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It hits Sherlock a little while later.
Her perfume.
"The equation's not finished," James had said.
"Sherlock, come and have a look at this," his mother's voice calls for him, and the gears are moving like clockwork in Sherlock's mind. With a quick flurry of steps, he moves past James and it changes— fades. The faint, familiar scent of floral notes, softened by the warmth of something sweet.
"Look," Cordelia says, as they crowd around the parchment, "All these lines lead to the heart of a circle." Her finger points at the map, where the paper is browned with time and use, "Could this be blast radius?"
"Spread of the nerve agent," Sherlock responds instantaneously. His brain is whirring at a pace that threatens to overflow with information that he hasn't quite grasped yet. He is discomposed, undoubtedly so, in the effort to make sense of it all.
Still, Sherlock would not be Sherlock if he didn't excel in blocking out distractions.
His mother moves the magnifying glass closer, bringing the written words into light, "They all emanate from one single location."
"Afshin," Sherlock reads.
"His factory, perhaps?" calls out Mycroft.
Excellent.
"Can you get us there?" His mother is asking. Sherlock's mind is still processing new information, old, something nagging - if not ill-fated - and incoherent in between. It is not difficult for Sherlock to keep track of information as it comes and goes; rather, he maps them out to analyze later on.
By an unaccountable force, his eyes are suddenly scanning over— flicking back towards James.
James Moriarty stands by his brother as the two inspect the table, though Mycroft's interest had immediately dissipated upon the new turn of events, and he stepped away from James to return to the group.
James remains peering at the contents, seemingly quite unaffected by the rest of the conversation.
Sherlock stares.
"...a route, it'll take us through the mountains."
"Darling!" His mother calls, and Sherlock's head snaps back to her, nodding when she catches his eye. They were starting to leave, and Sherlock glanced back towards James just in time to see him fixing his jacket. In a matter of seconds, his friend is already looking at him, hurrying over.
"Come now, what's gotten you dawdling? Time's a-wastin'," James says with his usual teasing air, already moving ahead as he nudges Sherlock in his arm.
There it is again; faint but unmistakable. It is not James' usual cologne.
Sherlock would know.
***
The faint ajar of James' door is what prompts Sherlock to step in.
He had knocked at first, greeted with silence before he knocked again, "James," Sherlock says, before silence followed again and no sound comes beyond the crack of the door.
Stepping into the room, it looked like any other room in the courthouse, lavishly furnished with all the luxuries expected. Candles remain extinguished, and the curtains are drawn back to permit the spill of daylight into the room. Sherlock's footsteps thud against the tiled floors, softening once he reaches the woven carpet. Like the other rooms of Silas' house, this one was not furnished any less different.
Still, the little bits of life remain.
The open book that lies on the table. Sherlock is standing too far to make out the words, but it's obvious that it has been recently trifled with. The pages remain sprung, and something is tucked in to mark where one had stopped reading. A train ticket, Sherlock supposes, or something of a similar shape and lettering. Over the bedside cabinet is where a wine glass stands; another by the smaller table. Both with the remnants of what's been left behind.
The bed is made, surprisingly enough. Sheets that are otherwise slightly rumpled pull smoothly over the mattress.
A tall mirror stands in the corner of the room, a discarded jacket draped over the frame.
Sherlock steps closer.
He doesn't quite reach out for the jacket, nor touch it yet. His eyes run over it, making of the black stripes that run closely between the yellow ones. The first move; he touches the edge of the sleeve with his fingers. Where the inner fold of the jacket shows, Sherlock tips his face a little closer. His nostrils twitch as he takes a short breath in.
Flowers flood his senses.
The door creaks, and it is reflex when Sherlock slightly startles, whirling to turn around.
James had just made it into the room, partly at that, when he caught Sherlock's eye. The man had changed out of his attire and in his arm he carries what looks like a saddlebag. In his other hand, what seems like a pouch of bullets. Sherlock could say that much, considering the way the contents clinked when James moved, and Sherlock is certain that it was not a pouch of silver.
