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Dynamite smelt remarkably similar to burnt almonds. It was a scent Sherlock was accustomed to — Mrs Crowle had a particular fondness for almond cookies and had on more than one occasion overcooked them on account of having to suddenly rush to the garden, or the balcony, or wherever Sherlock had happened to be causing trouble. Now, instead of a stern yet fond telling-off, James Moriarty’s overly optimistic humming filled the room. He’d lit a fire, crackling in the hearth in a desperate attempt to mask the acrid smell with the more palatable musk of woodsmoke, and now appeared to be pouring them both a drink. Sherlock didn’t know from where his friend had procured this particular bottle of whiskey, but he was grateful all the same.
Sherlock sat back in the worn chair that had come with his lodgings and watched James work, humming jauntily to himself in a way that Sherlock should really have found annoying. He did so hate company when he was working on something, but on this occasion the promise of a kindred spirit and the soft relief of alcohol didn’t seem too bad. James moved with ease as though this wasn’t his first time in Sherlock’s room, as though he’d always known to throw his jacket on the hook behind the door and to fish two glasses from the cupboard by the bed. It felt routine in a way Sherlock appreciated, the anxiety he normally experienced at having to adjust to a new variable in his space was lessened by James’s effortless ability to slip into Sherlock’s life.
Sherlock nodded once in thanks as James handed him his drink, dangerously lopsided and threatening to spill its contents at any moment. It seemed fitting that every aspect of James’s life should come with some risk, whether it be retrieving stolen scrolls or simply pouring a drink. Ah. The scrolls.
“So what exactly are we celebrating?” Sherlock questioned instead of drinking, despite the allure of the whiskey in his glass. “We haven’t solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb, or why,”
James threw himself into the only other chair, a tattered velvet-covered thing that creaked under the sudden load. He’d stopped humming now, but the grin Sherlock had become so accustomed to still tugged at his lips.
“Well we aren’t dead, for a start,” He shrugged, before giving Sherlock a once-over and raising an eyebrow. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Though you certainly look it. I assume that hurts?”
Sherlock frowned in confusion, immediately followed by a wince as the movement of his eyebrows pulled at a wound on his forehead. He raised a careful hand to his hairline and it came away tacky with blood, but the sting was minimal.
“It looks worse than it feels. Head wounds always bleed extensively,”
James nodded, before downing his drink in a single gulp. Sherlock didn’t watch the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, he didn’t. Perhaps he needed that drink after all.
“To still living, I suppose,” He offered, raising his glass in a one-sided cheers before copying his friend and drinking. It was good whiskey, really good, which only further cemented Sherlock’s suspicion that James must’ve stolen it at some point on their journey back. Was it when he’d been looking at Bea? How long had he been distracted by her?
“I suppose you aren’t going to let this one go, are you?” James’s voice brought Sherlock back to the present. He was staring intently, eyes dark in the firelight and fixed on Sherlock’s own. There was something so intense about that stare, captivating in a way Sherlock hadn’t experienced even upon meeting the fairest lady, dangerous in a way he hadn’t encountered even in prison. It lured him in all the same.
“You mean to tell me you’re okay with not knowing who in our midst is a terrorist? Or who they were trying to target? Half the college was supposed to be at that ceremony, it could have been any—”
“Alright, alright,” James waved a dismissive hand. “I didn’t say I was leaving you to solve it alone. I just wondered if there was any way I might convince you it wasn’t our concern,”
“There isn’t,” Sherlock said with finality. James watched him for a moment, the popping of burning wood punctuating his next words.
“Fine then. We’ll be back at it tomorrow. For now, another?” He gestured to the empty glass in Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock passed it over wordlessly.
“I don’t follow,” He admitted when his refilled glass was pushed back into his hand. Rough fingertips brushed his as James pulled away.
“Hm?”
“Do you not think you’ll have your scholarship returned to you?”
James frowned, taking a more calculated sip this time. Sherlock followed suit, savouring the burn on his tongue.
“Of course I will. I’ve been exonerated.” He said, slowly, as though waiting for Sherlock to disagree.
