it didn’t change his answer in the slightest.
“Very well: her name is Brutus. In honor of how her residence here is your betrayal of my trust. You, my dear Sherly, hath killed this Caesar!” James raised his hands to the sky, and mimed plunging a blade into his chest, complete with dying groans. Sherlock only rolled his eyes at the theatrics, so James flopped to lay across his legs in retaliation, drawing a wheeze from the detective. Served him right.
“If you’re Caesar, and I’ve killed you–wouldn’t that mean I'm Brutus, and the cat is the knife? You’re getting your metaphors mixed up, dear.” As he often did, Sherlock was getting bogged down in ridiculous details, and missing the point of the thing. Never mind that the details were maybe, technically, correct.
“Ah, ah, ah– If this cat’s to be a guiding light on my path away from the dastardly criminal enterprises of my past–” it was at this point that Sherlock’s expression had settled into a familiar put-upon frown, foretelling of a telling-off, and James quickly steamrolled through, raising his hands in surrender. “I agreed to keep it, so don’t you think naming it’s a sign of healthy attachment?” He quickly finished the sentence, and cast his most innocent look up at Sherlock, from where he still laid across his lap. There was a long moment, where Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes at him–but then he was breaking into a fond smile and trying to hide it, and James knew he’d won.
“Alright, the cat can be named Brutus. I suppose there are worse names, though it could have done without the whinging, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked dryly, and James simply smiled up at him, blinking with bright eyes.
“No, I don’t think it could have done without. Besides, it’s the perfect name for that little backstabber; she’s been out to get me, I swear– mmph–” the sentence was cut off by a kiss, soft against his lips, and slender fingers threading through his hair, gently tugging on the strands.
“You do always talk so much, James,” Sherlock sighed, pulling just a hair’s breadth away to speak. And he knew what he was doing, of course he did. Sherlock was playing him just like that violin of his, just like always, and James… Well, James…
“I think– I believe I could be persuaded otherwise, for a time. If it was a mutual sort of thing, you know,” he murmured, reaching up to run bruised and scarred knuckles in a featherlight touch across Sherlock’s jaw. And he watched in fascination, just like every time, as that expression bloomed into a smile.
“I believe that could be arranged.”
James and Sherlock met once again in a kiss far too tender for the likes of them, and a little bit more of the past washed away, as they moved further into the future.
And if that future included a house, and a cat, and mundanity–James could adapt to all that. As long as he had Sherlock by his side.
After all, the greatest victory is that which requires no battle; and here, together, it felt like they could leave the battles behind.
And they could be enough.