James did not have money. Sherlock would also know.
"What... are you doing?"
The raise of his brow comes disarming. James stares at him, amusement and keen curiosity lacing his tone.
To be quite frank, Sherlock couldn't see a way out of this.
He straightens up, rather quicker than he intended to, but there was no moving slow or with precaution, not when James is actively looking for answers. Hiding was not quite an option.
Sherlock raises his chin, tucks his hands behind his back as he speaks, rather pompously and pridefully, at that. "I've come to speak to you, and as you were not present at that current moment, I found myself smelling your jacket." Matter-of-fact.
James stares.
"I see."
The Irishman strides into the room after nudging the door shut with his shoulder. He drops his things on the table. Sherlock's suspicions are confirmed when a bullet rolls out of the loose pouch and ends up clattering somewhere on the floor. James only clicks his tongue in disapproval, glancing down instinctively but looking up afterwards, thinking better of it when the obvious realization of more urgent matters comes to his face rather plainly enough to read.
"And why is it that you are smelling my jacket, Sherlock?"
The way he speaks is between genuine curiosity and mirthful sarcasm. Both of which Sherlock would have been able to pinpoint, with or without the raise of James' brow and the twist at the corner of his lips, and Sherlock nearly misses the touch of endearment in his voice.
What happens next was the consequence of Sherlock's brain finally catching up with him.
He had, with no context or backing justification, blatantly informed James of smelling his jacket.
...Oh good heavens and above.
When Sherlock doesn't reply fast enough in all but a granted three seconds, James speaks again. "And wouldn't it- ah, rather be easier if," It is only now that James crouches somewhere by the floor, picking up the bullet before placing it back on the table. The clatter is loud through the otherwise silent room. "-if you asked to smell me, much more directly? You aren't one of a shy lad, are ya?"
The mischief in James' voice breaks clean through the coil of tension that somehow settled between the meeting of their eyes.
And— right. James' absolute pleasure in teasing him. The man has the talent of evoking a multitude of emotions out of Sherlock, and this wasn't an exception. Sherlock sees that with the way James' eyes crinkle when he smiles, like he knows something Sherlock does not. Playing games that only he chose the rules of.
Sherlock works his jaw, crossing the room with a few strides.
"How long have you been bedding my sister?"
It's a very halting moment where James' cheerful smile falters, just for the briefest of seconds. Hardly at that, even. Just a second, where his composure drops. Sherlock can see through it, but also right past it. James' smile is back.
Unreadable, and charming.
"Only as of last evening."
As though nothing else was spoken, no dreadful provocatives said, James returns to sorting through the saddlebag. When he speaks next, it is with a composure too carefully measured to be casual.
"You figured it out. It should surprise me."
The man had turned, leaning against the table.
"Does it disappoint you if I did?" Sherlock asked. He is deciding to ignore the blatant way James raises a brow.
"It would disappoint me if you didn't. You're a smart man."
They're speaking in circles, neither quite getting to the point.
What point was there to face when James looked Sherlock in the eye and offered no form of denial? What was it of James, to lay the facts so clearly for Sherlock to see long before words could be of use?
Sherlock's muscles go tense.
"Her perfume. It happens to be on your jacket."
It would be better if he could justify the feeling of betrayal. Scarcely a day ago had he still been uncertain whether his sister was alive at all, and now he finds her to be involved with his best friend, though James' attention could never belong in one place for too long.
It was agitating.
"You're angry," James remarks.
"Yes, I am angry."
"Why?"
"Because that is my sister, James. You can hardly expect me to believe that cavorting with her will win you my approval."
"You say that but I can beg to differ that you feel it is not your only reason."
The nerve of James Moriarty.
"I see. And is it now that you discern my feelings?"
"Very good."
"Pray tell, what are these feelings?" Sherlock says, before pointing a finger beyond the closed door. "My mother, James. You flirted with my mother. Now you have bedded my sister. Feelings are beneath you."