“Then this isn’t ‘our’ concern, it’s mine. What could you possibly have to gain from taking the case?”
James quirked an eyebrow and laughed – a sharp, sudden thing, somehow more alluring than grating. Rather than answering Sherlock’s question, he proposed one of his own.
“What do you?”
Sherlock blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“What do you have to gain, Sherlock?” James grinned, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together. Sherlock finished his drink if only to give himself something to do other than become trapped in the net that was James Moriarty’s stare.
“The truth, pure and simple,” Sherlock said once he’d put down his glass.
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple,” James countered immediately, but Sherlock knew a deflection when he heard one.
“You still haven’t answered my question,”
James quirked that damn eyebrow again and refilled their glasses.
“What’s the matter? Can’t deduce it with that overactive imagination of yours?”
Sherlock huffed. He’d rather not make any deductions when it came to James. Something told him he wouldn’t like what he’d find.
“Would you just tell me?”
“If you admit you can’t read me,”
“I can read you just fine, James. I simply cannot be bothered at present.” It was a weak lie, and they both knew it. James settled back into his seat with a smug smile, raising his glass to his lips. Sherlock had lost count of how many he’d had by the time he was refilling his own, something about this conversation required him to be inebriated. James’s eyes had not left his, even while sipping at his own drink, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if the flush on his cheeks was from the whiskey or the company.
“If you cannot be bothered to try, then I cannot be bothered to tell you,”
Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and feeling his head spin to process the action.
“Fine. I’ll humour you,”
James smiled, pinwheeling his hand in the air and dipping his head in a sarcastic bow.
“How magnanimous of you,”
Sherlock didn’t deign him with a response this time, instead closing his eyes and letting his mind swim into focus. The crackling of the fire and the clack of wheels on the cobblestone below faded out as Sherlock retreated to the familiarity of his head. It was nicer here. Calmer, easier to exist without the beckon of James’s gaze and the promise of his smile. No, here Sherlock was alone, and safe, and he could do what he did best. Deduce.
He was laying a handkerchief on Mycroft’s lap. Or rather, he was watching from in front of the table as a past version of him laid a handkerchief on Mycroft’s lap. Sherlock frowned, confused as to why this of all moments was where he had ended up. He watched past-him adopt a cockney accent, smiled at the pure astonished annoyance on his brother’s face, and once again admired his own handiwork as Sir Hodge’s watch was taken from right under the man’s nose. He was about to wave away the memory in favour of something more relevant to his purpose when a whistle behind him made him jump and whirl around.
“Jesus!” Sherlock clutched at his chest as he met James’s smug face. The memory had frozen now, or at least time had stopped progressing, and all the characters were staring at them with uncomfortable expressions, like they didn’t quite know where they were or what to do about it.
“A good place to start,” James commented as he looked around at the memory, and Sherlock frowned.
“What? But you weren’t even—” He paused as he looked over James's shoulder and saw another version of his best friend, seated and wearing his robes, with considerably less blood on his face. Lord, this was going to get confusing quickly. In the interest of clarity, Sherlock decided that the memory version of James should now be Moriarty, and the memory of himself Holmes for good measure. Other than Holmes, Moriarty was the only character who didn’t seem confused by what was happening. Rather, he was staring at Sherlock with that same electrified look, as though he knew he was but a facsimile of the real James and didn’t care one bit. Sherlock turned his attention back to his friend who had so rudely intruded on the sanctity of his mind.
“You were there,”
James smiled.
“Evidently.”
Sherlock frowned. Had James picked this memory to replay? Could he do that? It was strange enough sharing this place with another, but the idea that he may not even be in control of his own thoughts was… well, it was something for sober him to ruminate over. For now, he had a job to do. James seemed to sense this and stepped aside, watching Sherlock as Sherlock watched the memory, and the scene restarted. Moriarty was staring down at his plate, pushing steak around with a silver fork. Glad not to have all the eyes on him any more, Sherlock walked over, hovering behind Moriarty's shoulder.
