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“Sherlock?”
James' voice floated around his head, the man unable to see into his imaginative mind this time. Not that there was much to see anyway, what with the darkness surrounding him completely and only the stickiness of blood on his hands to keep him company.
He hummed dismissively.
“What are you seeing?”
“Nothing,” he answered honestly. “It's all that's left. Nothing.”
James chuckled. “Whatever you mean by that?” And Sherlock could so clearly hear the smile in his voice, it was intoxicating. “I told you already, you and I? We can do great things! We already have, why not keep at it?”
Sherlock wasn't stupid and James knew it. He kept hinting at it, suggesting it without repeating himself, and as much as he despised the idea, Sherlock simply couldn't bring himself to say no out loud.
“That's not it,” he said instead, taking a moment to recompose himself. He breathed in, opening his eyes again, looking at James' face, who was already staring back. “The lies, the stories, they're over now. We've done it, you said it, however… I don't feel quite proud.”
It was such a displacing feeling, finally getting to face that his entire life was built on lies, that his family stood on a facade.
James kept looking at him.
“I could've gotten her out sooner, believed her. Spared her the pain,” he frowned.
“Sherlock—”
“No, James. All it took was believing her, it was so simple, all this time… I've been a terrible son.” His mother's screams and cries on the recordings, Silas' blood on his clothes. “I couldn't even save him.”
James' smile fell. It was a rare sight, to catch him without his signature smirk on, to see him take something quite so seriously. “There was nothing you could have done,” he said heavily. His voice sounded perhaps a tad angry, too.
Sherlock simply shook his head. “I keep failing them. In some way or another, undoubtedly, it is my fault.”
A warm hand fell upon his own. He'd been sitting on his bed, James on the chair by the window, but before he realized it, his weight shared the bed by his side. It was welcoming, and it made some of the great sorrow set in his heart fade away. His fingers moved against Sherlock's hands, rubbing it gently. It was the kindest James had shown him yet.
“In some way or another, undoubtedly, it is not your fault, either.”
He hummed again, dismissively. He didn't believe the words and they both knew it.
Yet, he turned his hands upwards, gripping his fingers against James'. His heart beat quietly in his chest, for no one but himself to hear. They were alone in his childhood home's bedroom, his mother gone with Mycroft in the city for the night, tired of being hauled up inside a room.
Sherlock knew what James wanted, he recognized the greed in his person, saw him reach for greatness when it was already well within his reach, and yet…
“You know, your sister called me your sidekick once,” the man said, interrupting his trail of thoughts.
He frowned, changing his gaze from their fingers back to his face. “She did?”
James smirked. “She did. It was quite the speech, really, but I don't think she quite realized something fairly important.”
“And what is that?”
A breath brushed by his cheek as the other man moved closer to whisper in his ear. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat quietly.
“I wouldn't mind being by your side at all times, not at all. Someone needs to remind you how foolish you can be when blaming yourself,” he muttered, a smile still predominant on his growly voice.
Rough fingers still over his, James' other hand ventured on his waist, grabbing it softly.
Sherlock tried to remind himself all the times his friend lied to him.
Never.
He might be manipulative, hungry for power, violent even, but James hadn't lied to him, not even when he wanted him to. He was here now, was he not? Sitting by his bed, holding him however improperly, sharing his home still. He hadn't left, even when he could, even when he should have, they both knew it.
Even if it was a lie, then… he'd be willing to believe it.
It would be easier that way. He was already hurting enough, but to believe his first, his one friend would lie to him about this, it was… It was best truly believe in him. He hadn't given Sherlock reason not to (forget the equation, it was not time to think about it).
He hummed, interested, this time. “Would you not?”
They were fully facing each other, now, legs awkwardly touching. James tightened the grip on his waist, moving his face back from his ear to look at him in the eyes. His breath was hot, and he was so awfully close, Sherlock felt it upon his lips.
“I would not,” he repeated lowly. “Although we both know I am not your sidekick. Actually, it would be more of the contrary, no, scout?”
Unable to help himself, he snorted. James' touch didn't budge. “Perhaps.”
“Now that's something I would not mind.” His face moved even closer, their noses brushing. “You as my sidekick, by my side.”
It was easier, to ignore the meaning behind the words. To get lost in the warmth, the hot breath against his, feeling what he was supposed to be feeling. It was easier, to let himself fall into James' arms and let go.
The heavy sorrow in his heart easily made space for the burning want, no, the scalding need of the man's body on his.
So, with a sharp inhale, Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself believe the lie.
The lie that this could work, that as comforting as it was, it could last forever. That James wouldn't leave, wouldn't lie to him, wouldn't keep running.
It was easier to fall back into the darkness, empty his mind and purely feel James' mouth on his… His hands hastily falling under his vest, pushing it off, finding his tender skin underneath it, the ache of the healing gunshot wound. It was more than easy, it was pure ecstasy to let the other man push him into the bed, shove his tongue into his mouth and oh so improperly take him apart completely.
Sherlock did not want to think about the pain, the guilt, or the grief.
Therefore, it was indeed easier to believe the lie—that this would last.