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When Sherlock's hands begin to tremble, he doesn't quite notice it at first.
The grounds of Appleton Manor lay bare and silent, stretching out into the night. Where the earth and sky once met at the horizon, darkness now settles over with a heavy veil. The window seems to loom, marking shadows onto the glass with the dying remnants of rain. And if Sherlock focuses just enough, he is able to see James and himself, standing by the unearthed grave.
Maybe it was- maybe it had only made sense that Sherlock was going mad.
Even now, even after he had bid his mother goodnight, making sure she had fallen asleep before he kissed her forehead and took his leave, even now. It is there— settling into every crevasse of his mind, if not haunting, if not forcibly pushing the breaths out of Sherlock, and he remains still where he stands by the window— it is still there.
His heart thumps rhythmically.
It feels, somehow- rather than anything else that Sherlock could bring himself to discern- it feels like a dream. Something of the way it shrouds over his lungs, weightless yet heavy at the same time, freeing but stifling, rooting his limbs into place and his tongue at the back of his mouth, and he cannot seem to wake up from it.
Where reality touches ground at the whispers of the subconscious in his mind, Sherlock takes another breath and is startled when he hears that it leaves him with a shake.
That— it just could not do.
He takes another deep breath in; this time, a little more forcibly composed, and Sherlock might allow himself the pleasure of feeling slightly at ease.
When the door behind him clicks open, Sherlock instinctively looks over.
"Hey."
Sherlock only nods acknowledgment in response, watching as James steps in with a shut of the door.
"So," James starts. As Sherlock himself, James remains quite disheveled. Specks of wet earth stain at the hems of trousers, patches of water darkened where the downpour had soaked his shoulders. James discards his hat, setting it on the table before he begins to take off his jacket. "I've given Crowle notice to have the carriage prepared for tomorrow morning." He folds the jacket over the crest of the chair, "We will be ready to leave by dawn."
Sherlock nods. "Thank you, James."
Casting his eyes away, Sherlock looks down at his hands. For the sake of looking at anything, at first. It is only then that Sherlock finds that his hands are trembling. He stares, making out the dirt under his fingernails. Reminders of the open grave are coming in and out with flashes, pressing a sort of strain at the sides of his head.
Something of the way he cried, clinging to his father.
Something of the way he...
It is sudden when Sherlock feels a lurch in his stomach.
"-erlock?"
Sherlock blinks, his entire body reacting as he jerks his head towards James again. It is only now, when he had grown to register the murmur of sound, that he realizes that James was speaking. "Sorry, James. What did you say?"
James stares at him. There is nothing particular in his expression that suggests that he is observing him, if not for the way he stands, simply staring at first. "I asked you if your mother has gone to sleep," James says. "She seemed very- well..." James trails off, understanding, "Under the unfortunate circumstances."
Ah. "Yes," answers Sherlock, "Yes, she's gone to sleep. She was rather tired."
"And that's not to blame her."
The attic stretches on with silence.
A chair creaks.
James had sat down, pulling a leg over the other.
"You're alright, Shirley."
Although it was not out of character for James to poke around without so much delicacy, the man had kept his voice light, stating rather than prodding. His eyes meet Sherlock's, choosing to fixate on him in an obviously purposeful manner. Whatever endless persistence that James seems to practice on every second of the day, well— avoiding it now would not be an exception.
"I'm alright, James," says Sherlock, between confirmation and void reassurance, but mostly just to hear himself speak. Taking a step away from the window, he approaches the desk. The papers remain scattered where they had left them earlier.
When James speaks again, his voice has not changed beyond going from discreetly gentle to openly sympathetic. Sherlock would know. After all, he was the one who most often found himself subjected to the many ways of Moriarty and the private games that only said man knew the rules of.
"I can't imagine it to have been easy. I am sorry, Sherlock."
Yet, at the faintest, audible hint of tenderness, something lumps in Sherlock's throat, raw and alarming. He uncomfortably looks away, his heart rate refusing to settle. He would sooner find Silas than find the comfort in the little assurances, and Sherlock picks at his fingers, clearing out the remaining specks of dirt.
"You said it yourself. The man has been absent from my life for twelve years."
The chair creaks again.
James had gotten up, joining Sherlock to stand next to him as he grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the tabletop.