"Far of it, Sherlock, I would reason jealousy is beneath yours."
Sherlock inhales sharply. His lips twitch where the idea of it is far more than a simple ridicule— an insult, perhaps. "Jealousy?" He inhales again, the words falling into place together in a fast-paced state. "I must say, you have said plenty before, but this comes crude, even for you."
James pulls a breath.
"Must you?"
The Irishman straightens up against the table, settling for a posture of casualness that Sherlock could only deduce as deliberate infuriation. He doesn't allow himself to watch the way James' forearms flex with the movement before his eyes are darting to meet James' again.
James opens his mouth. "I think you're angry-"
Oh, bloody hell. "Quite a remarkable observation-"
"-that she doesn't look upon you with a sister's kindness," James continues.
"Because she is under the reign of my father, James. He taught her to regard me with suspicion, to regard mother. So yes, forgive me if I am not exactly rejoicing at your mistaking these consequences for her affection for you."
"Affection? Oh Sherlock, I'd say you'd know a great deal of affection."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"The corruption of your father, what began there does not end there and you know it. I'm not blind to the distance between you and your sister but do not insult the either of us by pretending that this is the sole reason for your fury."
James leans off the table, stepping closer. The scent of musk and something else layers over.
Citrus, perhaps.
"You watch me," says James.
Sherlock stills, eyes fixated on James.
"You watch me, you watch her, as though you are waiting upon some offense to justify what bothers you so greatly about it. But I saw you that day we caught the Princess at Walton's. After Beatrice left me, it had taken you a second to take your eyes off of me and onto her when she came to speak to you."
"That is hardly appropriate for you to recall considering that I did not know she was my sister!"
"And over dinner, last night," interrupts James, straightening up. He remains a few inches shorter than Sherlock but somehow still seems to loom over him, "When she reached out and held my hand over the table have I ever seen your eyes so occupied despite your sitting a length away."
Sherlock clenched his jaw, his heartbeat speeding up.
If he knew James at all, he would know there would be no escape from further dissections.
"And this morning," James further states, "when she kissed your mother goodbye, you looked at me simply to keep an eye on whether I looked at her or she looked at me, and I am to assume that this is the fury of a brother deprived of his sister's regard?" The leather of Sherlock's shoes squeaked faintly as James stepped nearer.
Sherlock had taken a step back, unconsciously so.
"Enlighten me, Sherlock." He's close enough for Sherlock to make out the calculated breaths in between, the weight of his name on his tongue churning the gears of Sherlock's mind. "Is that hardly appropriate?"
The stubborn tilt of his chin was the only way Sherlock could assert some sort of authority in the matter. Where his heart resided in his chest, safely contained for Sherlock to exhaust all matters that might cause it to speed up so desperately, it no longer answered to him.
His breathing is coming out slightly uneven, and Sherlock could only blame the absurdity of the accusation. That, and he doesn't know what James is thinking, coming up so close to his face like this.
"Whatever conclusion you are deducing out of this, James, I can assure you, it is entirely false," manages Sherlock, fixed acknowledgment to the browns of his friend's eyes. He can almost see James' pupils dilating, blown wide.
But for James, comes denial as a form of surrender.
Of course it did.
James wets his lips, the glisten catching against the wash of the daylight, and Sherlock's eyes follow. Through the scattered plane of freckles, the crinkle at the edges of his eyes, and the heat that elapsed between them, suffocatingly close, James observes: "I think you've deduced it long ago."
Sherlock knows there is no safety in answering, to face the dangerous games of James Moriarty. When James speaks with the confidence of someone who already knows the answer, he doesn't step closer. Yet, the space in between them suddenly feels too prominent for Sherlock to ignore.
There is a flex in James' jaw that Sherlock could only catch at this proximity.
Sherlock works his tongue, even if it's around nothing.
"I rather think you are mistaken."
