Chapter Text
James Moriarty was a peculiar man. Terribly smart, terribly charming and terribly handsome to boot. Sherlock’s eyes followed James whenever he was in the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was distracting, to say the least.
Sherlock could easily say that James was one of the few friends he had in this world, which was most certainly unexpected. What he did expect from meeting his roommate in his cramped uni accommodation was someone insufferable, obnoxious and slow. James turned out to be only two of those things.
Over time, Sherlock became accustomed to living with James. While it is very difficult to predict the unexpected, it is not impossible. And while his first year in London being actually interesting was unexpected, it was not unwelcome. Not in the slightest.
Sherlock mused over all the shenanigans he and James got up to in their first year. Loads of late night pub excursions, thrilling debates over anything and everything, solving a murder and being a fugitive for a week. All of which he did not predict, but by god was it fun.
And the phone call he just got was something he did not predict in the slightest. He went through the memory again to see if it was a trick of sorts, or some practical joke.
Sherlock was on his laptop when the phone rang, researching some obscure topic his mind snagged on. His left hand stumbled across the table while his right continued scrolling through the case study he was reading. He automatically swiped across the screen and held the phone to his ear while his eyes were locked on his screen.
“Hello?”
He wondered who would be calling at this hour. The witching hour, an hour commonly associated with supernatural events, which is a result of uneasiness due to disturbances in REM sleep. This is characterised by-
“Hello, this is Sam calling from St Mary’s hospital. Am I speaking to-” a pause. “ a Sherlock Holmes?”
Ah yes. The phone. Why was the hospital calling him?
“Yes, that’s me.” Is his mother alright? But she’s not housed at St Mary’s. Was it Mycroft? Last he checked, Mycroft was doing terribly boring work for the government. Maybe something happened outside of-
“James Moriarty has been involved in an accident. He does not have any major injuries, but he did suffer a concussion and you are listed as his emergency contact. Are you able to come to pick him up and make sure he gets home safely?”
Sherlock’s mind stuttered to a halt. Was this a mistake? Why was he listed as James’ emergency contact? What the hell did James get up to in the last three hours to get put in the hospital?
“Yes. I’ll be there.” he said succinctly. The call ended soon after.
He had grabbed the closest jacket, which was the one hung off the back of the sofa, and rushed out the door into the frigid London night. Now he was in an uber headed towards St Mary’s Hospital, watching as the buildings went past. The driver was, thankfully, quiet, which left Sherlock with some silence to ponder in.
He was glad that James didn’t seem to be severely harmed. It would be such a hassle to find a new flatmate in the middle of the year. Especially one as… curious as James. Sherlock’s heart ached ever so slightly at the prospect of losing him. Only at the idea of the effort it would take to find a new flatmate who would tolerate all of Sherlock’s eccentricities, of course.
It was just him and James in the apartment. There weren’t many people willing to be roommates with the two involved in the murders in their first year, even if they got their names cleared.
The car rolled to a stop outside the hospital, and he marched into the hospital. He approached the reception desk. Sat there was a man in his late thirties, slouched and face illuminated by his screen.
Heavy eyebags, gaunt face, pale skin. Dry eyes and thin hair. Overworked, underpaid. One dog at home. Early signs of malnutrition, probably mistaken for stress.
“Sherlock Holmes, here to pick up James Moriarty.”
“Please show me some ID and sign here.” he droned as he placed a clipboard on top of the desk.
Bitten nails, small fissures on several. Further evidence of both stress and malnutrition.
Sherlock showed his driver’s license and signed the paper. He looked expectantly at the receptionist, who took the clipboard while looking at his computer. Several seconds of obnoxiously loud typing passed.
“Room 105.”
Sherlock gave a curt nod and walked off. He went down several corridors filled with fluorescent yellow light, and his footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. Eventually he reached room 105, and opened the door.
He found James sitting on the side of a hospital bed while his legs dangled down, the tips of his shoes barely brushing the linoleum floor. He looked… much better than the images that had been flashing through Sherlock’s mind ever since he got that call.
His left arm was scratched up with painful looking road rash. His nice trousers were scuffed and damaged, with some small pieces of gravel still hanging on. There was dried blood down the side of James’ face and the nurse was cleaning up the freshly done stitches on the side of his forehead. Seeing his friend okay, Sherlock decided to ask the question that was nagging the most at his brain.
“James, as politely as I can put this, why in the fuck am I listed as your emergency contact?”
“You’re the detective, Sherlock, figure it out yourself.” James stared at Sherlock from where he was sitting on the hospital bed.
It was not an impossible task to do. Sherlock had never seen or heard James interact with any of his family. No calls, no visitors. His university fees and accommodation were covered by his student loans. His living costs were covered by a scholarship awarded to only the most promising of mathematics students. During holidays, he stays in London. No help from family.