The sound of crystal clinks together as he sets out two glasses.
When he speaks next, it seems as though it has been forever.
"A drink perhaps?" It's not said with an annotation of a question, yet it still felt like one. He glances at Sherlock, clearly knowing that his effort may remain futile. He stands close enough for Sherlock to make out the dirt on his knuckles, the patch of drying rainwater by his temples.
Sherlock shakes his head, crossing his arms.
"Do forgive me, I rather don't feel like drinking tonight." Nor does he find himself to be of agreeable company right now, in fact. He'd rather take pity on poor James.
He lets himself watch James pour himself a drink. The amber hue glints under the light. Sherlock watches, following the stream. James suddenly lifts his head, turning to glance at him again.
Their eyes meet.
The jolt is rather painful when Sherlock is pulled back into reality.
"But I think I shall say goodnight," Sherlock says, bringing his hands down over his legs with a clap. He thinks the words coming out of his mouth sound more authentic this time. "Do get some rest, James."
James' eyes remain unwavering. He had a habit of that, dissecting one under his eyes till they remain of nothing but sap, sickly and cut open, read inside and out. It's only when he swallows a gulp that James nods. "G'night, Shirley."
Darkness welcomes Sherlock as he steps out into the hallway. The house lay quiet and hushed; the hour creeping well beyond midnight. Soft rays of moonlight wash upon the corridor, marking what remains for Sherlock to see. As he passes his mother's room, his footsteps grow measured, carefully avoiding the floorboards that may betray his weight. It should surprise Sherlock that the former habit remains, even after years of such absence.
Sherlock hadn't been mischievously slipping out of the house at seven years of age for no reason, even if faced with the inevitable exception of getting caught. Perhaps that was the thrill of it all, Sherlock supposes.
Getting caught.
As he walks the corridor, he remembers.
And.
His head is throbbing.
Something sharp that settles and curls at his temple, and Sherlock thinks he's better off for a rest.
Well.
If he were to open his eyes without expecting to see Silas standing there in the draped shadows, and if Sherlock could see past the inevitable flashes of parental familiarity, past the sound of Silas urging the horse on as he fled into the night, the sound repeating over, and over again, in a sick, twisted manner that led his brain to jump from one thing to another— maybe, only maybe, Sherlock might be able to rest.
He grimaces, pressing the pads of his fingers to his head.
Where he stands at the turn of the corridor, Sherlock stills, his eyes fixating on the painting that remains only partly veiled by the cloth. His eyes flutter, automatically focusing, as though by an invisible magnetic field that forces him into place, and he makes out Beatrice's features on the painting.
She remains youthful, her smile soft and untroubled.
Whatever is left, however, remains shadowed over her.
Why won't Sherlock play with me?
Only then does Sherlock hear the footsteps creaking behind him.
He whirls around so fast, his fists raised in his shackles.
"Sherlock! Jesus— what—"
Sherlock's body shakes with a ragged breath as he ogles back at James. The air feels thicker; his heart had picked up with speed. It is dark, but he can just about make out James speaking, saying... something. It is rather muffled. Sherlock blinks, and as simple as that comes, it goes, and he doesn't remember fading out.
"James," Sherlock begins to say, stopping as he pauses, swallowing around nothing. "Why are you here?" He decides to ask instead, because focusing on his friend's whereabouts could prove a far more efficient distraction.
It is only now that he becomes increasingly aware of James' appearance. The Irishman had already rid himself of his outer garments, and his top collar lay unfastened. In his hand, he holds what remains of the bottle of alcohol, and he had obviously tousled a hand through his curls at some point.
"I didn't think I could sleep. I had intended to walk in the garden," replies James, but his mind is seemingly elsewhere as he openly stares, "Sherlock." He turns, leaning over to place the bottle on a nearby table before turning to look at Sherlock again, "Have you been here all along?"
"I suppose if all along includes my having just parted with you, then yes, I believe so," replies Sherlock, mildly irritated. James could not be drunk, at least not enough to befuddle his sense of time or awareness. Nor, frankly speaking, in a literal sense either. The bottle remains half-emptied, but hardly diminished since Sherlock had left him. With the wash of moonlight that makes its way into the hall, the rim remains dry, bearing no glimmers of very recent use.
James works his jaw, as though carefully choosing his next string of words.