“Overcooked,” James supplied from behind him, causing Sherlock to startle once again. He really must get used to sharing this space.
Suddenly, Moriarty turned. Sherlock held up a hand and the memory paused, giving him time to walk back to the center of the room. From here, he could see the entirety of the hall. Holmes was refilling Hodge’s wine, and Moriarty… Moriarty was looking at Holmes. Not just looking, staring, with that deep, intentional gaze Sherlock had come to know well. James was doing much the same to Sherlock, scanning his face for something. Recognition, maybe? Realisation? Sherlock discarded it and turned his attention back to Moriarty. He was staring up at Holmes from under his brow, that usual smirk gone now that he wasn’t being observed. Sherlock felt his stomach swoop. He blamed it on the alcohol.
“You were watching me,” Sherlock said, voice low. James nodded. “And I didn’t notice,”
“I believe you were rather busy with that,” James gestured to the table of professors and the memory resumed. Holmes expertly lifted the watch and Moriarty’s concentrated expression morphed into one of entertainment, perhaps even admiration. It was the most genuine smile Sherlock had ever seen on the man, and it hadn’t been meant for his eyes. He turned to James as the memory wound to a close. James just stared, poker-faced, for once not smiling. There was something Sherlock was missing, and James was clearly waiting for the penny to drop.
“I don’t understand how any of this relates to you taking the case,” Sherlock admitted frustratedly as memories whirled around them. “You have nothing to gain from staying,”
James smiled, nodding at the rush of memories on either side of them.
“You enjoy playing detective. Find a motive.”
A classroom materialised around them. Students were filing out one by one, followed by Professor Thompson, and yet Moriarty stayed. He was in the corner, concealed in shadow, and watching the doorway intently. Holmes stepped through moments later, picking up the chalk and staring at the quintic scrawled there. They watched Moriarty stand.
“You knew I’d come,” Sherlock murmured, mostly to himself. James said nothing.
Instead of approaching Holmes immediately, Moriarty moved silently behind him as he picked up the chalk and stared at the equation. He was watching, silent, calculating, disturbingly predatory. How had Sherlock not noticed his presence? He’d assumed James had forgotten something, came back to get it and bumped into him. Clearly, he was wrong. Sherlock watched with a certain level of awe as Moriarty paused and took a breath before plastering that signature grin on his face.
“You’re having trouble finding the solutions?”
Sherlock turned to James as the conversation he remembered well played out in front of them.
“It’s amazing how you do that.”
James tilted his head in questioning, and Sherlock gestured vaguely to where Moriarty was smiling whilst accusing Holmes of theft. James grinned, a mirror image of his counterpart.
“Effortless,” Sherlock commented, studying James’s face like one might a science experiment. James chuckled.
“Do you really think me so shallow? I’ll admit to putting on a smile for you on this occasion,” He gestured to the past versions of themselves, “But I don’t tend to keep up the act for very long. People have a habit of boring me,”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“But not me?”
James smiled. It was softer, but just as sly. Knowing.
“No. Not you. With you I am nothing but sincere,” He said it with an air of sarcasm, but Sherlock believed him for reasons he couldn’t explain. He didn’t like the way his heart fluttered, like it was a compliment and not an admission to being insincere in almost every other scenario. He turned back to the memory.
“The fundamental fault of man is to think the enemy is external and not internal. Prison is in here, not out there,” Sherlock cringed as he watched Holmes deliver the quote. Why had he been so eager to impress? To show this scholar he’d never met that he was not just a lowly scout, but an intellectual. Moriarty’s resounding laugh snapped him out of his self-deprecation. Sherlock hadn’t had time to properly take it in the first time, his mind too busy trying and failing to fit James Moriarty into a neat category so that he may dissect and understand the man. Well, he’d given up on that a long time ago, and now Sherlock allowed himself to just watch. Moriarty tipped his head back and laughed harder than he ever had since, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It was endearing. Sherlock was amazed he hadn’t been overwhelmed at the time with the gravity of the man before him. The laugh wasn’t even directed at this version of him and yet he felt his cheeks heat all the same. James coughed and Sherlock realised suddenly how close he’d gotten to Moriarty. He quickly stepped back, refusing to look at James for fear he’d give himself away. Give what away, he wasn’t sure exactly, but he preferred to be in control of his emotions at all times and James made him feel anything but.