Whenever relatives were mentioned, James would purse his lips for just a moment, and brush off any questions with a smirk and an off handed comment. He’s careful with it. Sherlock knows startlingly little about James’ origins, other than the fact that he hails from Cork, and was born from a mother.
His family are either estranged. Or dead. Sherlock imagines that James treats them both the same.
In the way of friends, Sherlock is sure that James could get many if he wanted, such are the possibilities of men like him. But it’s clear that James gets very bored by the average person, and has very few people he holds dear to him, if any. Sherlock is unsure if he is one of them. A friend, yes. Dear? Maybe. Maybe not.
No friends to take up the role, either. Other than him, of course.
The nurse treating James found herself in the middle of a standoff, while the two men stared each other down, having an entire non verbal conversation within the span of 5 seconds. It was clear that James could see most of what Sherlock was thinking, and the conclusions that he had drawn.
Finally, Sherlock broke eye contact and asked “What did you even do this time?”
“I didn’t do anything. It’s not like I asked a car to hit me” James said, petulantly. He looked and sounded an awful lot like a child trying to get away with mischief in that moment, with the way he was swinging his feet and had that telltale glint of amusement in his eye.
“Well, next time you have the audacity to get hit by a car, can you at least try to do it at a normal hour?” A reasonable request, he thinks.
“Sherlock. When have you ever known me to be normal?” James put emphasis on the word ‘normal’ like it had insulted him personally. Sherlock was going to respond, but before he could, the nurse interrupted their banter after she was finished cleaning James’ cut.
“So, looks like you are free to go. Come back in ten days so we can remove your stitches. Take some paracetamol for the pain.” she turned to Sherlock. “Usually emergency contacts aren’t called, but James here has a concussion and it is pretty late in the night, so we just wanted to make sure that he had a safe way of getting home. You should have already signed a form at reception?”
Sun earrings, eyes are not devoid of light, new scrubs, one tan line on the ring finger, movements are slightly sluggish. Relatively new nurse, covering a shift for a coworker, engaged, waiting for a summer wedding, has yet to be crushed by the underfunded, broken system that is the NHS.
Sherlock nodded, after a moment. James was watching him like a hawk. James cocked his head slightly, and his eyes flickered to the pocket on the nurse’s trousers.
Her eyes keep flickering to the phone in her pocket. Signs of stress first believed to be typical of a healthcare worker are actually unrelated to work. Picking up shifts that are clearly not convenient for her sleep schedule. Hands are instinctually drawn to ring in the other pocket.
Partner was injured, waiting for him to recover for the wedding.
James barely nodded, confirming Sherlock’s deductions.
“Then it looks like both of you are good to go. Make sure you boys get home safe.”
James smiled at her as he stood up. “Thank you, love. Have a nice night, ya hear?” he said as he and Sherlock shuffled out the room. The nurse turned away as she moved to clean up the equipment behind her. Something in Sherlock roiled at the interaction, but he paid no heed to it. The feeling fled just as quickly as it arrived.
As he and James walked down the corridors of the hospital, they walked in amiable silence until James spoke up.
“Are you wearing my jacket?” Sherlock looked down to see himself swathed in a dirty brown leather jacket over his scruffy ‘Best Detective Ever’ t-shirt that James got him as a gag gift after the whole fugitive business.
“I suppose I am.” Sherlock adjusted both sleeves and the collar of the coat and walked with far too much self assuredness for someone who got caught in the act of stealing. James didn’t say anything more, and Sherlock noticed that James had averted his gaze, looking straight forward. Looks like a win for Sherlock, then. Since he was already looking, Sherlock could maybe see just a dusting of pink across James’ cheeks.
It was probably the lighting, though. Or Sherlock’s overactive imagination at being awake for 34 hours.
They exited the hospital into the chilled air of the night. Condensation floated from their breaths, and Sherlock tucked the jacket around him just a little tighter. He turned to see James staring with a strange look on his face. The concussion, most likely. The uber was waiting outside, and they went into the car, which was marginally warmer.
Picture of two kids stuck to the dash. Worn clothes, working late at night, has been for a while. No ring, no tan line. Seats are worn. Divorced, working for his kids, doesn’t have custody, no personal expenses, any spare cash goes to the children.
James’ voice cut through the low rumbling of the engine. It was soft, much softer than it usually was.
“I can take you off, you know. If you want it, that is.” he sounded tentative, almost. They both knew what he was talking about. Sherlock thought about it, not being James’ emergency contact, for a moment. He thought about James getting into trouble, getting hurt, dying, and how he would just go on with his life, ignorant of whatever things his friend faced. How would he have found out? The news or passing gossip?
Even just the idea of it sounded absolutely horrible. Sherlock thinks that if that happened, he would never forgive himself for it. It would, most likely, throw him into a whirlpool of self hatred and longing. He would prefer if that did not happen.
