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They're sitting in Sherlock's childhood bedroom. It's a tiny corner of the house, really, nothing much more than an attic. The ceiling is an angled arch instead of flat white, with rattling glass windows looking out onto the moody grey sky. There's a faint scent in the air of candlewax and dust, tinged with the same crumbling feeling that had settled onto James like a childhood blanket the moment he saw the house from the end of the long path.
James and Sherlock are sitting on the dust-sheet-covered twin beds, facing each other. James has his feet flat on the floor and his knees relaxed and wide, while Sherlock has one ankle tucked behind the other and is peering at a slip of paper intently. The way he's hunched has made the shoulders of his jacket sit slightly higher than his actual shoulders, and it has the comic effect of making him appear somehow even more slanted and narrow.
It's obvious that Sherlock isn't going to say anything any time soon, so James stands up and goes to look out the window, hands in his trouser pockets. The sun is beating down onto the grass, and he watches each individual strand waver in the gentle wind for a minute, letting his thoughts wander. He's never been one for long trains of dedicated thought, or long and dedicated schemes at all, and though there's a case to be had, he isn't focusing on it as much as some might say he ought to be. Him and Sherlock are different and similar at the same time in that respect: Sherlock could have easily been in Moriarty's position, a student not a scout, if he had bothered to apply himself and appreciate the gifts he had been born with, yet when it comes to getting to the bottom of something bothering him, he has the drive of a bloodhound.
'Come on, Sherlock, we've been at this a long while,' he says to break the silence, still looking out into the garden. 'Time to do something different.'
'What do you suggest?' replies Sherlock, raising an eyebrow but not his eyes.
'Oh, I don't know. We could go out on the lawn, play a round of something. Cricket, or croquet, to your taste.'
'I'd much prefer to remain in here,' comes Sherlock's flat reply.
James twists around, spinning on the heel of one foot.
'There's still a lot of fun to be had, then,' he says, wheedling his way through the words in the most persuasive way possible. 'Come on, show me around. You grew up here, it's almost unfathomable to think that you haven't shown your best friend the secret ink stains under the bed,' he jokes.
Sherlock actually looks up at that, and he folds the paper away, leaving it on the bedside table. James wanders over to the bookshelf, picking up titles at random and flicking through the pages. There are biographies and autobiographies, as well as various Austen, Brontë, and Dickens novels.
'The Woman in White,' he reads aloud, then glances towards Sherlock. His expression is hard to read in the dim candlelight, but he appears to be smiling. 'I suppose I ought to hand it to you, you know your Wilkie Collins. Personally, I would have picked The Moonstone, if I had to pick. Now, should I put that back with the autobiographies?'
'I'm not quite there yet,' says Sherlock. James grins to himself.
'Well, you're a lot more interesting than that rot,' he says as he snaps it shut, sending a cloud of dust flying into his nostrils.
'I have to agree with you there. It's not very well-written,' he replies, a touch derisively.
James pauses on the tone of that response for a minute, and decides to see how far he can take this.
'Well, real life is worse. Can you imagine if this were a novel? We would be too quick for readers to keep up. You especially.' He leans in a little towards Sherlock for that last bit, smiling that little sparkling smile that worked any day of the week on most women (and some men).
'Thank you, James,' said Sherlock after a pause. 'You're very kind.'
James makes a show of glancing towards the door and back again. He has a bet to place, or a gamble to make. It should pay off: there have been enough moments in the past week where he felt that he could have done what he's about to do with absolute certainty that it would be well-received. Maybe Sherlock isn't sure or doesn't know what he's feeling, but James knows he's feeling it.
'Nobody is going to come and disturb us,' he says, dropping his voice down so it's husky and barely audible if Sherlock doesn't lean in.
Sherlock gulps. James watches his Adam's apple bob, the shadow on his throat shifting and morphing with the motion. It's so obvious to him that it must be obvious to Sherlock too – or maybe he's saved by virtue of apparently being Sherlock's only experience of human social contact – but there's an attraction that's drawn them together since the very first moment their eyes met in Formal Hall. Like the way electricity is drawn through a circuit, he is drawn to Sherlock.
He leans even closer, keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock's.
'Stop me if I'm wrong,' he whispers, and then he closes the gap between them in a kiss.
Sherlock doesn't stop him, instead bringing his hand up to the back of James' head, combing his fingers into his hair. The sensation of fingertips working gently against his scalp is intoxicating and yet so, so simple.
God, they could have this forever. They both want it, why shouldn't they have it? Why shouldn't this be the way it turns out? They could tell the world that they're simply friends in business together, and nobody would know any better. He'd come to all the Holmes family dinners, they wouldn't question it, they could probably sneak off while Cordelia and Mycroft discussed some current affairs or something equally boring, Beatrice – Beatrice. Where's Beatrice? Why is Beatrice there? – Beatrice wouldn't even notice. Probably wouldn't even notice.
They could go so far, do anything. But they'd keep themselves in check. They'd be careful.
There'd be no soldiers. No fire. Nothing. James would go back to university and get his mathematics degree, Sherlock would get some kind of a job, they'd rent some rooms, it would be fine. It would have been fine.
James opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
It was no use.
The stripes on the paper covering the damp ceiling made it difficult to work out how far away it was. Sometimes when he woke up in that room he felt as though the ceiling was pressing on him.
The room was suffused with early morning light. It had crept in without his noticing, despite the fact that he had been lying awake for hours, and all the mould-tinged corners of the room were gold for five minutes.
He turned his head ever so slightly to Beatrice's sleeping face, sprawled on his bare shoulder. He didn't spend much time looking at her face in any other context; they had more pressing matters to get to. Even asleep, one of her brows was perpetually raised, and her upper lip curled in the precursor to a snarl. Sherlock never looked like that. Did he like it more than Sherlock's constant drawn brow and bright eyes?
He shut his eyes again, trying to summon the tail end of his train of thought back to the forefront of his mind's eye. But the details were hazy, and after a moment he gave up and gave in to the backs of his eyelids.
The landlady would want to be paid the month's rent later that day. Though they barely used the rooms, it was good to have them on hand, so he had to find the cash somewhere.
He could just take it from someone.
Maybe he should have felt worse about that than he did, but it was just a fact, just a step to a dance he was coming to realise he had known since he was born.
Beatrice liked that dance. Sherlock didn't.
Unbidden, the image of the French soldier entered his mind. The feeling of a gun against his palm and the quiet electrification of having it on hand whenever he wanted it – that was a sensation he liked. But it should have been counterbalanced by some reaction to the means by which he had acquired it. Mathematically, it should have been symmetrical, even. Morally, he should have felt something.
He didn't feel anything. And that was what sickened him.
Shou'an had told him that it got better. But it was supposed to start bad. Why hadn't it started bad? Why had it been fine? Why was he fine?
Beatrice was more like him than Sherlock; her mouth pressed against his skin felt like the touch of a corpse, or a disease. This was the edge of a precipice.
He thought back to Sherlock, to all the things that hadn't happened in that tiny room. To Cordelia. To Mycroft. To the look in Silas' eyes when he revealed the nerve agent and the gleam of a hundred nations' wallets reflected in his black pupils.
He remembered his mother. He remembered her death.
Well, it would be morning proper in an hour or so. He had plans. He had distractions. He had ambition and a future that had the potential to give him everything he wanted, in exchange for qualms he was coming to find he didn't have and the one person he wanted above all else.
For now, he didn't want to wake Beatrice.