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The night air of Constantinople caressed against Sherlock’s cheeks as he stood alone on the balcony. The murmur of voices and carriage wheels rising faintly from the streets below.
Xiao Wei had only just withdrawn, leaving him alone with his minds. Yet the silence did nothing to still his thoughts.
The past few minutes—no, mere seconds—returned to him with relentless clarity.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
He had drawn back from her then, his expression blank.
“How am I supposed to feel?” he had replied.
A kiss, to Sherlock Holmes, was not some absurd concept or unknownable knowledge. Kiss is one of actions to express that you like or love someone. Sherlock had experimented, in the careless curiosity of boyhood—brief, inconsequential moments shared with schoolmates, with no meaning. Just to learn how it feel when two lips meets each other.
And yet—
Wasn't a real kiss meant to feel different?
There was supposed to be… something more?
“How do you want to feel?” Xiao Wei had pressed, her voice soft, almost indulgent.
“However I am supposed to,” he had answered.
She had smiled then—eyes closing, as though humoring a child not yet grown into himself.
“You are still a work in progress, Sherlock.”
———
“And so, after all that, the first thing that crossed your brilliant minds is… to seek me out?”
James sat lazily on the armchair in his chambers, arms crossed, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes as Sherlock recounted the encounter.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question lingered.
Sherlock found, to his irritation, that he did not possess an immediate answer. But his mind thought that looking for James was the right thing to do.
“I cannot say with certainty,” he admitted at last. He stood not too far from James. “Perhaps I required the counsel of a friend. To determine whether the absence constitutes… abnormality when I kiss a woman.”
James watched him with quiet interest.
“Here, tell me this instead,” he said. “Do you regret kissing her?”
“Kissing her?” Sherlock frowned faintly. “It was she who initiated the act, not me. And no—I feel no regret.”
A pause.
“So why are you worrying about what you didn’t feel?”
Sherlock hesitated. “Because there was supposed to have been something, supposed there not? Some… indications. And yet there was nothing.”
James rose from his seat, walking towards Sherlock.
“People feel something,” he said slowly, “when they kiss someone they wish to kiss.”
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “I didn't wish to kiss her.”
“Precisely.”
The simplicity of it settled between them.
Sherlock exhaled softly, more to himself than to his friend. “Then the absence of my feeling is not… abnormal.”
“Not in the slightest.”
A flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed through Sherlock’s otherwise composed features.
“For a moment,” he murmured, “I considered the possibility that I had become… defective. A creature incapable of what others experience.”
James let out a low laugh.
“My dear Sherlock, you’ve got a heart. I assure you of it.”
Sherlock shot him a brief, unimpressed glance.
“While we’re at it,” James continued, his tone shifting—lighter now, edged with mischief, “is there anyone you would want to kiss?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
James chuckled softly. “Humour me, Shirley. Or shall I assume it was the gentleman you encountered at Les Folies Begère?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “And what of yourself? You speak as though such matters are trifling. Surely you have found someone worthy of your attention, given how readily you bestow it upon anyone who breathes,”
“Ah, deflection,” James replied lightly. “But very well. If you insist, I shall answer in your stead.”
Sherlock did not understand—could not account for—the quiet anticipation that settled, unwelcome, in his chest.
“Most of the time,” James began, a trace of smugness touching his voice, “it’s other people wanting to kiss me.”
Sherlock huffed, unimpressed.
“But yes,” James continued, more softly now, “there is someone I would wish to kiss. Not just on a whim, or anything like that. But because…” He paused, as though weighing the words. “Because I would like to show them the extent of my care. That, in their presence, everything else is not important.”
“Hyperbole,” Sherlock replied at once—too quick, perhaps.
“At least I'm being honest,” James returned, “and not like a cat that dances around the water yet refuses to admit it’s not afraid.”
Sherlock did not rise to the remark.
Instead, James pressed on, his voice quieter now, though no less insistent. “So what about you, then? No one you’d give a bit of yourself to?”
Sherlock's expression grew distant.
Mycroft’s voice crept into his mind,
"Do you have any idea how worried I've been?
Ah, of course not, because that would require you to think someone other than yourself."
It is not true.
He cares for his mother. For his long-lost sister. For his brother dear. And even for Silas.
But beyond that,
Is there anyone who is not his family? Someone who fits James' narrative?
…
There is.
James.
James, who had never hesitated when danger found Sherlock first.
James, who never asked for anything in return, who owed nothing, and expected nothing.
and Sherlock would do the same for him.
Because he cares so much too.
His gaze found James at once and it immediately clear to him that the answer stood plainly before him, waiting only to be spoken. But Sherlock hesitated to speak it out loud. His gaze drifted away from James. But of course, nothing escaped from James Moriarty.
“There's something,” James countered as he took a step closer—then another—unhurried, giving Sherlock an opportunity to object.
But Sherlock did not move an inch.
“That look,” James continued, “You only get it when you’re on the verge of understanding something you didn’t expect to.”
Sherlock’s pulse quickened. “I understand perfectly well,” he replied.
“Then say it.”
