Chapter Text
To be perfectly honest, when Mycroft had pulled a few strings and so graciously acquired him the most esteemed position of 'scout,' he felt as if he has lost a game of chess he was not aware was being played. His dearest brother had used his desire for education and curiosity as a lure. A game well played.
But Sherlock was not one to let opportunities pass him by, no. While 'scout' was not his ideal position at Oxford, it did grant him access to a wealth of knowledge he had not possesed before.
….
Sherlock felt as though he had met a kindred spirit in one James Moriarty.
He did not easily make friends as his brother and mother are quite aware. He's too outspoken, too chatty, too much. But not for James. Never before had he met one who not only could verbally spar with the best of them, but seemed to genuinely enjoy being in his company.
They immediatly caught on like a spark to a flame. The connection was instantaneous—the mutual respect of intellect, the thirst for knowledge, the desire to achieve more knowing they're capable of greater things. Perhaps maybe a hint of wild ambition and spontinaity that manifested through adhrenline-fueled actions. James stoked the fires of Sherlock's mind and was not persay, a bad influence, but did not disuade the more impulsive musings that crossed his mind.
…
He had fully intended to honor his mother's request of "staying out of trouble." It's truly not his fault that trouble is so attracted to him—more so than any person ever has been. He was not surprised at all when the blame for the missing scrolls fell on him. He was the one with the record, he was the one recently released from prison. It is only a natural conclusion that he would have been the one guilt for this theft. Though oddly conveneint timing for such an event to occur the moment he stepped foot on the campus grounds.
Normally this would be a situation where Sherlock would take matters into his own hands. But oddly enough, he wasn't alone. James was still there. He had not left him hung out to dry, but stayed by his side and offered a second and most valuable opinion.
….
Deep in his gut was a gnawing feeling of guilt as the case became more convoluted—this was not just tracking down missing scrolls, but dealing with dangerous people with political influence—and he had gotten James so intertwined there was no way out. But he genuinely seemed to be enjoying it.
It is possible, similar to himself, James had felt adrift, aimless and this new calling of adventure, mystery, and intrigue had given him a new sense of purpose. No longer being tied down to the stuffy halls of Oxford. No longer reading novel after novel of adventure but experiencing it first hand. It felt as though this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Where did that all go?