Chapter Text
After grabbing a quick bite to eat, they headed to the bar in front of their hotel to meet Mr Davenport.
The bar was spacious, with plenty of plants and large windows that let in the afternoon light. James told the barman to bring Mr Davenport over to them when he arrived, whilst Sherlock sat down at the table in the corner at the back of the large room.
When he looked up, he saw James at the bar picking up a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
He’d flashed his charming smile at the barmaid and probably paid her a few compliments to get her to give him the whole bottle, but Sherlock forgot all that when he saw him arrive with an affectionate smile that made him melt into his chair.
James often resorted to flirting and compliments to open doors and smooth the way in their investigations, but Sherlock had realised that the smile he gave him was different. It was genuine. And Sherlock was secretly very proud of it.
He jealously guarded the memories of all the truly genuine smiles James gave him, especially the drunken ones, when they were lying on the bed re-reading theories and teasing each other.
James sat down and poured a glass for both of them, then waited for Sherlock to lay out all the facts.
“Right then. Mr Davenport and Mr Ellsworth have known each other since they were children; they grew up under the watchful guidance of Father Morwen and then went to college together.
Morwen knows about Michael Davenport’s ‘preferences’, so we can assume that David, his best friend, knew about them too.
Coming back to the present, David had recently got engaged and Michael didn’t like it, obviously because he’s madly in love with him.
My theory is that the feelings were mutual. He and Mr Ellsworth were in a relationship; Father Morwen sensed it, so he put pressure on Ellsworth's parents to get their son married, introduced him to a good Catholic girl and tried to arrange the marriage. Anything to add?”
James remained silent for a moment, as he pieced together all the evidence and events that completed Sherlock’s theory.
Bloody hell, he’s really good. He thought with a surge of pride.
Ugh, well, you’re really slow if you’ve only just realised that now. His mental Sherlock commented, standing as he examined a plant on the other side of the room.
“James?”
“No, nothing to add, you’ve been brilliant, as always” James complimented him with a proud smile, raising his glass as if to toast Sherlock. “All that’s left is to get Davenport to confirm everything. And figure out how we went from this to a murder.”
“Right, well, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” muttered Sherlock, a slight blush on his cheeks, and he sank into his thoughts, staring out through the windows
James let his gaze wander around the living room.
His mental Sherlock was still bent over the plant.
He wasn’t sure exactly when it had started, but he knew that whenever he had moments of reflection or confused thoughts, this sort of mental copy of Sherlock would appear—one that only he could see or sense, a bit like a guardian angel on his shoulder.
He behaved exactly like the real Sherlock, but since he was inside his head he also had access to all the things he didn’t say, and in recent days that meant all the intrusive thoughts brought on by that damned kiss.
What are you thinking about? asked his mental Sherlock, as if he didn’t already know.
Ah yes, that kiss again. You’re becoming a bit monotematic, my friend.
James shot him a dirty look whilst the Sherlock in his mind sat down at the table with them, his chin resting on his hand and a mischievous smile on his face.
He looked first at James, then at the real Sherlock, then back at James, raised an eyebrow and spoke.
So, what are you planning to do? Do you really think you can pretend nothing happened and keep yourself out of trouble? You, James Moriarty? Considering how things went last night, I’ll bet fifty quid you won’t last a week.
James rolled his eyes. It was incredible how Sherlock managed to be so unbearable even though he was a figment of his subconscious, even though he was right. James had to find a solution to this mess, but he would put it off for as long as possible.
Talking about feelings with Sherlock was like walking on eggshells; you never knew when one false move would cause him to withdraw into himself.
Besides, you seem to keep forgetting that he made the first move… I'm not a genius but it might mean something. Sherlock remarked with a raised eyebrow.
His ramblings were interrupted by a man dressed in grey who had stopped near their table.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, are you Mr Holmes and Mr Moriarty? The waiter pointed me to this table.”
Sherlock stood up, relieved to finally have something interesting to occupy his mind. “Of course, you must be Mr Davenport. Please, take a seat.”
Michael Davenport shook hands with both of them and sat down at the table.
Sherlock looked at him closely. He’d arrived early, so he couldn’t have been too far away—probably with his father, who, as far as they knew, was the head of a large company not too far from there.
His trousers were muddy, which was to be expected given it had rained the night before, but the splashes went too high up, a sign he’d run to get there.
His mental James appeared near Sherlock. He isn't late, so that meant he’d been in a hurry to catch up with us. Did he feel threatened, perhaps by someone?
That man was getting more and more interesting.
“So, have you made any progress?” asked Davenport. He seemed flustered and rather agitated.
