Chapter Text
Things had been … interesting, after the events in Constantinople. The Not-Princess had returned home as her mission was completed. All of the Holmeses had gone back to their manor, intent on making up for lost time. And James?
Well, he was simply along for the ride.
He hadn’t quite known what to expect as their adventures came to a close, what the future would hold. The grim, pessimistic part of him was sure he would be back to finding some lonely place to stay. Back to a life without the warmth of the family he’d come to love like he had his own. Such a possibility was quickly squashed by Cordelia beckoning him to come along. So, along he went, back to the English countryside.
Each Holmes was acting differently. Cordelia and Beatrice were making up for lost time, picking out what truths and lies the daughter had been told over the years. A never ending, exhausting process, but an important one. Mycroft tottered between joining the women of the family in their efforts and navigating his return to his job in the government, with all of its hurdles and procedure. A journey that James did not envy.
As for Sherlock, well. Something had changed in the lad.
Sure, the boy would still join his family at times but most often he was just huddled away in his room. James had accepted it the first few days back, given the turmoil of … everything that had happened. But it had been a little over two weeks and he still was barely seen.
The Irishman had tried countless times to pull the Brit out of his shell. He’d thrown dozens of jabs and petty challenges, asked a large number of questions both personal and general. Nothing seemed to work, the genius’ eyes dull and his spark smothered. For God’s sake, he’d threatened to go flirt with both Cordelia and Beatrice, and Sherlock had barely reacted at all.
James truly was at a loss. The sun was well gone and all of the members of the house had retired. He was in the guest room, decorated but certainly not personalized in the way he was familiar with in his friend’s room. The place his thoughts kept returning to. As much as he may act flippant, he was concerned for his friend. He’d barely eaten, drank or bathed since they’d all returned. Not to mention the deep shadows that had formed beneath those blue eyes. He tossed back and forth in the bed for ages before giving up on sleep.
So, here he was. Slinking through the hallways with candlelight for a guide. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d hoped to accomplish but he was stood outside his friend’s door nonetheless. Hesitation wasn’t something he was very familiar with, but it seeped into his being as he stared at the wood before him.
His knuckles rapped softly on the door. “Sherlock?” he quietly asked. “You awake?” There was no response, so he gave it a moment before speaking again. “Sherlock, may I come in?” Once again, no response.
“Sherlock, I’m going to come in, alright?” he announced gently. After another short bout of silence, his hand wandered down to the doorknob and tested it. Finding it unlocked, he carefully opened it and made his way inside.
The room was not much different from what he’d seen before. All the belongings were still in place and aside from the nearly burnt out candle on the desk, it was exactly as it was all those weeks ago when he’d first arrived. A chair behind the desk was turned to the wall, but an all too familiar mass of brown hair poked above the chair back.
“Come on now, man,” he said as he approached, setting his own candle down next to the heap of melted wax. “I can see you sittin’ there and-”
He found himself cut off as he entered the place only their minds could go. The familiar feeling of it surrounded him but it lacked the controlled quality it usually had. Instead, something feral seemed to float through the air, as though a cornered beast lurked down the hall.
And in a hallway he certainly was. Dark and grim, only enhanced by the undercurrent he’d noticed. A moment more made him realize he knew this hallway. One where he had felt some of the most fear in his entire life. The hallway where Sherlock was shot. Where he’d nearly lost his first and best friend.
Even just standing there, he could practically feel the liquid beneath his fingertips, nearly smell the iron permeating the air. His stomach churned even though he knew these events were well and past. Which begged the question: why was this where Sherlock’s thoughts were?
So, down the hallway he went, praying his heart would stop betraying the anxiety he felt. He may not know why his friend’s mind was here but it certainly wasn’t for a good reason. The hall opened into the chamber he recognized with the scene as he recalled. French officials filled the floor, Silas and his accomplices onstage as he monologued. The only difference he could find is that, unlike the scene’s real events, neither he nor Sherlock were in the back.
His gaze returned to the stage as the now-dead butterfly in the jar was wheeled off, the human sized version in its place as the despicable man said “Bring in the deplorable!” The sheet was pulled off, and James felt his heart fall out of his chest.
Inside the glass cage was Sherlock, dressed in the same trousers and vest he had been the last time he’d come out of his room a few days ago. His hair was drenched in sweat, as was the rest of him, and his breath rattled as though he was choked. Worst of all, his eyes were the same as they had been: dull, lifeless and not fully present.
Meanwhile, the scene continued around them. Silas Holmes waltzed over to Professor Malik, his speech not faltering once as he plucked the vial of Creeping Death from its place. James startled from his daze, attempting to push towards the front. Towards the stage, towards his friend. His terrified, trapped friend.
As he pushed forward, his attention was pulled by Silas circling the cage and his son, something that hadn’t happened in the real world. “My own son,” the madman declared. “My own flesh and blood, betrayed me for some perceived morals.” He glared through the glass, unaware or uncaring of his son’s panic. “Instead of joining his father in his prosperous business, he causes my death instead!” As he spoke, blood bloomed through his shirt and coat as if on command. “It seems only fair to return the favor, wouldn’t you all agree?” Cheers of assent rose through the air.
“Father,” the weary boy within the glass whimpered. James rather hated the sound. “Father, please…”
“Oh, begging now, are we? Finally decided to call me Father instead of Silas?”
“Please.”