"I cant." he murmured, Sherlock still refused to voice it.
Because it would be him confessing to James.
James stopped close enough.
Close enough now that Sherlock could see the barest hint of a curve on his mouth, the certainty in his gaze with no trace of mockery.
“Sherlock,” James said, and his voice had lost its teasing edge entirely, “do you wish to kiss me?”
Sherlock inhaled slowly. He could feel James' warm breath and his left hands touching his face. For once, his mind did not leap ahead. His body even moved on its own, drawing closer.
“…I do not know,” he answered.
James stared at him for a moment longer, his right hand slowly touching Sherlock's back—then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“But I want to kiss you,”
Before Sherlock could react, James closed the remaining distance.
Their lips met. It was gentle, with no rush and force. James’ lips were soft, moving slowly against Sherlock’s, as if tasting every second.
Sherlock didn't push him away. Instead, he melted into James' embrace.
12 seconds
Sherlock—stunned and without intending to—marked the seconds as they passed, the kiss lingered, refusing to be dismissed as nothing.
Oh, Sherlock definitely felt something.
An awareness that dulled rather than sharpened, that pulled his focus inward and outward all at once, and undeniable fact that this was different.
Sherlock did not pull away first like he did with Xiao Wei.
it was obvious enough for him.
James withdrew first, though only slightly, just enough to see him clearly. His hand lingered at Sherlock’s jaw, his thumb brushing his lips gently.
"And now, how do you feel, Sherlock?"
Sherlock did not answer at once, his thoughts arranged with the anticipation that had stirred in his chest. The distortion of time, how twelve seconds had stretched into something vast, and yet ended far too soon.
The warmth of James’s hand, how it effortlessly fit to cupped his face.
and the truth is that he had not wanted it to end.
“…So many things,” Sherlock said at last.
James let out a soft breath, almost imperceptible. Something in his posture eased, though his gaze did not waver.
“Is that so,” he murmured.
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, a faint sharpness returning to his expression.
“And,” he continued, “I find the absence rather noticeable.”
James stilled.
His hand remained where it was, but his fingers pressed just slightly, as though anchoring himself.
“I feel its loss,” Sherlock added, quieter now, “when you withdraw.”
James blinked. Once. His smirk didn’t just fade—it vanished.
“Careful, Sherlock,” he said softly. “You’re starting to sound dangerously sincere.”
“I see no merit in falsehood.”
A quiet breath escaped him, followed by the faintest shake of his head.
“Well,” he said, a small smile forming, more real than any he had worn before, “that’s terribly inconvenient.”
Sherlock frowned faintly. “Inconvenient?”
“For my composure.”
And before Sherlock could pursue the matter, James closed the distance again, this time with far less restraint.
His hand pressed more firmly, guiding rather than resting.
And Sherlock did allow it, he yielded himself into his embrace again.
The second time they parted, it was only for breath—and even that felt like an interruption. A soft, involuntary hum escaped Sherlock in protest, low and unguarded, as though the separation itself offended him.
James laughed quietly against him, the sound warm, pleased.
“So eager,” he murmured, voice dipped in teasing satisfaction. “All this, after discovering how a kiss is supposed to feel.”
Sherlock offered no reply. Instead, he stared at James with that unsettling, brilliant focus of his. There was thought behind it, but something else too. A faint smirk touched his lips, restrained yet unmistakable.
“Your eyes…” James said, his tone shifting as he found himself caught there, momentarily adrift in those clear, striking blue eyes. “You are thinking again.”
Sherlock’s brows lifted, but he did not deny it.
James pressed, softer now. “What is it?”
Sherlock swallowed. This hesitation crept into a space where there was usually none. Curiosity had always been his territory, his to control. And yet, here it felt so much more fragile.
“This is,” he began, his voice quieter than before "...hardly where such things end, is it?”
James’s mouth curved at once, that familiar, infuriating smirk returning—the one that surfaced whenever he believed himself victorious in one of his unspoken games.
“There’s plenty of room to move here,” he replied lightly. His gaze flickered around the room. “And lucky for us, we already find ourselves in a place that will do nicely.”
A soft chuckle followed, though there was intent beneath the levity. “But I cannot imagine you are quite so ignorant as you pretend, Sherlock.”
“Well—” Sherlock cleared his throat, an uncharacteristic break in composure. “I understand the theory. But I do not know how it feels.”
The admission lingered between them, fragile in a way neither had anticipated.
“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?” he said, slower this time, “that this is what you want? Because there could be… consequences. Like, after this, we may not—”
“Have I ever retreated from the knowledge I desired?” Sherlock interrupted.
That was enough to answer.
James’ expression shifted—something young, almost hopeful, then softened, as if patching himself.
“Well then,” he murmured.
His hand rose from Sherlock’s back, slow and steady, brushing against the back of Sherlock’s neck. The touch was gentle, yet assured, sending a subtle shiver down Sherlock’s spine despite himself.
James leaned closer, his voice lowering to something softer and more intimate tone.
“Come,” he said, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “To the bed, unless you’re planning to do this investigation on your feet.”