Chapter Text
So much had happened in such a short amount of time. James had lost his scholarship to Oxford. Which he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much about. He had broken a man out of prison. He had killed a man. He had been through three different countries chasing a mystery. The game truly was afoot. And of course he had met Sherlock Holmes.
The formulas still burned, heavy in his pocket alongside the burning shame from the way Sherlock had looked at him when he realized he had the formulas. Weapons of mass destruction and limitless wealth at his fingertips and yet James didn’t want to disappoint Sherlock. He wanted him to continue to see the good in him and he never wanted to see him looking at him the way he had when he asked him to work with him to sell the formulas.
He had to fix this; he did not yet know how he could repair his relationship with Sherlock, but he knew that he needed to at the very least try. He was his best friend, his only friend just as he was Sherlock’s only friend. He had finally found a peer who gave him a run for his money in sheer genius, but also one who cared enough to understand him. He came to a stop in front of the door that led to the room in which Sherlock was staying in at the manor in Constantinople.
“I didn’t mean to. I wanted to save you.” Soft cries seeped out from under the door.
It was worrying, truly. That Sherlock had sequestered himself away when he was so obviously not okay after all that had transpired. That he hadn’t come to James or even his mother or Mycroft.
James pushed the door open tentatively entering the room. Tentative a word no one would associate with him, always wearing his armour of confidence.
“Shirly?” he called, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock didn’t turn from where he was staring at the armchair next to his own in front of the unlit fireplace. An armchair that was conspicuously empty.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, eyes still locked on the chair.
“Sherlock, there’s no one there,” James said, drawing closer to where he was seated. With each step closer James was growing increasingly concerned as Sherlock continued to fail to react to his presence. Sherlock was usually so in tune with his surroundings, taking in every detail at a lightning-like speed, but now it seemed as if he were blind to the whole world at large.
James reached out gently grasping at Sherlock’s shoulder trying to draw him out of his own head.
“Oh, James.” Sherlock spooked as he seemed to come back to himself.
“Are you alright mate?”
“Of course, why wouldn't I be?” Sherlock asked, rising from his seat.
He made it a single step before he stumbled knocking into James. James quickly reached out to catch him, Sherlock’s skin slick with sweat and radiating an unnatural heat. He had thought Sherlock was merely lost within his hallucinations again and who could blame him after everything that had happened. His younger twin sister had come back from the dead over a decade since Sherlock had thought she had died and now he was left in the throes of the grief of his father’s death no matter how horrible a man and father he had been no matter the complications that had plagued their relationship especially as of late. And now on top of all of that there was also the guilt that must rest heavily in Sherlock’s heart over the role he had been forced to play in his father’s death. He knew Sherlock hallucinated, he wasn’t sure who else knew, but he knew. He’d seen it happen before, especially when Sherlock felt placed under large amounts of stress. This was different though, there was a cloudiness to his eyes not just from the tears that had just been streaming down his face. Something felt truly wrong this time even if James couldn’t quite place his finger on what had caused it … yet. He would come to find out though and perhaps that would help to lessen the pain and misery that resided within Sherlock’s eyes.
“You’re burning up. How long has this been going on?” James asked, taking in Sherlock’s glazed over eyes. “Stay here, I'll go find help.”
“Please, please don’t leave me too,” Sherlock begged, clinging to James' arm.
“Alright, we can go find someone together.” James reassured him. He shifted so that Sherlock was leaning against his side. He reached around to put a hand at Sherlock’s side to be able to support him as he hobbled towards the door.
Sherlock cried out in pain before slumping against him, something slipping from his grasp landing on the carpet with a soft tink. James’ hand was wet stained red with blood as the wound in Sherlock’s stomach reopened, where he had accidentally put his hand aiming to help Sherlock walk, the area around the gun shot warm even in comparison to Sherlock’s already fevered state. James was beginning to panic, he hadn’t panicked much over the course of their crazy adventure together but right now with Sherlock unconscious in his arms again he was.
He shifted slightly, lifting Sherlock up and setting him down gently on the bed. Finally spotting what Sherlock had dropped. That mysterious key, it was an old thing, its handle blackened with age. He was once more struck by curiosity at where the key had come from and what it led to. He had hardly seen Sherlock without it close at hand since he had first seen it at that restaurant, but for now he pushed it out of his mind. There were more important matters to attend to at that moment. He placed the key on the bedside table near Sherlock’s head before gently brushing Sherlock’s hair off of his pale and clammy face.
“I’ll be right back, I promise,” James said, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s burning temple.