“No. Keep me on. It’s not a bother.” It was. A bother, that is. They both knew it. That’s what defines being an emergency contact, after all. It means being there, and making decisions for someone else’s life in dire circumstances. It means taking your friend home at 3am because they got hit by a car. Sherlock didn’t hate the idea of being there for James. Not at all.
James released a relieved exhale, almost imperceptibly silent. The rest of the car journey was taken in companionable silence. They were both very tired, physically and mentally. Well, more physically for the both of them. James from his menagerie of injuries, and Sherlock from being awake for a much longer period of time than what can be considered healthy.
Once they got to their building, they thanked the driver and went up to their flat. It was pretty important that they both get all the sleep they can get, given that they have lectures in the morning.
James opened the door and Sherlock followed after him. He reached to the side to turn on the lights, the sudden brightness causing James to groan and cover his eyes.
“Apologies.” Sherlock turned off the corridor’s lights and turned on the bathroom lights beside them, which filtered through the half open door, so that the hallway was still illuminated and they could see what they were doing, but the brightness would not be so painful for James.
James hummed in appreciation. They took their shoes off and went into the apartment. Sherlock could see his laptop sitting abandoned on their coffee table in front of the sofa. The apartment was a mess, really. Papers strewn about on all surfaces, forgotten half-filled mugs, random objects which could be barely classed as decoration.
Even if the flat was a mess, it felt lived in, of all things. Much more domestic compared to what he was expecting. It warmed his heart. Just a little bit.
“Alright. I’m heading to bed.” James grumbled as he moved towards his room, with the grace of a man who had had copious amounts of alcohol that night, and a concussion. He paused at the threshold of his room.
“Thank you.” he said it like how someone would throw something over their shoulder. He didn’t turn back to look at Sherlock, just went inside his room and closed the door. He didn’t have to see Sherlock’s reaction, he already knew what it was.
There was no room for smug sarcasm, or playful banter. Not in the exhausted air of the flat. Not after the vulnerability both of them showed tonight. Just quiet acceptance, and a shared understanding that the events of this night would not be spoken of tomorrow. Not James’ lack of relations, and not Sherlock’s genuine concern and care and worry for someone else. Not the fact that both of them were mere mortals, and they too were not beyond human emotion and the goings of this world, unlike what the people around them may or may not believe.
Sherlock stared at the retreating figure until the door closed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move, for a moment. He let the words linger in the air, and in doing so, acknowledged their existence. He didn’t need to do anything more. James didn’t need him to do anything more than that. Not tonight.
Sherlock went into his own room, and collapsed onto his bed. Exhaustion settled into his bones like a well loved blanket. His last thoughts before sleep took hold of him were of waiting, falling and James.
Sherlock woke up early the next morning. Or technically, the same morning. Much earlier than he would have liked, due to the sun filtering in through the blinds he forgot to close last night. He checked the time. 7:24. He had a lecture at 9. So did James, actually. Usually they would take the tube together, but Sherlock wasn’t sure if James was going to attend today, on account of the hangover, stitches and concussion.
Sherlock went and got ready for the day, brushing his teeth, taming his terrible bedhead and finding some semblance of nutrition. All of which was done with no sign of James. Sherlock got dressed and had a bit of time to kill, so he went out to the nearest Tesco, one of the mini ones, and got some paracetamol, and on a whim, made his way to the clearance section, and found a small cat plush holding a heart, which had writing that said ‘Hope you are feline better soon!’ It was unbelievably cheesy and its eyes were concerningly large. Perfect.
He paid for the items at the self service till and went back up to the flat. He entered and at first glance, there was no sign that James had left his room yet. Sherlock cleared some space on the counter of their tiny kitchen and placed his items down.
Sherlock still had 15 minutes before he had to leave to go to his lecture, presumably without James. Usually James did most of the cleaning around the flat. Upon witnessing the state of the kitchen, Sherlock resolved to clean it with what little time he had left. As quietly as he could, he gathered mugs and plates of half eaten food, washed them in the sink, and placed them on the drying rack.
He gathered the scattered papers, organised them as well as he could and placed them on a windowsill. Then, he grabbed a freshly cleaned mug, filled it with water and placed it next to the paracetamol and plushie.
Sherlock stood back and admired his handiwork. The kitchen was now slightly cleaner than before, and, when James woke up, he had some paracetamol to take and a plushie to be confused by.
It was a fantastic plot. Sherlock did want his friend to feel better soon, and the cat was a genuine sign of that. It was an actual, considerate gesture that would, hopefully, distract James from his inevitable headache. With most people, such a gift would cheer them up a bit in spite of whatever ailment they are suffering. With James, he will be bamboozled as to why Sherlock would buy such a thing for him, especially given the fact that it has no apparent use.