"It must have been well over twenty minutes since you've gone."
There's a thought.
"That is quite impossible," Sherlock takes it upon himself to glance down the hall. The darkness stretches on, heavier than ever. "I only stood here for a moment, could hardly have been bloody twenty minutes at that—" Again, again, again. "—well, I suppose I..." When the butterflies stop beating their wings when they die... "I suppose I have lost track of time." ...do you enjoy it?
There is a palpitation in the middle of his chest that is making it hard to focus. Rather than in an attempt to deflect at all, Sherlock finds it that he is blinking back at James, his breath caught in his throat.
"I'm afraid I don't feel quite well," finally breathes- admits- Sherlock, "James."
He was going mad. Surely there was no other reasoning that could be deemed even close to appropriate for these circumstances.
"Come, Sherlock."
A hand wraps firmly around his arm. James is only but a lull of words that Sherlock finds himself complying with. He walks with him, their footsteps heavy against the wooden floors.
They make it to Sherlock's room, and Sherlock only watches the side of James' face as the man works the handle, opening the door. They step inside, and James closes the door again. "Sit," says James, his palms stilling over Sherlock's shoulders before stepping back. Sherlock is not even aware that they had made it to his bed. Rather distraughtly, distractedly, he sits at the edge. The sheets remain cold and undisturbed underneath him.
"I'll make the fire."
"James," says Sherlock, because it seems like it is everything and anything he can say all simultaneously at once. Perhaps if not to frighten James off with— with whatever this is going on in his head, all these frightening thoughts and visions and resentment towards what he feels— and when all fails for Sherlock to voice out his inner thoughts in a coherent way, there was little less left for him to say.
The sudden sob chokes him at first.
It comes out of nowhere, really.
James had not made it halfway across the room. Sherlock knows that as he hears James' footsteps stop rather abruptly. Sherlock doesn't allow himself to look. He presses the pad of his thumb to his eyes, tipping his face away from his friend.
He stifles another cry, the tears beginning to fall.
The bed dips with sudden weight.
"That's good. C'mon," says James. An arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him close. Heat prickles where the sides of their bodies make contact, and Sherlock finds himself sagging against James.
"Let it out. Good lad."
Whatever that was left of Sherlock to contain through ugly coils bound together to keep him upright, the effort collapses in his next helpless attempt at taking a breath. A sob tears out of his throat before the rest start to follow. Rather pathetically, at that.
"I've got you."
It is not often that Sherlock loses himself.
Acknowledges what forces the vivid imaginations of his head to dig into every part of his defense mechanisms— laying out all emotions, some of which even Sherlock is not even aware of, bare and raw and shameful— rarely allows himself to acknowledge it, at that, to dwell on what, despite himself.
But now he is truly—
"That's good, 's good."
—unavoidably, confronted with it.
He cries against James' shoulder, allowing himself to lean into his embrace. James' arm remains strong, blanketing, holding him close. They sit side by side at the edge of Sherlock's bed, and James' hand pats down softly a couple of times, stilling the shudder of Sherlock's breaths as he stays, keeping his presence there, firm and easy, tucking his chin over Sherlock's head.
"Alright now," says James, "I've got you."
Sherlock can feel the rumble of his voice resonate through his body. Their legs stay pressed up against each other; the side of Sherlock's shoulder against James' chest.
He cries and cries till he is incapable of crying anymore.
His breaths are the first to settle; and his mind, though reeling - eventually, gradually next. All but of his visions and imaginations that seemed too real, too destabilizing and fierce not to mirror whatever was left of reality, slowly softening... lessening into something that did not seem too loud anymore.
James' hand had moved to clasp over his thigh.
Sherlock can feel his warmth and stable presence, and it is inexplicably reassuring. Breathing is coming to him much easier now; slow, steady intakes that numb the ache between his ribs.
They stay there for a moment, undisturbed.
"Alright?"
By the time James speaks again, it has been— Sherlock doesn't quite know.
He only nods, exhaling. He is tired, unpleasantly cold too. He feels James squeezing his leg, this time under the unspoken pretense of permission to move. When James gets up, Sherlock's eyes instinctively follow.
James had crossed the room towards the fireplace, squatting down to quickly make the fire.