“Look at you with your Art of War,” Moriarty grinned, and Sherlock could hear the pleasant surprise dripping from his tone, much easier to spot now that he knew James well. Moriarty’s voice was smooth, Sherlock would’ve said sultry if he didn’t know better, as he introduced himself. It was a tone Sherlock had only heard him adopt when talking to a particularly dashing female, or when he needed something. Is that what this was?
Sherlock rounded on James as the memory churned back into the nondescript whirlpool of time around them.
“You want something. You’re staying because you want something,”
James smiled, eyes shining in the light.
“I suppose you could say that. What gave me away?”
“Your voice,” Sherlock took a step closer, glad to be regaining his footing in what was usually his domain entirely. “The tone of voice you used when you first met me. You’ve adopted it all evening. You wanted something then, and you want something now,”
James raised a smug eyebrow.
“Tell me, Sherlock,” He was doing it on purpose now, adding a smooth edge to his words, “What did I want back then? When we first met?”
Sherlock faltered. He hardly noticed James move closer as he scrubbed through what had transpired after their initial meeting.
“You wanted me to show you the scrolls, so you could steal them,”
James rolled his eyes.
“I made a passing comment. Besides, I didn’t steal them. Really, Sherlock, you can do better,”
Sherlock flushed in annoyance. It was a lousy deduction. No, guess. James was enough of an enigma to leave him guessing.
“You’re clearly stuck, so I’ll give you a hint,” James purred, “Have you considered that perhaps whatever I wanted back then is still my goal? That I’m staying because I haven’t yet gotten it?”
Sherlock stared, brain racing to consider this new perspective. He wondered what James could possibly want from him – Sherlock had already revealed any knowledge he may have gleaned from his time as a scout thus far. His family were certainly well-off, but if James had wanted money there were easier ways to go about it.
“Perhaps another memory ought to do the trick,” James suggested, and Sherlock sighed. He looked at the whirlwind of scenes around them. Rather than the usual process of Sherlock focusing on a memory, locating it within the swirl and pulling it to the foreground, this memory seemed to materialise of its own accord. The scene painted around them was of a bedroom, blue-grey walls and a window onto the grounds below, shrouded with darkness. Moriarty was in a chair at his desk, lounging comfortably with a bottle of whiskey he’d swiped in an outstretched hand. His words were slurred, languid as he spoke about some class he’d attended that day. It was half-gibberish, but Sherlock wasn’t concentrating on what he was saying.
“I don’t remember this,” He said, frowning as he took in the candle-lit planes of Moriarty’s face. He turned slowly, ignoring James’s strangely smug expression. He located himself looking out the window, swaying obviously.
He remembered the period before this well — they were riding the high of having shown up that pompous fool at the party, sloshed off stolen liquor. They’d left the library and stumbled, laughing like schoolboys up the stone steps to James’s room. Sherlock remembered entering. Remembered the smell, the elation at uncovering a new piece of James. He remembered the hiss of a match being struck as James must’ve lit a candle, and he remembered staring out at the stars through the tall window. Then he remembered waking up in pitch black, stumbling out of the room at God knows what hour and somehow making his way back to his own lodgings off-campus. Moriarty was still talking animatedly, waving the bottle to emphasise his words and not noticing that Holmes was practically asleep where he stood. Holmes leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down until he fell unceremoniously to the floor. Moriarty startled at the noise, his rambling ending abruptly. Holmes was already asleep, tilted back against the wall, limbs splayed out like a ragdoll.
Sherlock frowned, turning to James.
“This isn’t my memory,” He said, slowly. James didn’t reply. “How? How are you doing this?”