"Then tell me I do not affect you in any way at all."
"Affect me?" Sherlock has to scoff— chuckle once under his breath, though with no humor. "Is this what you have concluded?" The absence of such an emotion towards James had served him quite well, suited him perfectly, matter-of-fact. Affect him?
"Barely," replies James, "You will deny my behavior but I can only assume that I'm not the only man in our friendship guilty of looking for too long, so deny me this." He does not touch Sherlock, more or less attempts to, but their breaths meet where their eyes do. "You disapprove of your sister with me simply because you are jealous."
Sherlock feels the heat that creeps up under his collar.
Unfortunately, that causes the silence to stretch between them for a couple more moments.
"I disapprove because she is my sister."
James tilts his head, "That's part of it."
It is one thing to dismiss himself of such unfathomable and discomforting pheromones.
It is another thing to have it laid to rest for James to interfere.
The realization floods his headspace and Sherlock holds a hand up, as though that could stop James from proceeding to continue his speech. The realization that James is standing this close - is stepping closer, at that - hits afterward, when Sherlock's hand easily makes contact with James' chest.
Where the pads of his fingers meet James' body is when something surges through him, open-ended and electrifying, spreading to his palm.
As though he had touched burning embers, Sherlock withdraws his hand, quick enough to stop James' advances but not enough to prevent James from quirking his mouth in reaction. Lines run deep-set where dimples once indented his cheeks.
"You are making of this to sound like a confession, James," says Sherlock, but his focus is briefly shaken as James had chosen this exact moment to drag his gaze to Sherlock's once lingering hand, deliberately slowly. Mother of Jesus.
James lifts his eyes back to meet his.
Sherlock's throat tightens.
He supposes— he doesn't quite know, what James looked like.
Maybe he had only imagined the twitch of James' fingers, as though for one halting moment tempted to take Sherlock's in his.
"A confession," James prompts, "To...?"
He speaks as though he outsmarts Sherlock by being two steps ahead, though that could very well be an overcompensation on Sherlock's part. And... well. There are simpler ways to answer that question without admitting to things that he has not fathomed yet for himself.
Sherlock opens his mouth.
"Jealousy."
And that was absolutely not the way to do so.
He finds his wrist taken by James' hand, brought up in between them.
The quickening of Sherlock's pulse alarms him. "What are you doing?"
James is generous with how his eyes run over, taking Sherlock in as though he is memorizing every detail of his face. He rests four fingers against the back of Sherlock's hand, turning it to face inwards with a push.
Sherlock's palm meets his own chest.
The fierce hammering of a heart pulsates under his fingers.
"Jealousy," James says, like an echo cruel with its nonchalance.
A loose curl falls over his eyebrow, freckles scattered over the faint flush of his skin, brushing high where his cheekbones lie to rest.
Sherlock may be inexperienced, but he was not blind.
It registers to Sherlock, up this close, that James looks like he wants to kiss him.
The realization that Sherlock doesn't particularly want to stop him comes sudden.
And unbearably terrifying.
He pulls his hand off, staggering backwards with a step too far. James had frozen in place, eyes falling upon him where they matter. "You're being a prick, James," Sherlock manages, between clenched teeth and dizzying morals. His legs feel numb where he once stood and Sherlock doesn't allow himself to read the expression that pulls at James' face.
Sherlock turns to the door, swinging it open. The air from the hallway brings light to the creeping heat beneath Sherlock's collar.
"We have to get going," he informs, without looking back. "Finish packing."
Then he swings the door shut.
***
The ride to Afshin is grueling.
Not in a sense where it brought physical harm, despite the sun proving itself particularly no friend. As noon wore on, tufts of soft clouds had drifted across the sky, dissipating the rays and layering shade over the rocky stretch of mountains.
But it was rather the result of Sherlock's own racing mind, irrelevant but justified feelings that drift in and out in an attempt to calm his heart. It had taken a turn for the worse; the pace that was once steady enough to keep him alive had now eased into something a little too uncertain for Sherlock's comfort.
