Chapter Text
“When one door closes, another one opens.” Those were the last words James had said to him before he embarked on a journey away from home, away from Sherlock. Though ‘embarked’ was the wrong word. James had left, simply and surely. Sherlock could clearly see it in his head, he had been replaying the scene over and over and over in his overactive imagination.
His ‘Mind Palace’, he was beginning to refer to it by. A place he could go to think, to figure it all out, to map out every critical detail and store it in his mind. A place that he had begun to share with James but now, now it was callous and empty. For somewhere that was supposed to be just for Sherlock it was missing the one piece of the puzzle that made him feel whole. Leaving Sherlock in the one place he once thought he didn’t mind, alone.
Sherlock brought his mind back to where it had all gone wrong. Where he and James had taken a sharp turn that sent their friendship tumbling down a steeple without an end in sight. Sherlock knew that James had kept the formula, he couldn’t bring himself to map out the reasons as to why but it wasn’t a hard guess.
Music, he thought suddenly, there was music and James had been singing to it. James knew the music but Sherlock didn’t, he had begun to find that James seemed to know songs of all qualities, whether folk, classical or popular. At the time Sherlock didn’t pay any heed to it, but he did now.
He could hear the timbre of James’ rich accent as he hummed the melody and quietly uttered the lyrics. They had been at a pub that they had begun to frequent, it had been bustling with people at the time but neither had cared. They were there for a drink, a laugh and an easy night, funny how things don’t always end up how they appear.
As soon as they had sat down at their little bespoke corner table by the window, James suddenly belted out a string of lyrics, his crisply thick Irish accent flowing through the lyrics of the song. “I’m coming, wait for me. I hear the walls repeatin’, the fallin’ of my feet and, it sounds like drummin’.” He sang with a merry chuckle, causing Sherlock to laugh too. For a second, he felt as if he would sit and listen to James sing forever.
Then, James’ voice dropped, no longer really singing but simply happily speaking the lyrics, as if they were for Sherlock and not to him. “And I am not alone, I hear the rocks and stones. Echoing my song, I’m coming.” With a rap of his knuckles against the hard wood of the table, James finally settled into his seat.
“Well, Sherlock.” He began and paused to let Sherlock filter in.
“Yes, James?”
“What’s next for us, hm? Any more siblings I should be knowing about? Any other relatives of the great Holmes’ family that I’m yet to meet?
Sherlock shook his head, “No, James, you’d think you’d have enough of us by this point.”
James laughed again and slowly shook his head. “Never, Sherly. A family like yours? I don’t think I’d ever get bored.”
Sherlock smiled but at the time, something panged in a certain part of his mind. James knew so much of his family, but Sherlock hardly knew anything about James’. Sherlock had kept quiet about it, but for some reason, he had felt the sudden urge to push. To pry at the edges of James’ history. Wasn’t it right? Surely, since James knew the start and ends of his family, it would only be fair if Sherlock knew something of his counterparts.
“What about yours, James?” Sherlock tried, posing it lightly. He looked up from the rim of his glass only to find James’ face frozen, mid smile. But there was something hard beneath those eyes, something closed off and off limits. Something that made Sherlock want to press ever further.
“About my what, Sherlock?” James replied, staring into Sherlock’s eyes. He wanted Sherlock to say it, why James couldn’t, Sherlock didn’t know why. Did he want Sherlock to push for him to pull? No, he wanted it to be a game, everything seemed like a game to him, maybe it had to be.
“Your family, James. You know all about mine, why don’t you tell me a little something about yours for a change?” He pressed lightly.
Except James didn’t see it as a game. Every muscle in James’ body tensed and his gaze which was usually warm and inviting, turned stone cold.
“Why do you want to know?” He said accusingly.
Sherlock frowned, having misread the conversation. “I was only asking James.”
“Well don’t.” James clipped, averting his gaze, turning it away towards the window.
Something about James’ ignorance sparked a flare of anger in Sherlock. There were too many things being left unsaid between them, first the formula, then the secret affair between James and his sister and now this?