Something flickered in James’s eyes, something smug and proud. Sherlock doubted he even knew, and if he did, he’d never tell. Sherlock’s peace of mind had been hijacked and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when it was James who’d managed to worm his way into the most precious parts of Sherlock and settled there. There was something strangely intimate about watching a moment he was never meant to see. Moriarty went still, eyes wide and lips parted in a silent ‘o’. Then, he chuckled. Soft and clearly inebriated, the sound was strangely comforting. Sherlock was suddenly incredibly invested in why James had decided this memory should explain his motives, and he watched the scene unfold with hawk-like scrutiny.
Moriarty used the arms of the chair to push himself up, finding his footing and swaying only a little as he crossed the room to where Holmes slept.
“Up you get,” He huffed as he hooked strong hands under Holmes’ arms and hauled him up. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he watched Moriarty laugh at the dead weight, practically dragging him over to the bed in the corner. Holmes stirred only once, and only a little, not making any attempt to stand by himself or even to grab on to Moriarty for support, but instead just turning his head into the crook of Moriarty’s neck, sighing something unintelligible and promptly passing out again. Sherlock blushed at his own unconscious actions, refusing to look at James behind him. He watched Moriarty push Holmes clumsily back until he fell onto the bed. Moriarty wiped his hands in triumph of a job well done, before swinging Holmes’ feet up onto the bed, shoes and all. Sherlock was about to make a comment about how unsanitary that decision was when Moriarty turned to face him. Sherlock had the sudden unnerving feeling that he had been seen, until the man walked right past him and out through the door. Sherlock paused. James had left? He’d manoeuvred Sherlock onto his bed and then… what? Had he planned to get Sherlock drunk, to give him a chance to… rob him? Kidnap him? None of it made sense. There was no motive, nothing to gain. Sherlock was simply a scout, he had no material worth. He was about to pose this exact enigma to James himself when Moriarty returned with a bowl of water and a rag.
He was humming cheerily to himself, much as James had been when he’d poured Sherlock his drink earlier that evening, and he knelt by the side of the bed, placing the bowl down on the floor beside him. Sherlock took a step closer and watched as Moriarty wet the rag with as much delicacy as he could manage in his drunken state, wrung it out, and brought it up to Holmes’ face. Sherlock had the sudden irrational notion that he was about to watch himself be murdered, suffocated in a drunken sleep he should never have allowed himself to fall into. And Moriarty could have done it. Sherlock had no real friends at Oxford, no one but James, and his brother was half way across campus. He could’ve suffocated Sherlock right there, hidden the body and taken whatever it was he wanted. But he didn’t. Instead, Moriarty raised the rag, his humming petering out. He poked his tongue out in concentration (Sherlock had never seen him do this, clearly a drunken trait, and he revelled in the sight) and gently dabbed at the dried blood underneath Holmes’ nose, evidence of their fight at the party earlier.
Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and his eyebrows furrowed. This is what James had chosen to show him — a moment of weakness, not on Sherlock’s part, but on James’s own. When confronted by a helpless, sleeping Sherlock, he hadn’t killed him, or threatened him, or used him for some kind of material gain as Sherlock had wondered. He hadn’t kicked him out to sleep it off in the corridor. He hadn’t even let Sherlock spend the night on the floor. No, he’d pulled Sherlock into his own bed and washed the blood from his face. The memory faded away as Moriarty rinsed the rag in the bowl and started over, gentle swipes entirely uncharacteristic for the man Sherlock thought he knew. Sherlock was frozen, staring at where the memory of Moriarty’s bed had been even as he exited his mind and returned to the present, at his desk in his room, facing his first and best friend.
Sherlock was caught in James’s stare. He felt light and heavy all at once, pinned down by that gaze yet weightless from what he’d just seen. It was incredibly unnerving, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. Sherlock swallowed, and did the only thing he could think to do: something with his hands. He pulled over the metal basin at the foot of his bed, cool water sloshing as he dragged it to his feet. James watched curiously as Sherlock mirrored the other man’s earlier actions, taking up a rag and wetting it carefully. He avoided James’s eyes as he stood up and made his way over, scared he’d back out entirely if he had to confront the reality of any of this.