Sherlock rides behind Mycroft, and for perhaps the very first time, he has grown hyper-fixedly aware of the hoofbeats that continue to follow behind him.
They hadn't spoken since their departure, if not for a brief exchange when James hands Sherlock his ration of packed water as they prepare their horses, and Sherlock thanks him. But when James searched for his eyes had Sherlock pressed a smile towards Xiao Wei, who came up to them at that moment, telling them of something that Sherlock could not quite find himself to recall.
The quickening of hoofbeats that shift from a walk to a trot reaches his ears. For some time now— Sherlock hadn't grasped the change of time or the turning of hours— the path ahead had widened, leaving enough room for two horses to ride side by side with ease.
James taking advantage of that should not at all surprise Sherlock.
"Shirley," James greets, bringing the horse to a walk beside him.
"James," replies Sherlock, because he is a man of decent manners, and because, unfortunately, pretending that something does not exist has never been an effective strategy.
At least, not with James.
"There now, I missed your voice. You'll go on sulkin' at me, eh?" Despite the natural attire of cheerfulness in his tone, there is something else that layers over. Something that Sherlock decidedly does not want to explore.
Still, the remark is enough to cause Sherlock to jerk a chin over.
"I am not sulking."
"That's shite and you know it."
"James, I'm afraid I am not much in a mood for conversation."
"Your disapproval of my liking of Beatrice—"
"James."
Sherlock pulls his horse to an abrupt halt, and James stops with him.
The midday sun traces the side of James' face, softening the edges of his features and the strong plane of his jaw. He was— far from it for Sherlock not to notice— pleasingly agreeable to look at.
"My opinion on it will not stop you. Whether it is my mother, my sister, the plenty women that you so take pleasure in cavorting with; it will not stop you. And your... your recent trifling with me, your making of a fool of me."
"My trifling?"
"I can hardly put it past you to only acknowledge what you choose to hear."
"No, no, my trifling? Elaborate it to me."
"Your insistence on proving that I am jealous? Your attempt at destabilizing me. Everything is a game to you, James. So congratulations. I'll grant you the win you seem so determined to claim."
"I've done of no such thing but bring light to what you refuse to face, Sherlock."
"You mistake observation for certainty, that is what you do," Sherlock further accuses.
"You can't hold that against me, Sherlock. Had you given a moment to understand why is it that I have noticed of your eyes-"
"You're circling back to it! Bloody hell, James—"
"-of your eyes that look at me if I hadn't already been looking at you in the first place. Had your brilliant mind decided to examine that of yet and perhaps deduce that these feelings that you desperately fight against are returned."
Sherlock's answer is not instantaneous.
He sounds choked, almost.
"What do you mean?"
James gives a sharp inhale, his mouth twitching. Sherlock can hear his own heart in his ears.
"Like you said. Everything is a game."
"Sherlock? James!"
The sound of Mycroft's voice startles them, causing both men to flinch. Where he had slowed down far off in the distance, Mycroft was waving them over with rather a confused, but impatient hand. Ahead of him, the rest of the party had begun to slow down as well, turning in their saddles to investigate the commotion.
With a glance towards James that lingers for a second too long, Sherlock urges his horse forward, breaking into a trot to close the distance. The insides of his stomach remain unsettled as he eventually falls behind Mycroft, hardly processing when Mycroft glances over his shoulder with direct reprimand.
"What's gotten you two falling behind? We're with company."
"Sorry, brother dear," says Sherlock, rather hot in the face, but he doesn't turn to see how far James is nor does he present Mycroft an excuse for tarrying, "Onwards now, I suppose."
Mycroft makes a sound, but says nothing further.
***
Dusk found them setting camp. Pine trees lay scattered, catching against the gentle hues of orange and gold painting the horizon. Belongings lay unbundled and bedrolls make place over the rugged grounds. The weather had relented greatly, softening into a pleasant breeze.