James had said that surely Sherlock would feel that he knows him by now, but the more questions left unanswered, the more Sherlock began to doubt that he knew James Moriarty at all. Sherlock swallowed, he had to know something. Anything.
“Why not?” He pushed, glowering at James who still wouldn’t look at him. “What is it that you’re keeping from me this time?”
James visibly reeled at that remark, his expression going dark. “What the hell is that supposed to be referring to?
Anger rose to the surface of Sherlock’s mind, James was fucking his sister, he flirted with his mother and heavens above, how much time was there before he starts kissing Mycroft at the back of West Minister? What was it about Sherlock’s sister and mother that warranted James’ charm as charismatic grins. A quiet voice in Sherlock’s mind wanted to ask what he would have to do, to get James Moriarty to look at him that way.
James looked at everyone like they mattered, his gaze was fire and Sherlock wanted to burn.
“What are you hiding, James? Or what is it that you were trying to hide? You and my mother? You and my sister? What the hell is wrong with you, you sick bastard.” Sherlock fired. Pent up frustration tore through him and all things with reason. “My family is not yours to use and to play with. I invited you in, I made you a part of my family and you think fucking them is a way of saying thanks?”
“Oh and you’re quite the angel, yourself, aren’t you Sherlock? You don’t go around askin’ about my family and my life like it’s any of your business.” James retorted, pointing a finger at him.
Sherlock needed this. Another fight, he needed to get it all out of his system for him to be able to think again. He needed to flush these feelings of James out of his system. He needed it to hurt, to distract him from everything else that hurt.
“Were they that bad, James? Don’t they warrant some kind of mention? Any siblings James?”
“Stop it.” James ordered, but Sherlock was in no means in the right state of mind to be taking orders. His father had fallen, his sister revived, his mother saved. It was too much, all too much of everything and it had to stop. Sherlock had to make it stop, by pushing away the one constant.
“Did you have any uncles, aunts or were you just as alone as a child as when I found you?” Sherlock bit out, like it was forced, he chose not to think twice about the hurt in James’ face. The way he flinched like he had been struck.
“I know why you’re doing this-”
“Just accept it, James.” Sherlock cut across, he was shouting now, shouting down at James like he was nothing. Like he was something that he could crush beneath his heel. “You’re just a poor, little Irish boy with nowhere to call home and no one to love.” Sherlock forced out a laugh, something about James’ broken fury tormented him. The look on his best friend’s crestfallen face would be etched into his memory forever. But Sherlock couldn’t stop now.
This had to mean something, it had to, or else all this pain Sherlock was causing would render meaningless, making him into the manipulative, awful man that his father was.
“That’s why you’re making out with my sister, because it's cheap and it’s all you can afford. Don’t pretend that she loves you, James.”
Sherlock braced himself for the killing blow, downing the ounce and a half of whiskey, letting it burn all the way through. He choked down a laugh, looking up to the ceiling because he couldn’t look at James when he uttered the words, “If there’s one thing us Holmes’ aren’t, it’s blind. And for all the sight in the world, James, there’s nothing about you that merits a second glance.”
Sherlock expected James to roar at him, to shout and yell and shake his piercing comments away. But all he was met with was silence. When Sherlock finally glanced down at his best friend, all he saw was James Moriarty, tainted with as much torment as Sherlock was.
Moments passed and nothing happened. Sherlock felt his fury die down as quickly as it had risen up. The moments where the argument had felt freeing had fled and all he was left with was a shattered friendship and he, the stupid fool holding the metaphorical mallet. Sherlock swallowed thickly. “I- I’m sorry, James, I didn’t really mean-”
He was cut off when James stood up. Looking into the pools of Sherlock’s eyes, he was completely devoid of his merry attitude and Sherlock didn’t blame him.
James looked dull and broken, almost as if he expected Sherlock to take a stab at him. This was nothing like their previous argument, Sherlock had wanted their lasting banter to endure, to bounce insults off each other, to tease until it hurt and to laugh until the hurt faded away. But it had all turned sour and it was his fault.
James placed a silvery coin onto the table and picked up his coat. Staring past Sherlock like he couldn’t look at him. “Don’t worry about it, Sherly.” James said, pinning his face into a sharp smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t worry about me, at all.” With that, James started walking away.