“Sherlock?” James murmured, soft, and Sherlock hummed in reply. All of his energy went to controlling his breathing, making sure his hand didn’t shake as he tilted James’s head up slightly with a finger under his chin.
“The least I can do is return the favour,” Sherlock said, bringing the cloth up to where blood stained his companion’s forehead. He paused for a moment, a hair's breadth away from touching James’s skin, and finally met his eyes. James was staring back, dark pupils wide and reflecting the firelight. His lips were parted and his body language was relaxed, open. He made no move to stop Sherlock. Sherlock placed the cool rag against James’s skin and the other man flinched.
Sherlock ignored it, steadying him with the hand under his chin and concentrating on washing the blood off. He lost himself slightly in the repetitive motion, the room shrinking to where they were connected, James’s hushed breathing and the feel of his skin beneath Sherlock’s fingertips. Sherlock finally finished, pleased with his work he tossed the rag into the basin and went to move away. James grabbed him by the wrist before he could retreat. Sherlock hated the way the touch seemed to fry his nerves, electric and distracting him enough that he sucked in a surprised breath. James’s lips quirked up.
“You never came to a conclusion,” James said, “What is it that I want?”
Sherlock’s heart was beating wildly. He’d only ever felt this elated upon solving a particularly riveting mystery – though he supposed that was exactly what this was.
Sherlock met James’s eyes again. He was silent for a minute, collecting his evidence, visiting all possibilities and eliminating them one by one.
“I…” Sherlock breathed, James raised an eyebrow. “I must be wrong. I must’ve missed something, it can’t be–”
“Once you have eliminated the impossible,” James cut in, “Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,”
Sherlock swallowed. James's eyes left his momentarily, tracing the movement of Sherlock’s throat and lingering on his lips before meeting his gaze once again.
“Me,” Sherlock breathed, voice shaking. “You want me,”
James’s smile was small, sly, and he finally released Sherlock’s hand, though this time Sherlock did not try to move away.
“Have you considered joining Scotland Yard? I do believe you’d make a master detective–”
Sherlock surged forward and captured James’s lips.
Sherlock was embarrassingly inexperienced and the angle was difficult as he had to lean down to James’s sitting height. James was unmoving beneath him and Sherlock realised suddenly that this was quite possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. He pulled away, chest heaving, and took two steps backwards, almost falling into his desk. James was startled. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide but for once he didn’t seem to have anything to say as Sherlock raised a hand to his chest in an attempt to calm his racing heart.
“Well,” James managed eventually, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and stood up, not yet approaching Sherlock. “That was something,”
“I believe I may be far more drunk than I’d realised,” Sherlock choked, cheeks a dark red. He refused to look anywhere in James’s vicinity. Something had changed in James’s voice when he spoke again, as though Sherlock’s discomfort allowed him to regain his usual air of confidence.
“Is that your way of apologising for being a frankly terrible kisser?” James tilted his head slightly. He was smiling, but it was as though he didn’t quite realise he was doing it. There was something natural in the pure elation on James’s face, as though he’d not only won a fight but had come out entirely unscathed. Sherlock bristled.
“Wh– That’s all you have to say?”
“What would you prefer I say?” Moriarty asked as he moved closer, voice dropping to that sultry purr from earlier. Sherlock could now confidently say he was flirting. Oh, God, he couldn’t take this.
“I don’t know. Maybe that it’s okay, and we can forget about it, and we all do stupid things when we’re drunk? Maybe that I’ve gotten the wrong idea and you actually just want to kidnap me and demand ransom so we should forget any of this happened and I should just let you get on with it?”
“You want me to kidnap you?” James raised an eyebrow, smirking.
“Of course not,” Sherlock’s tone was overly harsh. It was embarrassingly clear that he was out of his element entirely, and James pounced.
“Then what do you want?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, then realised he had no idea what he should say. Sensing this, James seemed to take matters into his own hands. He was close, close enough that they were sharing the same air, and he leaned in slowly, broadcasting his intent to give Sherlock time to back away. Sherlock didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes and leant forwards slightly. James must’ve swerved at the last second, because the next thing Sherlock knew he was chuckling in his ear.