Where the sound of the campfire and faint conversation reaches his ears, Sherlock finishes off the last of loosening the horses' girths. Easing the roped reins slack over, he gives the great creature a quiet pat on the neck.
It would not be the truth to say that Sherlock's mind isn't occupied. While he would usually make a point of - to put it quite frankly, ignorance - Sherlock seems to be confronted with everything he has tried to repress, even when everything attributed to what Sherlock cannot be sure of.
Nor grant of a name. But even then, that might be too dangerous.
For the first time, Sherlock supposes he is terrified.
Of the implications, more or less. Perhaps those of the ones directed towards— James, Sherlock also supposes and cannot deny. Whether that was of James Moriarty coming off as a disruptive man who takes space in Sherlock's mind with little to no consent, or whether Sherlock is thrown into the mortifying truth of how little he wants to push James away.
Or to not push him away at all, Sherlock desperately thinks.
James had made himself quite useful with gathering wood and had now hunched by the campfire, stirring something over the heat. He's talking to Cordelia; that is evident enough with the way she seems to be engaged in conversation. Charm came effortlessly to James, even if he didn't allow his attention the possession of one person for too long.
Sherlock chooses to ignore the pang of annoyance that accompanies the thought.
Sleep doesn't come easily that evening.
It is not the stones that jut under Sherlock's back nor the distant howling of animals that keep him turning. It is not until the drawing of hours later, night slowly easing towards some time past midnight, and the pressure in Sherlock's bladder rouses him out of a restless sleep.
Pulling himself up on his elbows, Sherlock lets his eyes fixate on the dying embers. Everyone is seemingly asleep; sound enough with Mycroft snoring softly where he lay a few feet away from Sherlock. With silent effort, Sherlock slips out of the wool blanket, stepping over carefully to grab the lantern. Lighting it open, Sherlock begins to make his descent away from the camp, a little further down the dirt trail, where a riverbank hides between the foliage.
Setting the lantern by the rocks, Sherlock unfastens the front of his trousers, exhaling once he relieves himself. The night breeze is colder, sharper. It nips at his face once Sherlock buttons himself up again, turning a few steps towards the river and splashing his face with water.
It wakes him, fully stripping away what little of drowsiness remained in him— had that been even plenty or present to begin with.
Placing the lantern by one of the shrubby bushes and catching a scurrying beetle from the corner of his eye, Sherlock sinks down to the ground, leaning against the pine tree with an elevated sigh. The light is bright, but not bright enough to disrupt the darkened sky that blankets over him, and Sherlock allows himself to tip his head towards the faraway stars.
A twig snaps.
Sherlock doesn't flinch.
For a few silent moments, his eyes only follow the walking figure, the lantern held in his hand burning an outline of his broad shoulders.
"Did you follow me?" eventually Sherlock asks, though with a great deal of emotional resistance. His voice is still gruff with remnants of sleep— or the lack of.
"I'm takin' a piss, Shirley."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, ignoring the thick jab at sarcasm. The flicker of light barely catches James' back as he faces away, standing just a little further ahead. Sherlock hears the shuffle of fabric. Soft wind rustles by, disturbing the leaves.
Footsteps shift again.
A faint splashing from the river, and James is making his way back. He is drying his hands down his sleeves.
"But I followed you too."
There it is.
Sherlock furrows his brows, crossing his arms against his chest as he looks away.
"You aren't going back to sleep," James says, observes rather than questions, and Sherlock can hear his footsteps coming up rather close. Too close. Sherlock blinks up an eye, sees that James is standing right next to him. "Couldn't sleep, I reckon," James adds, then begins to sit down. Sherlock ignores the way his body shivers at their close proximity and allows himself to turn his head to face James, who was sitting against the remaining of the tree trunk that they now apparently share.
"Clearly you couldn't either," replies Sherlock.
Even in the dark, the lift of James' brows is attentive and his eyes are bright. He hadn't looked more awake. Still, James confirms.