“James-” He was walking away and Sherlock couldn’t stop it, James walked out of his life as quickly as he had waltzed in. “When one door closes, another one opens.” James had called back to him, but still James never looked back, as much as Sherlock silently begged him to.
—------------------------
It had been a week since their argument and Sherlock hadn’t seen or heard from James since. He never came back to the house, the place James had begun to also call home.
Sherlock was beginning to think that he never would. Sherlock had looked around town for clues of James’ whereabouts.
He asked around the pubs, he contacted Oxford, he had even wired Mycroft to ask if anyone had seen any sign of him but there was nothing. James had disappeared. And so, Sherlock went about his mornings as if nothing had happened.
His mother had stopped asking questions about whether James would be coming home, Beatrice never seemed to comment on his disappearance but nor did she seem to know his whereabouts.
Sherlock was outside, feeding the horses, feeding the brown stallion that James had taken a liking to an extra apple. He gave the horse a slappy pat and gently stroked its neck. He was once again, entangled in their argument, so much so that he didn’t realise that his sister Bea had come into the stables.
“A letter came for you, Sherlock.” She called out. Sherlock turned around and as soon as he did, Bea thrust a letter into his hands.
“It’s from James.” She said simply.
“What?” Sherlock said, gripping the letter like it was a lifeline. “How do you know?”
Bea gave him a look. “I read it, obviously.”
“But it has my name on it.” Sherlock protested.
Beatrice just shrugged in response. “He sent me a letter too.” Bea stared at her brother as he tore open the letter. “We broke it off.”
Sherlock stopped, pulling the letter out. “What?”
“We broke it off. He wrote to me, saying that he didn’t want to disrupt the family whilst we were going through a tough time.”
Sherlock bit his lower lip, feeling a pang of what could only be described as guilt, as responsibility. “I’m sorry, Bea.”
She shrugged, “Don’t be. It was mutual, I don’t think that we were going anywhere anyways.” Sherlock nodded slowly and Bea turned taking a few steps away from him. “I won’t be the one who breaks his heart, but that doesn’t mean you have any right to either.” She called back to him as she sauntered away.
Sherlock furrowed his brows but he didn’t say anything back. He just looked at the letter in his hands. He took a breath and opened it. Inside, was nothing more than a mere few lines in James’ scripture. It simply read
“Went home to clear my head. Don’t sell my bed, I’ll be needing that. I’ll be sure to bring you home a whiskey that won’t turn you treacherous. - JM.”
Sherlock took in a sharp breath. Compared to the rate at which James usually spoke, this was nothing but everything simultaneously. He was reassuring him that he would come back but didn’t mention when. Their friendship wasn’t broken, or at least not to the point of no return. When James did return, Sherlock would practically grovell at his shiny loafers. Anything to get things back to the way that they were.
Sherlock was lost without his counterpart, the one person in the world that made him whole. The feeling that Sherlock felt for Moriarty was indescribable. Being near him made him want to run with him and it made his brain function at a million miles an hour. He latched onto the sound of his voice, the way he dressed, the telltale smirk that he knew like the back of his hand. How he had managed to go this long without hearing or seeing, or even knowing that James was only a corridor away, he couldn’t fathom. He was at his best at James’ side. He was at his worst without him.
That night, as soon as Sherlock's head hit the pillow, he fell sound asleep and as the night drew in deeper he started dreaming. Dreaming of James. Sherlock dreamt back to the time of which he was shot.
He could hear Moriarty screaming his name, rushing to his side. Sherlock felt as if the pain in his chest was leaving him as soon as James came into view. Everything was going to be fine.
“James” dream Sherlock breathed. “You’re here.”
James only laughed. James, James, James.
“Of course I’m here, Sherlock,” he answered. He took in James’ cocksure smirk that told him everything was slotting back into place. That everything was going to be just fine. As long as James kept staring at him that way, Sherlock was sure that everything truly was going to be okay.
James started humming, humming that same tune that he was at the bar. James, James, James.