"Some whiskey, my friend," James eventually hums. He proves a good distraction with words as he works with his hands, heftily. "Might do you good." The sound of a successfully lit fire crackles through the room. Red and deep orange paint the walls, briefly painting James' silhouetted profile as he stands up, making his way towards Sherlock once more.
Sherlock chuckles, breathlessly light. Quite a foreign concept to his current vocal cords, but inevitable, otherwise.
"You will not convince me."
James raises a brow, glancing over towards the lit fire before staring down at him, "Won't I?" There's a flash of a dimple there, freckled and soft. A crinkle where he smiles around his eyes and where a loose curl falls.
The firm line of Sherlock's lips moves with a subtle turn, and he shakes his head. He watches as James takes a seat next to him again. "I think I rather need to rest."
"Well, that you do."
"Will you still take a turn about the garden?"
"Ah..." James sucks in air between his teeth, feigning contemplation. "I don't know, Shirley. Think you've exhausted me to sleep already." It is said lightly, crackling at the ends with the hush of amusement.
"How unfortunate," says Sherlock, rather flatly, but with no malice. He stares away from James, letting his gaze wander where their thighs are barely touching. James' trousers are of a rich, amber brown, a contrast to Sherlock's darkened grays. Through the crackle of fire, he can almost hear James' calculated breaths. "Still, I do apologize in advance, for whatever trouble we might find ourselves in tomorrow."
He says that, this time, with more seriousness.
"Nonsense," he hears James reply with a sniff. The room is starting to build up a gradual warmth. It is most comforting. He can almost catch James' scent, intoxicating and close; that subtle hint of layered bergamot and pomade. The mattress shifts with movement as James leans slightly backwards. "We aren't friends if not gettin' of trouble of some kind."
Sherlock breathes shortly out his nose, not quite a laugh but not quite a scoff either.
He jerks his head to face James— is startled to see that James had simultaneously glanced over as well.
Where their breaths tangle and their faces awkwardly meet, close- too close- Sherlock finds that something of the way he is breathing comes down to more deliberate and no longer easy.
The kiss comes rather suddenly.
James Moriarty filled in the space, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's.
A short withdrawal of air in between.
James is putting his hand between Sherlock's hair and nape, easing him close, kissing him again. Where his palms meet the sheets is where Sherlock's limbs freeze, and he stiffens— then crumbles, almost, underneath the pull of Moriarty's hand.
The side of their legs press closely together, James' fingers trace down the back of his head, fully grasping Sherlock's nape by now. The bed creaks under their movement. The fire spits and crackles.
Sherlock is far beyond the point of denying that he is otherwise embarrassingly inexperienced, not that he would deny it at the outset, for though it is foreign to him, he finds himself expectantly bold. He leans into James; feels that his own hand is slightly trembling as he clasps it over James' knee. For a ground to situate himself on, for the sake of doing something— Sherlock does not bloody know.
When they pull apart, their foreheads remain close to one another; James' hand just shy of Sherlock's neck, their breaths uneven between them.
Well.
It was Sherlock's breathing that felt far too loud.
Beyond a doubt. Entirely, that is.
James is the one to speak first.
"That happened."
Sherlock clears his throat. Perhaps to clear the lump in his throat or the rawness that seeps in between the murks of his head. "I suppose it did." His lungs are only just granting him the capacity to breathe again, and he blinks, turning his face away from James. "I also suppose it is one of many troubles we might—"
He feels coaxed into nothing and everything all at once.
"Well, I don't... I rightly don't know," Sherlock finishes.
He hears James inhale.
James' hand is tracing somewhere along the small of Sherlock's lower back. That, Sherlock is not sure when it had happened. But he doesn't flinch, and James doesn't move.
"Of affection," eventually says James, continues for him.
Sherlock wants to close his eyes, to will everything away. It is a far more easier prospect. His heart rate remains where Sherlock has grown uncomfortably aware of how rapidly it is spiking. He feels James tip close, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
"I suppose so," answers Sherlock, strained, almost.
James doesn't move. He is but a weight that drapes by Sherlock's side, warm, sickeningly familiar. He doesn't answer for a moment, and Sherlock almost wants to look at him, maybe check if James has impossibly fallen asleep. But James then speaks, and Sherlock stills, watching how their knees remain pressed together.
"I wouldn't worry."