“Sir, I believe so, but we need a few more details to confirm our theories.” Sherlock bowed his head and glanced at James. He was far better than him at coaxing information out of people; it would be better if James were the one to lay out the facts.
“We were recently at St Ives Church, and we met Father Morwen…”
Davenport turned pale.
“...and he, well, told us about your relationship with David Ellsworth and Miss Ravenfort. Now, based on what he told us, we have a theory, but first we’ll need you to answer a few questions.”
Michael Davenport let out a deep, resigned sigh, looked at them both and, in a defeated tone, invited them to continue.
“Father Morwen doesn’t seem to take kindly to you; are you aware of that? It’s odd, considering he was your tutor,” asked James.
“Oh yes, of course. The old man is strict about church rules, and well, as a young man I was quite a rebellious lad. Besides, he only put up with me because my father paid the church funds and because David… was my friend.”
Fine. He wouldn’t have brought it up first.
“He also told us that he was the one who introduced Miss Ravenfort to his friend. I’ll get straight to the point: as far as you know, they were in love? Or was it a marriage of convenience?”
Michael looked down at the cup of tea in front of him with deep sadness. “No, it wasn’t love,” he murmured.
James and Sherlock exchanged a glance.
“I know this is a very personal question, and that the answer may have repercussions on your life, but I assure you I would never ask you anything like this if it weren’t relevant to the case. Mr Davenport, were you and David Ellsworth lovers?”
They saw a range of emotions cross Michael’s face: shame, despair, affection, but also determination and rage. He looked up. “Yes.”
Sherlock had to suppress a smile. He was right, of course, but hearing it said and having the certainty of it was decidedly satisfying.
Davenport was clutching his hat so tightly it was losing its shape, staring at him with a look of defiance mixed with terror. At first Sherlock thought he was worried about their judgement, or about being charged with David Ellsworth’s murder, but then he understood. The police. Every now and then he forgot that for normal people that sort of activity was against the law.
“Sir, I promise you that, as far as possible, we won’t tell the police. We can find ways to keep this out of the public eye, and for what it’s worth, you don't need to fear any judgement from us.” Sherlock said, trying to calm him down, then added
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it”
He turned to look at James, hoping he would pick up on the implication. Then, unable to bear the awkward silence, he lowered his head and focused on his whiskey.
James continued to stare at him even after Sherlock looked away. Had he really said that whilst staring at him with those big blue eyes of his? There was an implication, wasn’t there? There were no other explanations.
Shit, now he just wanted to drag Sherlock into the bathroom and get it out of him, whatever that was.
Or perhaps kiss him. He didn’t understand a thing anymore.
“Mr Davenport, Father Morwen knew about this, didn’t he?” asked Sherlock.
“Yes, he’d suspected me ever since I was a boy, and he’d tried several times to separate me from David. A few months ago he found out about us and tried to convince David to leave me, saying it was a sin, that there was still hope for him. And he almost succeeded. He introduced him to Lady Annie Ravenfort and convinced the Ellsworth that it was time to marry off their son. And David agreed.” He paused to drink his tea, and probably to hide the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I sort of understood why he was doing it, and I didn’t want to be the one to take that decision away from him, so I just went along with it. But last week he turned up at my place saying he’d changed his mind—well, I made sure that he was really sure about the choice he was making, but he kept rambling on about running away together…”
“Run away together? From who? Why?” asked Sherlock, suddenly on his guard.
“I don’t know, he said they knew, that he’d already written to the relevant people to say the wedding was off. He said he’d received a reply and that they weren’t happy, that they were on their way and that we’d be better off going somewhere far away, at least for a while.
He offered me to see the world together, and I refused; I told him my work was here and there was no need to worry, that we’d find a solution. I sent him home and told him we’d meet to discuss it the next day…”
Michael ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself.
“I assume he cancelled the wedding with whoever organised it. Mr Davenport, who was supposed to officiate the wedding?” asked James.
Davenport looked at him, confused. “Father Morwen, but why…” He turned pale.
Sherlock and James exchanged a glance. The case was as good as closed. David Ellsworth had shattered the impeccable image of a respectable young man they had tried to pin on him. He had renounced the church and Father Morwen, and the priest hadn’t taken it well. The scrap of paper with the seal probably belonged to the priest’s reply.
‘They were on their way’, so Father Morwen had indeed been at the Ellsworth Maison on the night David Ellsworth was killed.
“James, you take Mr Davenport to the police,” said Sherlock, standing up. “Don’t worry. However, you are a witness and the possible murderer is still at large, so you must be placed under police protection. I’ll go and collect the evidence from our hotel room and look for Mycroft. I’ll meet you at the police station.”