James reached out and gently ran his calloused fingers along Sherlock’s jawline, they traced a line down his neck and cupped the end of his chin. Sherlock’s breath hitched. James, James, James.
Sherlock leant in, just as James Moriarty pulled away. When he looked back at James, there was a hole in his chest, right where his heart was.
Sherlock started screaming.
James, James, James.
James only smiled and pressed a finger- the same finger he had run along Sherlock’s face, he pressed a finger to his mischievous lips and smiled.
When Sherlock looked down at his hands, that should’ve been reaching for James to cover his gaping wound, except they weren’t. Instead, to his horror, he found that he was holding a gun, aimed straight at James’ heart.
“James!-”
Sherlock jolted awake. There were beads of sweat pouring down his face. He hurriedly wiped his forehead with the bedsheets. He heaved in breaths, looking around him, where was he? Where was James? Even in unconsciousness, he could still hear the thrum of James’ rich Irish accent. As Sherlock laid back down to try to resume his slumber, there was only one thing that raced through his mind. A name.
—---------------------------
James hadn’t thought about Sherlock at all, in fact he did everything within his physical power to avoid thinking about Sherlock. James had decided, on the fourth day of wallowing in his festering anger, that he frankly didn’t care at all about their argument.
When he returned to Sherlock, he was going to be the bigger man and be willing to let it all flow, like water under the bridge. There was however, one aspect about their argument that James couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried to push it away and pretend that he was unaffected.
James hadn’t always been alone, he still, even now wasn’t alone. In fact there was one person who he could always rely on, no matter what the circumstance was, and funny enough, his name wasn’t Sherlock Holmes.
Sidekick, sidekick,sidekick. What a foul term. It made his skin crawl, made his hands curl into fists, it made him want to punch someone or something right through. If there was one thing, James would never, ever be, it was a sidekick. Sherlock didn’t look down upon him, at least, not intentionally.
But there was something about being in another’s shadow that riled him up the wrong way, James had found a carnal need for power. That’s all their argument was, a power grab and a flush of undetermined anger. That was all James thought of it as. He needed to show Sherlock that he was wrong, damned Scout, Sherlock knew nothing about him, nor did he deserve to.
His business was his own and god bless anyone who dared to challenge that fact. James had thought about opening up, opening the nest of poisonous snakes that was his uncouth past. Sherlock grew up as a privileged prince compared to the way he had been brought up. What a luxury, to steal just because you can, not because you needed to.
That was what would forever cause a divide between the two of them, Sherlock's lack of knowing when to stop. When enough was enough, when the hole in the dirt that Sherlock was uprooting was the wrong grave to dig up. James, on the other hand, knew where to dig and when to stop. It was just that James sometimes felt that he didn’t want to stop, and what harm would that cause?
Perhaps James had thought more about Sherlock and his funny little stabs than he wanted to.
Sending that letter was a sure sign of weakness. That letter was James doubling down into that weak, soft spot that he had for Sherlock, fucking Holmes. James wanted to crush it, like the neck of a small bird. Severe the attachment. Leaving for Ireland was his chance, his chance to start anew, to stay away from Sherlock and the way that Holmes boy made him feel.
From his amusing Art of Wars, his astounding brilliance and his piercing gaze that kept him awake at night. James tossed and turned all night, oh how he wished that he had punched Sherlock square in the fucking nose again. Oh how he wished that he had smashed that glass over his head to knock some sense into him. Oh how he wished that he had reached over, grabbed his stiff collar and kissed him, just to get him to shut up. To stop the flow of Sherlock’s punishing words.
The way Sherlock had looked at him that day, had rattled everything that James thought he knew about him. Sherlock looked as if he wanted James to leave. As if he wanted James to hurt. As if he needed for James to run away like a broken hearted teenager.
On the ferry to Ireland, James had looked back at England, the wretched country where Sherlock Holmes lived and uttered “Your wish is my command, Sherly.” What Sherlock wanted, he received. A wretched voice in his head told him that if Sherlock wanted it to hurt? Oh, ho, ho. Well the game wasn’t afoot, no, no, no. The game was on.