“You’ve no poker face, Shirley. You give yourself away,” He breathed, before pulling back and putting a somewhat-respectable amount of distance between them again. Sherlock bit back an insult, squeezing his hands into fists by his sides.
“Well excuse me if I hadn’t exactly planned for this turn of events. I… I admit I don’t quite know where to start,”
James smiled easily. It did something to calm Sherlock’s nerves.
“A good place would probably be admitting that you’d like to kiss me again,”
Sherlock’s face was on fire. He may not have much experience in the romance sector, but he was no fool. He knew this was wrong, frowned upon, that if anyone found out he’d lose his job, or worse. But he’d been to prison on more than one occasion, and it wasn’t like society had done a very good job at controlling him thus far. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed the albeit brief feeling of James’s lips against his, and if his best friend was willing to give it a try… well, who was he to say no to an experiment?
Sherlock sighed, but he relaxed all the same. This was known ground, the easy push and pull – sure, they’d never crossed this particular line before, but it was still James, and he was predictably taking great pleasure in getting Sherlock to admit to needing something.
“Fine. Yes. I’d like for you to kiss me,” He said through gritted teeth, and watched James’s face light up. He clapped his hands together in triumph and Sherlock was about to roll his eyes when James invaded his space once again, this time entirely purposeful and entirely confident in his actions. James was suddenly everywhere, and Sherlock could smell the whiskey on his breath and the sulfur clinging to his hair and he’d never been more relieved than when James cupped his face. His expression was neutral, searching, but his touch was anything but. His fingers were gentle as he mapped the planes of Sherlock’s face, holding him as though he were something precious. The breath left Sherlock all at once, he could do nothing but stare as James rubbed his thumb in soothing motions against his jaw.
“You haven’t kissed anyone else?” He posed it like a question, but Sherlock knew it was a statement. Still, he tried to regain some ground.
“I thought I was the detective,” Sherlock quipped.
“Future detective. And it’s hardly a deduction, you make it quite obvious.”
Sherlock flushed, automatically trying to pull away, to save face, but James held firm.
“I didn’t say I minded.” He murmured, something uncharacteristically soft in his voice. “And you do so love to learn new things, hm?”
Sherlock could do nothing but nod. James smiled.
“Good. Close your eyes,”
Sherlock did.
“For the record, I’m doing this of my own volition. Just because you might be more experienced doesn’t mean–” He began.
“God, do you ever shut up?”
It was Sherlock’s turn to grin.
“I believe we’re about to find out,”
Lips pressed against his. Gentle at first, a slow, insistent pressure. James didn’t move, just held Sherlock close, allowing him to get used to the feeling. Sherlock was glad of the slower pace. Unlike his hasty attempt earlier, this was nice. Comforting, in a strange sort of way, despite his heart feeling like it was about to jump out of his chest. James’s lips were soft but firm and so inexplicably James that Sherlock felt himself relax a little in James’s hold. That is, until James moved his hand to Sherlock’s waist and held tight, beginning to move his lips against Sherlock’s and coaxing Sherlock to follow suit. He did, of course, and he revelled in the way his skin buzzed where they collided. It was slow, and occasionally Sherlock would panic and James would have to take control, guiding them back to a steady rhythm until Sherlock felt himself melting, moulding into James’s hands and feeling as though the man could do almost anything and Sherlock wouldn’t lift a finger to stop him. When James did eventually pull away, Sherlock chased his lips automatically and came back to himself only when he heard that familiar laugh. His eyes fluttered open but rather than searching for a comeback, or a remark, or even trying to categorise everything he was feeling, he felt content to just stay put.
“That was nice,” He said, simply. James was staring at his lips.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to try something more?”
Sherlock didn’t waste any time before nodding. James grinned.
“Look at you. The great Sherlock Holmes, mine to do with as I please,”
Sherlock felt his blood run hot. He didn’t confirm or deny the notion, just held James’s gaze until the man cracked.