"Mm."
James had propped one knee up, pulling it close as he leaned his head against the trunk, humming faintly under his breath.
It's a melody that Sherlock does not recognize at first. For reasons that his sleep-deprived mind quickly sorts into place. Ah. It is in Irish.
Rather lovely, Sherlock, despite it all, thinks.
The stars look like candles, their light flickering.
The clay beneath them is grounding; the smell of fresh earth reaches Sherlock's nostrils. The sound of the river trickling by fades in and out with the breeze. Somewhere, an insect chatters.
Night stretches on.
When Sherlock finds that James had taken his hand in his, it's a gradual realization at first.
Sherlock's eyes follow even when he does not protest. They sit side by side, their knees just barely shy of touching, but James is not looking at him.
James runs a thumb over the circle of his palm, soothing over the lines. As though he is memorizing every nook, cranny, and detail— James does not relent, more or less say anything. When Sherlock's breath slightly hastens, wide but curious eyes following his every move, is when James slips his fingers in between, filling the empty gaps between each finger.
He seems but as if he is playing a game. But what was it, if not for the intellectual mind of James Moriarty?
Sherlock watches their conjoined hands tentatively, a pulse rising in his throat. He should stop James, he knows that. James starts to move.
He brings Sherlock's hand to his chest. He presses over.
James' heart leaps underneath Sherlock's fingers, beating rapidly.
Everything that Sherlock had been thinking of and had not been thinking of flooded in at once.
"James," Sherlock says, speaks for the first time in their prolonged silence— manages as best as possible when it pains him to state— but the truth is inevitable. The first one being: "You're sleeping with my sister."
And the second...
He turns when James finally looks over, and their faces drawing close together in the process, just about. "Yes," James says. His hold tightens against him, where the Irishman is so evidently at a loss of maintaining an appropriate amount of control and losing it— and Sherlock feels James' heart beating fast— "But," he continues, rather uncharacteristically breathlessly, deep-rooted with the accented tilt of his voice, "...Sherlock." Faster.
Sherlock grips the front of James' shirt and kisses him.
He is clumsy, and under certain circumstances and duress, awkward.
He pulls back and he does not know what he has just done, but when James closes the distance, Sherlock stops thinking.
The breeze shifts and blows as Sherlock's nearly tipping into James' body, their mouths coming together in a desperate clash of need. Fingers run through the back of Sherlock's neck, through the locks of his hair, and something is urging him to push closer. Closer.
He feels light-headed.
He wants— he needs James closer.
Whether it is on his own accord or whether James had pulled him so, Sherlock finds himself halfway over James' lap, hands slung over where they grasp at James' back and neck with little to no confidence in the matter— but bold, nevertheless. Stones graze his clothed knees, lips meet in a dizzying dance, arms wrap around Sherlock's waist when they finally separate.
"...Fuck."
The words brush by Sherlock's neck, arms gathering him in as Sherlock yields to James' embrace, tucking his face by the swell of James' collar. Hearts fall in sync, faces flush with heat— and the desperate shroud of sin and something else far less easy to name weighs on.
When the sun creeps over the horizon, and the party is setting off to move again, the remains of it catch up in Sherlock's mind.
"I saw you take it," Sherlock approaches James, working his jaw calmly, ignoring the recurring thought of how it felt to have James' mouth on his.
James blinks at him. Tragically, Sherlock can see the exact moment the last puzzle piece falls into place. Still, Sherlock speaks. And even with the faint murk of disappointment, the loosening knots of morals once aligned but not reciprocated, his traitorous heart beats pathetically for his friend.
"The equation. Yesterday, I saw you take it. It is in your jacket."
James sets his lips into a stubborn line, exhales. Then smiles. Charmingly unaffected.
"Yes."
A beat.
"For us, Sherlock."
Their eyes meet, and Sherlock looks for any signs of mutual understanding.
He doesn't seem to find it.