—--------------------
Sherlock had been pacing the streets of Oxford, he had stolen and returned three pocket watches, four bracelets, two wallets and a live chicken. He could hear James’ voice echoing in his head from when they first met. It was just over a month and a half ago but it felt as if it were a lifetime. “So you’re a mathematician now, a porter, a waiter, a candlestick maker. And a kleptomaniac.”
Sherlock shook his head slightly. Shaking the image of James Moriarty’s laugh from his mind. Banishing any trace of him. But then he saw it.
The door to the underground dressing room that he and James had spent their time in hiding. A thought crept into his mind and he got the familiar itch which he always got when he felt like doing something dangerous.
But it felt empty instead of fulfilling, like telling a joke except the only person who you wanted to laugh with, simply was no longer there.
Sherlock pulled his hat tighter over his head and started gently whistling. If you act with confidence and waltz into a room as if you owned it, sometimes people wouldn’t ask questions. He had learnt that from James.
He walked right across the street, avoiding glances from all as he strode up to the door and pushed it open, shutting the door behind him. There was the same mess that they had made previously, clearly the storage room hadn’t really been used since. Sherlock took in the room. The pile of musty clothes that he had tumbled into when James had boxed him in the nose. Memories of him and James crept in, once again.
James’ mocking but underlying seriousness in his voice when he said that he wanted Sherlock to learn to defend himself. The cheeky smirk and the way his eyes crinkled when he was about to do something mischievous. Sherlock took in a breath and forced away the memories.
Willing them away, willing the thought of Moriarty to be purged from his mind. Sherlock glanced towards the mirror, he had spotted the very reason he had been here, the crown. Ireland may not have had a king, but if there was one it was going to be James. Sherlock couldn’t deny that the crown did suit James. But how could Sherlock deny James anything?
He swiped the crown and left before the memories of he and James plagued his mind even more than they already were. As he made his way home, walking along the path he heard a rustle. Sherlock looked around him, eyes narrowing.
“Who’s there?” He called out.
Another rustle.
“Hello?”
A small boy poked his head out from beneath a bush. “Hiya, sir.”
Sherlock was taken aback. “Why, hello.”
“Ah don’t mind me, sir. I’m just blackberry picking. Hope I didn’t disturb ya’.” The young boy answered, coming out from the bush.
“No, not at all.” Sherlock answered.
The boy looked up at him with a tilt in his head. “Wheres your friend?”
“Hmm?” Sherlock queried, having taken in the look of the young boy. He couldn’t have been younger than ten nor older than twelve. He was blonde, with golden curls. A toothy smile and a few tatters in his clothing.
“Your friend, y’know. The Irish lad.” The boy answered.
“Oh, er, he’s gone on a trip.”
“Will he be coming back soon?”
Sherlock cracked a small smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope so.”
The boy nodded and after a beat he looked up at Sherlock. “Want a blackberry?”
Sherlock took one. “Thank you. What’s your name? I haven’t seen you around, though you clearly know me.”
The boy shrugged and only answered the former. “My name is Arthur Moran. What's yours?”
Sherlock held out his hand for Arthur to shake. “Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you, Arthur.”
Arthur grinned up at Sherlock. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Well, I’ll be off.” Sherlock said and made a start towards the walk home, though he didn’t get far.
“Why’ve you got a crown in your hand?” Arthur puffed, crossing his arms over his chest.
Sherlock stopped and turned around, glancing at the crown in his hand.
“It’s for my friend.” He said.
“Can I have it?” Arthur asked
“Well-”
“Just for a sec.” Arthur insisted. There was something about that look in his eye that made Sherlock hand over the crown without further protest. Sherlock watched as Arthur carefully placed it atop his blonde head of curls. After a minute, he took it off and handed it back to Sherlock.
“I think that it would suit you better, than your friend.” Arthur quipped.
“Why would that be?” Sherlock asked, genuine curiosity filling his head. But Arthur, this strange kid just laughed. “Funny how it's you who's been in prison and not your friend.” He said cryptically.
Sherlock furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”
Arthur looked at Sherlock, as if he were sizing him up. Once he had finished, the boy just smiled, the same smirk that James often wore. “You’ll see.”