“My dear boy, the time for negotiating is long past. I’d say it passed right around when I was shot by your little band of misfits and certainly by the time I fell off that cliff, thanks to you.”
“No, Father, please,” Sherlock pleaded, tears streaking down his face.
“Such a shame you wouldn’t join the business. I suppose you’ll just have to be a demonstration for these fine people instead.” The man slowed his walk as he approached the cage’s hatch.
James continued his efforts with newfound urgency, nearly climbing over the officials crowding the floor and watching the show with interest. Why these men seemed to be made from brick walls, he didn’t know, but he pushed through them all the same. Nearly halfway to the stage, he saw the cage’s hatch open. He heard a quiet “Goodbye, my boy,” followed by the muffled shattering of a glass vial.
He watched in horror as his friend panicked, banging the glass as the nerve agent began to affect him. A raw scream of pure terror ripped from his throat, one James knew he would never forget. The Irishman’s eyes darted around for any kind of solution and he spotted a pistol holstered by a man mere feet from him. He slipped by the distracted men and grabbed the gun. He raised it and aimed well above where his now collapsed yet conscious friend sat, and he fired.
Just like before, the crowd scattered with hysteria, as did the scientists. With his path now cleared, James rushed towards the stage. He spotted the podium holding the butterfly jar, grabbed it and swung it at the glass with all his might. The cage walls shattered and released the rest of the gas into the area.
“Sherlock!” he cried, abandoning the pillar. “Sherlock! We need to go!”
“Ja- James?” Sherlock murmured, his eyes hazed by delirium.
“Yes, Sherlock, please, we need to leave now! You have to squeeze out of this cage, come on now!”
The dazed boy half-fell towards his friend, barely managing to crawl and squirm through the opening provided. Ultimately, James had to help pull him through and upright against him. He could feel his friends labored breaths, his muscles spasming. Strained whines accompanied every step James pulled them through as he marched them into the tunnel he entered from.
And just like that, the two were back in Sherlock’s bedroom as if nothing had happened at all. James hurriedly kneeled in front of his friend, laying his hands on the boy’s knees. “Sherlock, are you alright?” he asked with anguish.
Tears still streaked the boy’s face, his breathing still harsh, and yet his eyes were the clearest they’d been since returning home. “James?” His voice was laden with uncertainty, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“No, it's your other friend,” he teased, a relieved exhale and small smile accompanying it. “Can’t say that’s how I usually spent my nights, but all in all-”
His sentence was cut off by his friend throwing himself at him, arms wrapped around him like a vice. James paused for a moment, unsure, before carefully returning the gesture. It seemed to only amplify the current emotions as Sherlock began sobbing into his shoulder. Fueled by nothing but pure instinct, one of James’ hands came to rest at the back of his friend’s head, his fingers gently carding through the damp hair there.
“Shhh, it’s alright. It’s alright.” He found himself rocking them gently, something he could vaguely remember his own mother doing all those years ago. “It wasn’t your fault. Your father made his choices, there was nothing to be done. That’s not your fault. You were the only one who didn’t want him dead. For God’s sake, you took a bullet for the man!”
A small huff came from Sherlock, who slowly pulled his head from its hiding spot against his friend’s neck. James brought his hand to hold his partner’s face, letting their foreheads rest together as his thumb swiped away a stray tear.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. Not in the slightest.”
“I- I don’t- How were you even there?”
“Couldn’t sleep, decided to come pester you to pass the time.” Both boys chuckled. “I’ve been worried about you, mate.”
“I’m sorry, James. Truly. I’ve just felt … burdened.”
“Then let me, us, in. Let us help you carry that big old cross you’re trying to carry alone.” He paused. “Your mind space … I’ve never seen it like that. Out of control. A beast of its own creation.”
“It's like I always say, James: the real prison is up here,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple. “What’s often a palace can also be a prison, it turns out.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing your friend has experience in orchestrating prison escapes, isn’t it?” he asked, his usual smirk reappearing.
Sherlock laughed. “Yes, I do suppose it is.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, please go change out of these bloody clothes. I do not want to think about how long you’ve worn them.”
“Ah, yes, it’s definitely been … too long. Won’t be but a moment.”
The boy walked away, returning a few minutes later dressed in pajamas. James had taken the liberty of cleaning up the bed and straightening out a few out of place knickknacks. He’d tried to clear some of the melted wax from the desk but that was clearly something to be handled later.
“There he is, all ready to meet the King,” James teased. “Now, into bed, if you don’t mind.”
“Only if you’re staying,” Sherlock said after a moment, hesitancy lacing his voice.
James’ exterior softened just a touch. “Well, can’t leave now that you're present for the first time in weeks, can I?”
And so the two boys crammed into a bed definitely meant to hold just one. Sherlock ended up half draped over James, though neither seemed to mind. Quite the opposite, given the arms wrapping around each other and content sighs released into air. Sherlock tucked his head back into James’ neck and let the last of his tension fade away.
“James?”
“Hm?”
“Did you mean it? That it wasn’t my fault?”
“Of course, you dolt. He made his choices and despite all of it, you tried to save him anyway. Now, will ya please stop asking stupid questions and go to sleep?”
Sherlock huffed out a laugh, before going silent and drifting towards sleep. James knew that his friend was far from through with his troubles but, well. He wasn’t just going to let his friend suffer alone. Besides, he was good at breaking his friend out of prisons. Even if that prison was his beloved friend’s mind.