“I assure you I won’t say a word of any of the matters discussed earlier,” promised James.
They headed for the exit. Davenport offered to pay the bill, and James let him walk away before taking Sherlock by the elbow.
“Are you sure you want to go on your own? We can all go to the hotel and then to the police station.”
“No, I’m afraid Davenport is in danger, and I trust you more than I trust myself to keep him safe. It won’t take long,” said Sherlock, looking at Davenport with concern.
Then he turned to James and placed a hand on his chest. “Be careful, James. Please.” James’s heart tightened at those words.
“We need to talk later, once all this is over,” Sherlock added quietly.
Oh shit. James didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but given that they were standing mere inches apart, with Sherlock’s hand on his chest and James’s on his arm, he allowed himself to hope that perhaps the outcome would be a good one.
“Ok,” was all he could bring himself to say.
Sherlock gave him a small, affectionate smile and left the café, heading towards the hotel.
James pulled himself together and looked around for Davenport. He saw him at the bar, looking at him with a sad smile.
“Well, let’s go then,” exclaimed James, hoping that Michael hadn’t witnessed the little scene between him and Sherlock.
_____
Sherlock ran to Mycroft’s room and knocked several times, but got no answer, so he headed for their own room.
Everything was just as it had been that morning: a mess of clothes, papers and various books. Neither he nor James had ever been known for their tidiness, especially when they were working on a case.
He gathered the papers from the desk, shoving them randomly into his bag, then made his way around the room to collect the books, notes and the rest of the documents.
Finally, he found a more suitable jar from the bathroom to hold the soil sample taken from the church.
He was so focused on not compromising the sample that he barely noticed the key turning in the bedroom lock.
Sherlock frowned.
“James?” he called from the bathroom. “Mycroft?”
He came out ready to give his brother a detailed explanation of what they had discovered about the case, but he froze when he saw who had entered.
Father Morwen was standing in front of the closed door. And he was pointing a gun at him.
_______
“Do you really think you and your friend will manage to hide the relationship I had with David from the police?” asked Michael as he tried to keep up with James’s brisk pace towards the police station.
“Of course, we’ll find a way. They might suspect it, but we won’t give them enough evidence to ruin your reputation or send you to prison.”
“Mm,” was all Davenport managed to mutter.
“You know, I think you underestimate your charm,” he remarked suddenly.
James frowned. People had told him many things in his life, but this was truly new. Usually, it was always the opposite.
“Uh? About what?”
“Well, about you and Mr Holmes. You seem reluctant to make a move, but from what I can tell, your friend is already quite smitten with you.”
James stopped in the middle of the street. Davenport was looking at him with an amused smirk. If James hadn’t panicked, he would certainly have noticed the nostalgia in his gaze as well.
Unfortunately, James had never been good at dealing with his feelings, and in that moment all his worry about Sherlock, their relationship, and about fifteen other things related to the last few days overwhelmed him.
He grabbed Davenport by the collar and slammed him against one of the walls of an empty alley.
“If you try to say anything against Sherlock to the police, I swear—” James growled. He was already worried enough about all the messes Sherlock got himself into; the last thing he needed was for someone to spread rumours about him.
“You’re forgetting that I’m in exactly the same situation as you, or perhaps even worse, given that I’m involved in a murder. In any case, I’m not that sort of person. I won’t say a word” said Michael sympathetically, looking like someone who’d been through it all before.
James let him go, feeling embarrassed. He remained silent for the rest of the walk, though. He had no intention of sharing his worries and feelings with a man he didn’t even know.
They arrived at the police station and James explained what had happened as best he could, omitting any compromising details and portraying Ellsworth and Davenport as two great friends and nothing more.
Then he spoke to Lestrade (James was sure he was there because of Mycroft. That was where he’d disappeared in such a hurry that morning. One more bit of gossip to tell Sherlock).
They called in a couple of officers to take Father Morwen into custody, but whilst they were getting organised, one of the younger officers spoke “Excuse me, did you say Father Morwen? He walked past here about ten minutes ago; he was heading north.”
North. Towards the hotel. Towards Sherlock. James didn’t even wait to hear the rest; he ran out of the police station.
____
“Ah, Father, what brings you here?” asked Sherlock. Probably nothing good, considering he was pointing a gun at him.
“Keep your hands in sight,” said Morwen. His voice was firm enough, but the same could not be said for the hand gripping the gun, which was shaking violently.
“It’s pointless now, Father. The police already know everything and they’ll be here to arrest you soon, whether you shoot me or not. Perhaps the murder of a single man might be more easily forgiven up there.” Sherlock said, pointing a finger towards the ceiling.