Now that he thought about it, James is probably going to throw the thing away, since it doesn’t actually do anything but sit there and look suspiciously inconspicuous. James is also probably going to think that he has some sort of ulterior motive with the plush, like a hidden microphone or a bomb or something.
The joke is on James, though, since it doesn’t have any ulterior motive at all except to distract him from the pain of getting hit by a car, if only for the time it takes to toss the stuffed animal into the bin.
Sherlock took a look at the clock with mathematical equations instead of numbers on the wall and found that he was running late. Damn.
He rushed out of the apartment and went down to the tube, and got stuffed into the train with a bunch of other people. This is what he hated about public transport. So many people, with so many lives. Usually James can distract him from the massive influx of information with some sort of chatter or problem or mind game that requires some actual thinking.
No such luck today.
University student to his left, athlete of some sort. Swimmer? No, callouses indicative of a climber. Cheating on his girlfriend. Stressed about an upcoming competition.
Businessman to his right. Just had a pumpkin spice latte, breath is rife with it. Investment banker, rich, considering getting a cat to help with his crippling loneliness.
His mind brought him back to James. He missed his friend, maybe just a little bit. Now that he thought about it, he doesn’t actually know how James got hit by a car. Sherlock made a note to ask James the next time he saw him. Probably later today, given that he has two lectures, one morning and one afternoon, which means he will probably have to go to the library in the meantime.
Maybe he should pop back to the apartment in between the lectures. Just to make sure that James hadn’t died somehow in the morning. What was he thinking? That was a ridiculous sentiment. Plus, James would make fun of him for being worried.
Still, the thought of James lingered, even as he entered the lecture hall. Huh. Seems like the journey passed a lot quicker than Sherlock expected. Odd.
Unbeknownst to Sherlock, the moment he stepped into the lecture hall, James had woken up with a splitting headache and dull pains down the left side of his body. He didn’t want to get up, but the dryness of his throat demanded attention and water. Luckily, his curtains were closed, so he didn’t have to deal with light sensitivity on top of all his other injuries. James opened his bedroom door and stumbled into the kitchen.
He took a look at the clock on the wall, which pointed to 8:52. He wasn’t planning on attending any lectures today. Perhaps he should email the admin, just to make sure that they won’t use a couple of missed lectures as an excuse to withdraw his scholarship.
While he was considering the subject, something on the counter caught his eye. He moved towards it. It was one of their mugs, the one that said ‘Best Dad Ever’ in faded blue lettering that Sherlock got half off at a second hand shop. It was filled with water, and next to it was an unopened box of paracetamol and a plush of a black cat sitting with a heart between its paws. The heart had cursive lettering that said ‘Hope you are feline better soon!’
James just stood there for a moment, staring at the items like they grew mouths and started talking about the etymology of the words ‘mumbo jumbo’. Which meant he was staring at them like they baffled him. Which they did.
It was… surprisingly thoughtful. Sherlock hadn’t really done any gestures like it since James had known him, though perhaps there was simply not an opportunity to do so.
James opened up the box, took two tablets and washed them down with water. He drained the mug, soothing his dry throat and headache ever so slightly. Afterwards, he placed the mug down and stared at the cat plushie.
The paracetamol made sense. The nurse told him to take some for the pain, and it was obvious that right after the incident the pain would be bad. Apparently Sherlock had remembered her words, which wasn’t extremely impressive. The water made sense, too. Clearly to take with the tablets.
But the cat? James tried to think for any reason why Sherlock would get such a thing for him. He didn’t have many ideas. Perhaps it was to cheer him up. But surely there must be some ulterior motive? Was it bugged? A bomb with a delay timer?
James kept looking at the cat, as if staring into its nonexistent soul would provide him with answers.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone did something for him without expecting anything back. Someone probably did, once. His mother, maybe. Years ago. It was statistically likely, right? But even if it did happen, he couldn’t remember it. It’s been a while.
Slowly, wordlessly, James reached out and gently grabbed the plushie. It was barely bigger than his hand. He held it up, rotated it back and forth and inspected it for any foul play. Nothing.
The answer to why the stuffed animal was here was obvious, even if James didn’t want to acknowledge it. It was an act of genuine kindness, done to make him feel better.
Then, even slower, handling the plush like he was afraid it would crumble if he moved it too harshly, he pressed it against his chest so that the heart the cat was holding was touching his sternum. After, he wrapped his arms around it, so it was completely trapped in his hug.
Something in his heart ached, and he was filled with a warm feeling that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He wasn’t sure what it was. Contentedness, maybe. Or gratitude. Or longing, though he wasn’t sure for what.
He stood there hugging the damned thing for who knows how long, till the distant sound of a car horn broke his stupor. James headed back to his room, taking the cat with him.