“Okay, tilt your head a little… yes, like that. Perfect,”
James swooped in again, and the kiss turned from sweet to insistent. Sherlock felt breathless, their new angle making his normally razor-sharp brain turn fuzzy, and his hands found a home on James’s shoulders out of an unconscious need to steady himself lest his legs buckle underneath him. James sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth and bit, the slightest sting of teeth, and Sherlock moaned desperately. He pulled away suddenly, panting and doubled over, gasping for breath. He pulled out of James’s grasp and the other man made a noise of discontent before seeing Sherlock’s state.
“I– I didn’t mean to–” Sherlock tried, eyes wide and mind spinning, still floaty and unable to focus on anything. All he’d known was that James had bit him and it had sent a shock through his whole body. He desperately wanted it to happen again.
“Don’t,” James panted, pulling Sherlock back, “Don’t stop,”
“James– mph!” Sherlock gasped as the other man surged forwards, capturing his lips with a merciless strength. What was left of Sherlock’s wit abandoned him, lost in the haze of alcohol and James’s skillful mouth. James licked the seam of Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock could do nothing but open with a sigh, pressing himself as fully against the other man as he could, feeling the warmth of him seep into his chest. James licked into his mouth, traced Sherlock’s tongue in a slow caress. Sherlock hadn’t even known this was an option, let alone gone as far as to prepare himself for it, and he could feel his legs buckling. Unsure what else to do, he copied James, tracing his tongue everywhere he could reach. It was addictive, exploring James like this, getting to know the most intimate parts of him. He found James's bottom lip and bit down, not even aware he was doing it, giving in to the whims of his body. James hissed in pain and pulled away, bringing his hand up to catch the blood beading on his lip. Sherlock swayed dangerously, the room spinning around him, and James caught him by the waist moments before he went toppling to the floor.
“Christ, Sherlock, was I that good?” James was aiming for sarcastic but Sherlock could hear the breathlessness in his voice, the flush on his cheeks and his dilated pupils giving him away.
“‘M just dizzy. Think the whiskey’s catching up to me,” Sherlock mumbled, slowly remembering where he was, his tunnel vision expanding to no longer include just him and James. James chuckled.
“Alright. Perhaps that’s enough for one night,”
“Mm. Perhaps you’re right,”
James pulled away, out of Sherlock’s space, and Sherlock huffed. James raised an amused eyebrow and Sherlock flushed a bright red, pressing a hand to James’s chest and forcing him back a few steps more as though that would distract the other man from his obvious need.
“Are you going to be okay going to bed, or do you need help with that too?” James quipped. Sherlock rolled his eyes with a smile, turning to face his bed mostly because he didn’t know if he could stop himself from kissing James again when he looked so… dishevelled. Sherlock focused on steadying his hands enough to undo his fly, slipping his trousers off and sighing as he fell back on his bed in just his shirt and boxers. He glanced up just to see James staring at him, or rather at the strip of exposed skin above his waistband, with parted lips and a look nothing short of hungry in his eyes. Sherlock smirked.
James startled – Sherlock had forgotten the other man was also more than tipsy – and flashed that signature grin.
“Well, Juliet,” He bowed with a flourish, grabbing his jacket from the hook and walking over to the door. “Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow…” He slurred the last word and seemed to give up on the quote, turning to open the door instead. Sherlock frowned.
“That’s Juliet’s line,” He corrected. James paused.
“Hm?”
“‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’. Juliet says it to Romeo,” Sherlock grinned, “I do believe I would be Romeo in this case,”
James grinned.
“Oh, but you’d make such a lovely Juliet,” He crooned, and Sherlock flushed, unable to think of a response. It wasn’t until James was half way out the door that Sherlock called him back a final time.
“James?” James stuck his head back into the room. “I suppose you got what you wanted.”
James grinned.
“I suppose I did,”
“Then you have no reason to stay,”
James paused, considering a moment.
“Perhaps not,” He admitted softly, “And yet I can’t for the life of me consider leaving,”
Sherlock grinned, settling back onto the covers as the door clicked shut, and promptly falling asleep.