Work Text:
James burst through the doors of the manor home, trembling with cold and fatigue, Sherlock heavy and limp in his arms. They dripped freezing water across the hall as James hurried through the house and into the parlor where a fire was burning low in the hearth. He called out for help but the house was silent. No one came. Not Silas, not the lovely Mrs. Holmes, not the groundskeeper or his wife. The house was dark and empty. It was as if the young men were the only two people alive in the cold, lonely house in the cold, lonely night.
Not for long though, if they didn't get warm. James laid Sherlock down as gently as he could on the floor in front of the hearth, checking anxiously to confirm he was still breathing, then hurriedly built up the fire, tossing logs and kindling onto the grate. Then he quickly and with some difficulty stripped his own dripping clothes off then rushed upstairs and ripped the blankets off of every bed he saw before hurrying back to Sherlock's side.
He draped a blanket over his own shivering shoulders then knelt next to his friend and hurriedly pulled off the rest of his sopping clothes and his shoes, trying to ignore the shared amount of skin now on display. He quickly wrapped a large blanket around Sherlock's body and began frantically rubbing it back and forth, trying to dry him off and warm him up. He ran it over Sherlock's chest vigorously, down all of his extremities and then through his hair, little chunks of ice breaking away and falling onto the floor where they quickly began to melt in the heat of the fire. James then grabbed a fresh blanket and tucked it tight around his friend, conserving some of his decency.
Finally done, James checked Sherlock's breathing once more. The young man was still unconscious and shivering but his lips were no longer blue and his skin didn't feel as frighteningly cold. Satisfied he wasn't at death's door for the time being, James rushed back upstairs and rummaged through Silas' wardrobe until he found a heavy dressing gown. Wrapping himself up in it, he padded back down the stairs. After popping his head in to double check Sherlock was still there and still alive, he went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea to warm himself up--with a few shots of whiskey as well.
Then he went back to the parlor and finally let himself breathe after the panic and hurry of the night's events. He shivered again, but less violently than before, and pulled the dressing gown tighter around himself. His skin burned and tingled, pins and needles as he finally began to warm up, but it wasn't an entirely unpleasant sensation. He eased his body down onto the floor tiredly until the two men were laying side by side, so close their noses were almost touching and he could feel Sherlock’s warm exhales on his cheek.
Sherlock was still unconscious but his breathing had evened out and he had stopped shivering. His blanket had fallen open a bit to reveal smooth, pale skin. James reached out a hand and pressed it against Sherlock's chest, soothed by the steady heartbeat pounding beneath his palm. He held it there for a moment, counting time, then pulled it back, retreating beneath the warmth of his robe once more.
It was quiet in the big house, save for the crackle and pop of the hearth. The firelight bounced off the angles of Sherlock's face in the dim room. James couldn't say he didn't notice how beautifully the plane of his nose and contours of his cheek bones looked in the dancing firelight. He wouldn't say he hadn't admired his friend's face from time to time. Sometimes, when their eyes met, he could tell they were thinking the exact same things, that they were coming to the exact same conclusions about a case, working things out at the exact same time. It was an electric feeling, intoxicating even, meeting his match, his equal. And sometimes, when their eyes met, he almost thought--
Sherlock stirred, his eyelids fluttering on his cheeks, a soft moan escaping his lips, and James froze. Then Sherlock opened his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused, and he blinked several times before he seemed to register the proximity of James' face to his. He didn't pull back though. After a moment his gaze went from vacant and confused to unbearably sad and worried.
"Did you see her?" Sherlock asked him urgently, his voice weak and breathy. He fumbled his hand out from under the blanket and grasped weakly for James arm. "It was Beatrice. It was my sister. Is she alright?"
James felt his dressing gown slip away from his shoulders a bit as he grasped Sherlock's searching fingers with one hand, pressing the other gently to Sherlock's cheek. "There was no one there," he said softly. "Your sister is gone Sherlock."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight as a single tear slid down his cheek.
"I think I'm losing my mind," he whispered fearfully.
James brushed the tear away with his thumb. "You listen to me. Your mind is a beautiful, incredible thing. You're not losing anything. It's just....this house. These memories. Seeing your mother and father. You're under too much stress Sherley."
Sherlock breathed out a whisper of a laugh at the use of the nickname only his family used. Then he opened his eyes again and met James' gaze.
"Are you alright?"
"Right as rain," James replied loftily. "Cold water is good for the constitution. Besides, we Irish are used to the chill and the damp."
He looked down, noticing that Sherlock's fingers were still grasped tightly in his own. Neither man pulled back. James' hand was still on Sherlock's cheek and he slowly ghosted it up his temple and into his damp hair, brushing it back away from his forehead. Sherlock's eyes drifted shut again beneath his touch. He shivered ever so slightly and James pulled the blanket higher up to his chin, tucking it around him once more.
"James..."
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I'm glad you're here with me," he murmured as he drifted off again.
James smiled.
He'd never expected anyone to come into his life and crack his heart open like ice on a lake. No one had ever gotten close before. And then he'd met this man. This brilliant, idiotic, couldn't-throw-a-punch-to-save-his-life man. And they had just clicked. As if their minds and souls were one. James had never expected to find anyone he respected so much. Or cared about so much.
The moment when Sherlock had fallen through the ice and disappeared from his view was one of the worst moments of his life. Rivaled only by when Sherlock had lain lifeless beneath his hands in the snow.
But now he was here in front of him, warm and alive and breathing once more and James had perhaps never felt happier or more at peace. He pulled the dressing gown a bit closer around his shoulders but left a hand free, resting on Sherlock's arm, holding him in place beside him. He wasn't letting go again.