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They picked up wonts from each other the way you would pick lint from a coat - unconsciously, without care.
James began smoking, with a pipe no less. Sherlock began to reach for the Irish whisky, when given a choice. James started drumming his idle fingers in rhythms he was sure had come from Sherlock’s head.
Sherlock, though he’d previously never had need or inclination, would now run his left hand down the wall as he descended the stairs. For luck, perhaps.
Or not to get lost, James would have responded.
***
Sometimes, it was hard to say who picked the habit from who - Sherlock was a skilled and established pick-pocket, though he discovered an appreciation of the application in retail settings after spending too much time with James. James had never had a problem with stealing - ‘twas habit already, but sleight of hand, rather than simple misdirection was new. He pegged it as Sherlock’s influence. It was hard not to pick it up, really; James had a skilled teacher to watch, with such deft fingers. He did quite enjoy watching Sherlock work his magic.
***
Sherlock picked up the book James had just placed down, pages bent by James’s relentless dog-earing. “Why do you insist on being so careless with books?”
“Aye, it’s a nasty habit, isn’t it? Much quicker y’see, than fumbling around with a bookmark.” James tried to snatch back the book, and and a brief and juvenile tug-of-war ensured, from which James emerged victorious. He folded the corner, snapped his book shut and set it aside. Sherlock was certain it was just to spite him, confirmed when moments later James slid the book off the table, reopening it to the same page.
“Sherly, you stop pouting now," James said without taking his eyes from the book.
“I’m sure the librarians despised you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong - they liked me very much.”
“In spite of your- your desecrations?” said Sherlock, aghast.
“Don’t be a dunce, I’d never dogear a library book.”
“Oh, but my collection is perfectly allowed.”
James didn’t answer, and instead licked a finger and loudly turned the page.
Sherlock choked a week later as he opened a book to resume reading and discovered he himself had absentmindedly folded a corner. Bastard.
***
James never had much growing up, and so he had always been meticulous about what he did have. Neat, tidy, orderly room. Clear mind. He found himself absentmindedly tidying Sherlock’s room while they shared the space. Books straightened, ties hung, pens and ink ordered. Sherlock took no notice, of course.
It was only when Sherlock visited him in his new rooms, slinging his satchel against a bookshelf and going to throw his coat over a chair - his chair - when he paused.
“James,” Sherlock said gravely, “there’s already a coat here. Where I usually put my coat. But it isn’t my coat.”
James noted that it was, indeed, James’s very own. Thrown carelessly in much the same fashion Sherlock had intended.
“Never mind the rack. Sherlock, give’s your coat,” James held out his arms. Sherlock handed it to him with some amusement in his eye, brows raising. James unceremoniously threw the coat over his own chair.
“Sorted.”
James was grateful that at least he had a meticulous mind - despite the mess and untidiness which had become second-nature, he did always know where everything was, perfectly in place. Perhaps that’s how Sherlock did it too.
Not perhaps, Sherlock’s voice in his head, of course.
*
There was only one habit where Sherlock was conscious of the acquisition in the process of acquiring it. The habit of kissing men.
It started when he walked in on James and a serving boy, sequestered in the dark back corner of the pub's storeroom. Neither of them noticed his presence, and he didn’t care to reveal himself, stilling in the darkened doorway. He didn’t leave immediately, watching with curiosity as the pair moulded and became one figure, the space between them indistinguishable. Sherlock committed the low and guttural sound James made to memory. He slipped away before they were finished, and gave nothing away when James returned from the “privy” several minutes later.
Sherlock hadn’t seen James kissing boys again, but the curiosity had remained fixed, turning over the scene from the pub until the edges of the memory were worn smooth like glass on a beach. Sherlock couldn’t be sure of which part was gripping him.
He could go to the pub, find the same serving boy - but that didn’t feel right. (Mostly because he knew James would laugh if he ever found out Sherlock sought out the same man, not intentionally unkind but condescending all the same). Where then, did one find a man? Sherlock was useless when it came to the fairer sex, though James insisted he was being flirted with, and he would realise if he only paid attention. So Sherlock did - he tried paying attention.
Well, he had to ask James what to look for first.
“How do you know if someone is flirting with you?” Sherlock asked, and James sat up so straight his head rammed into the back of the arm-chair. “Is that really such a shocking query?”
“Just startled me to be coming from you, was all. What’s got you interested?”
“Uh,” the silence drew long while Sherlock searched for an excuse to string together - while clearly James wouldn’t have an issue with the gender of Sherlock’s curiosity, he wasn’t ready to outright say it yet. Besides - he could still be wrong. He hadn’t kissed a man yet. “I’ve been thinking about…kissing. Which starts at flirting. And by that point I don’t know where to start.”
“Right. Now, when it comes to flirtin’, are you to be the giver or the receiver?”
“I suppose the receiver.” It had never occurred to Sherlock to flirt. James had proven it could be a useful skill in investigations, so he supposed there was no harm in practice. “Or well, can you also teach me to flirt?” Sherlock said with open, honest earnestness. James’s eyes went very wide, and he made a choked noise somewhere in the back of his throat.
“Sherlock Holmes, I fear teaching you to flirt would be arming you with a deadly weapon you haven’t the training to wield. And I mean that quite as a compliment. Let’s just start with the basics.” James dragged his chair so they were face to face, rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s unvoiced protest about scratching the floorboards.