Father Morwen turned red with rage. “Shut up! I—I didn’t kill him, I didn’t want to kill him, God knows, God knows I tried, He knows it’s not my fault.” With every word, the hand gripping the gun trembled more and more. Sherlock didn’t like that, considering it was pointed at him.
“Father, why don’t you tell me what happened? I know I have no right, but maybe you can consider this a confession.”
Morwen hesitated, wondering what to do.
“I just wanted to make him see reason; I knew the devil had come back for him, I had to do something, but by the time I got there, he’d already got to him. I tried, God knows I tried to stop him, and he attacked me, blinded by evil, and God punished him, He made him fall. It was God, I didn’t push him, I swear, God purified him of the devil!”
It was now clear that Father Morwen was rambling, but this added the final pieces to Sherlock’s theory.
Morwen had gone to the Ellsworth Maison and tried to dissuade David, who, however—probably deeply shaken—had stubbornly refused. Perhaps things had become heated and escalated into an argument. It all fitted with the crime scene and the victim’s body, which had been found with his skull smashed against the wall.
He’d hit the wall with too much force for him to have simply fallen. Someone must have pushed him. And now they’d found that someone.
He had a motive – the relationship between Davenport and Ellsworth; an opportunity – the visit to the Ellsworth house; and the weapon – the shove against the wall could be considered as such.
The case was solved.
“No, no, it was Davenport, he was the one who killed him with his ideas, he left David at the mercy of the devil, and God has punished him. Oh, poor boy!” Morwen was now trembling from head to toe.
“Calm down, we’ll explain everything to the police now and I’m sure they’ll agree with you,” said Sherlock, stepping forward slowly.
“You think? No, no, they won’t listen to me; they’re all sinners, and you’re one of them!”
Father Morwen put his finger on the trigger and aimed at Sherlock. Deep down, the priest was right, Sherlock thought. If he’d known about his indecent thoughts about James…
Was he really going to die like this? He was alone and unarmed, facing a mad man with a gun. Even if he had not died there, he doubted he’d come out of this unscathed, despite his powers of persuasion.
He’d imagined a slightly more dignified death, like whilst fighting, or saving someone in the process. And above all, with James by his side. He wouldn’t even be able to tell him what he needed to say, or see him one last time.
They froze at the sound of footsteps outside the room and people trying to break down the door.
It had taken them both by surprise, and Sherlock wasn’t quick enough. Father Morwen grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in front of himself as a shield, holding him still and moving away from the door. He was surprisingly strong for his age, and Sherlock, despite James’s lessons, wasn’t yet the type for physical combat.
That was probably how he’d managed to shove David so violently against the wall that he’d cracked his skull.
The door gave way, letting a dozen officers and a terrified, breathless James pour into the room.
“Sherlock!” he started to run towards him, but Morwen pressed the gun to Sherlock’s temple. James froze in the middle of the room, unable to think of anything but Sherlock and that damned gun.
“It’s—it’s not my fault. It was God, it was God! Come on, tell him!” stammered the priest desperately, pressing the gun harder against Sherlock’s head, who stared at James with wide eyes.
James felt panic overwhelm him. They often found themselves in dangerous situations, but usually not on this scale. They’d taken a few punches and scratches, a broken rib at most, but since Paris and Constantinople there had been no gunshots or near-death situations.
If Sherlock died now…
No. Fuck that. He hadn’t gone through all that just to don't have the opportunity to making a fool of himself trying to express his feelings for Sherlock.
He moved closer slowly, whilst Father Morwen rambled on incoherently, and glanced at Sherlock. Get ready.
Sherlock nodded imperceptibly and when James was close enough, he lunged at the priest, trying to grab the gun before it went off.
What followed was a chaotic jumble of bodies and gunfire, with the officers trying to restrain the priest and James trying to shield Sherlock.
In the chaos, Lestrade managed to pull Sherlock to safety, whilst James wrenched the gun from Father Morwen’s trembling hands. By now, the priest had given up and was praying outloud.
He got back on his feet, barely aware of the officers dragging Morwen out in handcuffs. He only calmed down when he saw Sherlock on the other side of the room with Lestrade patting him on the back and telling him to join them later at the station. He left the room and shot them both a mischievous glance before closing the door.
James wasted no time. He ran across the room towards Sherlock, hugging him as if they hadn’t seen each other for months.
They’d pulled it off again.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled away just enough to check he wasn’t hurt.
“Yes yes. You?”
James nodded.
“James I was right! Father Morwen has confessed,” said Sherlock, and launched into an account of what had happened whilst James gazed at that ecstatic expression and those blue eyes, thinking only of how much he wanted to kiss him.