Something about the way Arthur looked at Sherlock unsettled him. When it was clear Arthur had ended the conversation, Sherlock turned around and started walking away. The feeling that perhaps another game was afoot, something wasn’t adding up. Something wasn’t right but Sherlock couldn’t decide whether it was because of this strange young boy, or because James had been gone for over three weeks now, without any word on when he would be back.
When Sherlock came home, he immediately called out to his mother. “Mother? I’m home.” After a moment came the response.
“Just in the living room, Sherlock.”
After Sherlock made his way towards the living room, he heard the rupture of laughter, he stopped dead in his tracks. That deep, rich, mellow tone of an Irish accent. The velvety chuckle of a laugh. The charming quips of a handsome gentleman. Sherlock rushed to the door and peered through the gap between the door.
His eyes immediately found James’. James Moriarty, with one leg crossed over the other, the slight relaxed slump of his shoulders. A perfectly cut and tailored suit that aligned with his torso and a muted brown with a crosshatched pattern. Dark, thick curls that were pushed and combed back. Deep brown eyes that Sherlock could get lost in and a telltale smirk that made his knees threaten to buckle.
Sherlock’s face visually lit up. “James?” he said hopefully as he pushed through the door. Sherlock was met with the face that hung the stars he loved to study. The face that hung the moon that orbited his Earth. The face that was James Moriarty’s and no one else's.
Then, all at once came a sharp blow to his heart as Sherlock processed that it wasn’t just James Moriarty sitting on his couch. His face fell silently. He could barely hear his mothers warm welcome.
“Oh, Sherlock, just in time, I was about to start dinner.” He heard her say but didn’t thoroughly process his mothers voice. His eyes were fixed on James Moriarty, and the man sitting next to him. He barely even noticed his mother hurrying out of the room out of the corner of his eye.
“Ah, Sherlock.” James called, throwing a lazy grin to him as he stretched and rested an arm just behind the other man, almost protectively so. “So nice of you to join us.”
Even that was enough for Sherlock to gag, James had said “Us” but wasn’t referring to him. Sherlock glanced at the other man and slowly looked between them. “James.”
“That would be me.” He joked, though Sherlock didn’t laugh. But the other man did.
“And who might your friend be?” Sherlock croaked, inching closer, desperate to be near to James and desperate to steal him away from the stranger beside him. Instead of James answering, a silvery voice answered in a crisp accent. “So you must be Sherlock, the one I’ve heard so much about.”
Sherlock swallowed, eyes darting between them. “James mentioned me?”
The other man stood, he was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock, but he had an air about him, a silent dominance that rendered their height difference nullified. “Oh, of course, Sherlock Holmes, this, Sherlock Holmes that.” The man stood right next to Sherlock and lowered his voice to nothing but a mere whisper, “Not all good things, though. But that’s alright. We’ve all got our flaws, ay?”
Sherlock side-stepped him to put some distance between them. James was grinning like a shark, watching them dance.
The other man clapped him hard on the shoulder, practically forcing Sherlock to turn his attention his way.
He leaned in so close, Sherlock could smell his breath, “Names Sebastian to you.”
There was a long silence, both Sherlock and Sebastian glaring daggers at one another. ‘Who is this man and why have you brought him here, James?’ Sherlock thought to himself.
Glancing towards James who had been enjoying every second of it. But it was him who broke the silence.
“Come on, Sebby. Let’s all play nice around here. Wouldn’t want to get on Sherly’s bad side, now would we?” James said with a smirk and a wink.
Sherlock looked between ‘Sebby’ and James. Then he only looked at James, a gut retching feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.
James might as well have stabbed him.
There was a long moment of silence.
“Sherlock?” James asked in a questioning tone with no small degree of amusement. Sherlock slowly looked to James Moriarty, whose head was tilted ever so slightly, thick eyebrows raised in questioning with an intense stare that made every muscle in Sherlock’s body twitch.
“Yes?” He answered softly, all eyes on James, Sherlock had angled his body away from Sebastian to focus every ounce of attention onto his best friend.
“Why’ve you got a crown in your hand?”