“Eye contact.” Sherlock’s gaze darted away without thinking, finding himself vague in the stomach when his eyes locked with James for too long. He didn’t like eye contact generally, and James being his best friend made it even more challenging. He wasn’t expecting James’s hand on his face, forcing his eyes back. “Eye contact. Stay with me, you asked for my help and so help me I’ll give it.”
Sherlock swallowed.
“Okay, so eye contact. But what makes it different when it’s flirting?”
“Usually it’ll be a bit more like this,” James’s lids dropped, looking up at Sherlock slightly, heat simmering in his gaze. His eyes flicked away, looking back again out of the corner, a fleeting sideways glance. “And less like this,” and then his best friend was back, bright and cheeky and not at all making Sherlock’s heart pound like a drum.
“Next, you might notice them blushing. Course that could be heat, exertion, plenty of reasons to be blushing. It’s a guessing game, a puzzle to solve, an equation that should add up to the sum of its parts.”
Sherlock nodded seriously, resisting the urge to pull the notebook from his pocket and take notes. “I like puzzles. Though not as good at equations as you are.”
“That’s quite alright, you’ve never held a scholarship for mathematics. Can’t expect you to know everything." Sherlock realised the jest in time to laugh, and James rewarded him with a bright smile. "Now, there’s physical touch - too much is improper, which is why you have to watch for ones like these,” James brushed a hand across his shoulder. Then took one of Sherlock’s in both of his and pulled it to his mouth for a brush of lips. Then a warm hand resting heavy and firm on Sherlock’s forearm, then catching his elbow. Then James laid a hand on Sherlock’s knee, patting firm before stroking a little higher into his inner thigh.
“I-I think I quite get the picture, thank you James.” It took every ounce of control Sherlock had not to leap out of the chair and race out of the room, he couldn’t handle the searing heat James’s touch left on him. James’s hand still rested heavy on his leg, and Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else. Well he could - rattling around in his mind for every other time James had touched him, brotherly, familial, but was there some of this? Surely not. He was imaging things.
James pulled his hand back and sank back into his chair, gaze fixed on Sherlock. “I am at your disposal, should you need any further assistance. In fact, I shall point out next time you’re being flirted with! How brilliant.”
James stayed true to his word and pointed out every instance of flirtation, and Sherlock felt he had a good grasp on the situation. Most unfortunately all instances were with women which was not useful to Sherlock’s curiosity. Sherlock could have sworn at least once there had been a shop keep, who’d taken money off the total and let his hand linger on Sherlock’s a beat longer than expected. However James said nothing, and even at Sherlock’s questioning gaze outside the shop shook his head ever so slightly. He had been quite handsome - strong jaw, long curls, fetching complexion. Sherlock might not have minded.
Sherlock went back to the shop the next day without James, near closing. Surely some of the same in reverse…the man blushed under Sherlock’s gaze and suggested he might close up and they could share a drink in the back. The feel of the man’s face under his hands, facial hair tickling his cheeks and short hair, easy to clutch…Sherlock thought kissing men was a habit he wouldn’t mind falling into.
It was otherwise an idle afternoon, Sherlock and James sat outside on a blanket in the garden.
“What did you get up to last night? I don’t recall seeing you about.”
Sherlock couldn’t help the flush. “I think you may have been incorrect in your ascertation regarding Mr Matthew from the shop.”
“My ascertation?”
“That he wasn’t flirting.”
James sputtered. “Well, it’s not an exact science. Pray tell, how did you affirm I was wrong?”
“I went back last night and..well I tried flirting back. It’s just doing the same thing you’ve taught me to watch for. Much easier than I expected. I’ll show you.” If asked later what compelled Sherlock to do as he did, he could not answer; most likely giddy confidence and chasing the vague, fluttering feeling in his stomach when James had looked at him (which he had not so felt with Mr. Matthew).
Sherlock turned to his friend and almost went to start with the touches - but he was getting ahead of himself. Instead Sherlock took James’s hands - soft, warm, dry - and stared intently into his eyes, letting his gaze get low and match the heat he felt building in his chest. His gaze flicked to James’s lips - he hadn’t even meant to do that - but it worked, a crimson blush spreading up from James’s collar.
“Sherlock,” James breathed, a warning dancing on the edge of his voice. Sherlock opted not to heed it. James had basically asked for a demonstration, had he not?
Now was time to try out the touches. Sherlock leaned forward to run a hand through James’s unruly curls, the other resting firmly on a shoulder, and James’s hands found the lapels of his jacket and pulled Sherlock very close.
“Didn’t I say something about a deadly weapon?” James’s grin was as wide as ever, ready to call it a joke if it needed to be.
“In untrained hands. I do believe I learned from the best,” Sherlock said. James was gazing at Sherlock’s lips, and with little ceremony leaned forward and kissed him, short, sweet and a little wet, where his tongue darted softly over Sherlock’s lower lip.
“Well. I wondered if this was something of a wont for you?” Sherlock asked, their lips only a breath apart.
“What, kissing men or kissing best friends? Because I don’t think I’ve had enough of a latter to call it that. Yet.” And James kissed him again, still light and quick and sweet. Gentle. More gently than Sherlock had expected.
“That’s the way I’d kiss my friends. And this,” James kissed him hard, tongue licking the seam of Sherlock’s lips before pushing forward, licking in filthy and hot. “Is how I kiss men.”
Sherlock pulled back a moment, breathless and giddy. “I think I’d very much like to make a habit of both.”
James laughed.
“With you! I mean with you.” Sherlock said against his lips, and James pulled him in to kiss again and again until Sherlock was quite certain he enjoyed this wont of James’s very much.