His mental Sherlock was right; his thoughts were becoming pretty monothematic.
“Sherlock,” he stopped him. They were still hugging each other. Sherlock with his hands on his shoulders and James with his arms around Sherlock’s waist.
Sherlock must have realised it because his cheeks flushed slightly.
“You said we needed to talk,” said James, “but I’m warning you, I’m rubbish at this sort of thing, so don’t expect some good, sappy speech.” Perhaps the thought of losing Sherlock had made him less nervous about saying what he needed to say, but it certainly hadn’t made him any better at expressing his feelings.
Sherlock smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Well, if you don’t want to communicate with words, perhaps I have another idea.”
James barely had time to give an incredulous smile before Sherlock grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him. Everything else vanished. James forgot his anger towards Father Morwen, the officers, Davenport and the case.
He forgot that they were probably still outside the door, that they were supposed to go with them. There was nothing left but Sherlock.
He wrapped his arms around him and pressed himself against him. Sherlock pulled away just enough to breathe, cupping his face in his hands with a smile.
It was too much for James. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.
“Please, tell me you’re not planning to run away again.”
It was meant as a joke, a reference to their first kiss, but it reflected much more. James had lost too many people in his life, and to cope, he had simply stopped getting attached to people, for fear that they would abandon him just as all the others had.
And then Sherlock had come along, who, despite having seen the not-entirely-ethical side of James, had made an effort to accept him into his world. He didn’t want to lose him too.
“I’m not going anywhere, I promise." Sherlock said. Obviously he understood. He always did.
"Also because my fighting skills haven’t improved, and I doubt I’d be able to escape considering how tightly you’re holding me,” Sherlock remarked, stroking his cheek with his thumb.
James smiled and held him a little tighter. “Well, you never know, after the other day.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How long are you going to hold this against me now?”
James couldn’t stop smiling. “Mm, it depends on how well you make it up to me.”
Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. He buried his hands in James’s curls and kissed him again, arching against him.
James lost all control over his actions. He let his hands wander down Sherlock’s back and pushed him back against the desk, drawing a moan from him.
“So, can we consider the matter closed?” asked James, a little out of breath.
Sherlock simply nodded and threw his arms around James’s neck.
Right, James could officially stop struggling to stay composed, which had been particularly difficult because oh God, Sherlock’s kisses were reducing him to a confused mess (and a bit more aroused than he should be, considering they’d just nearly died).
James sat him down on the desk and slipped off Sherlock’s jacket, flinging it somewhere across the room.
“We should go to the police" Sherlock gasped as James’s hands moved to unbutton his collar and began leaving a long trail of kisses down his neck.
“Do you want to report us to the police?” James asked. Sherlock chuckled.
"Do you want to go help at the police station? We can go if you want"
He was so relieved that the whole thing between them had worked out that he was even willing to put up with being dragged back and forth for hours by police officers.
Sherlock thought about it for a moment, then decided they’d manage just fine on their own. After all, Lestrade wasn’t such a bad officer.
Oh God, the kisses had made him so dizzy he was thinking things like that.
“mm no, changed my mind. I have better things to do" he said, and resumed kissing James, who melted in his arms. He slipped off his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, thinking that perhaps it would be better to move to the bed.
As usual, the universe had other plans. Or rather, his brother had other plans.
They heard the door swing open and Mycroft burst into the room.
“Sherlock, where—”
Sherlock and James jumped apart.
The two Holmes stared at each other for a few seconds before Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
“Well, I see you’re not wasting any time, are you?”
“MYCROFT, GET. OUT.!” shouted Sherlock, his face completely red.
Mycroft merely chuckled and left. “They need you at the police station for the case!” he shouted from outside, then they heard his footsteps receding.
Sherlock huffed, covering his face with his hands. He was still sitting on the desk, his shirt half-unbuttoned and out of his trousers, his face flushed and his hair tousled.
He was adorable.
He lifted his head to look at James, who was clearly struggling not to burst out laughing. Sherlock shot him a glare that was a little more affectionate than he intended.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I saw Lestrade at the police station. I think I know where your brother rushed off to this morning, if you want to get your revenge”
They exchanged a knowing smile and gathered up the documents and evidence to take to the police, not without stopping for a few stolen kisses.
When they’d gathered everything, Sherlock made to leave. He leaned against the door and looked back over his shoulder with a smirk.
“You snore when you sleep,” he said to James, and ran out of the room.
“Sorry, what??” James ran after him down the hotel stairs with a grin on his face. “Hey, what did you say??? Come here!”