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James made sure Sherlock was watching as he offered a polite hand to Mrs Holmes who was stepping from the gangway onto the ship. They were to make the crossing to France by paddle steamer. James had been all for stowing aboard, saving them the fare, but Sherlock had insisted: they had the means, and after their week of being pursued variously by police, prison guards, porters, thugs, better organised thugs, assassins, psychiatrists and now Sherlock’s own father, why add an angry ship’s crew into the mix?
Why not, Sherly? James suspected that having his mother along was tempering Sherlock’s sense of adventure. Too bad. Mrs Cordelia Holmes was clearly thrilled by their escapades and quite capable. Bright eyed and pink cheeked after their breaking, entering and subsequent fleeing, fired up by unstoppable motherly force after discovering that her little girl may be alive, she really was a delight. James saw something of Sherlock in her – or rather, the other way around, he supposed – in her sharp intellect, her secret pleasure at bending rules, her absolute dedication to her strange family. She was another fabulous puzzle piece in the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.
The latter’s stern words with James during their drive had backfired completely upon Sherlock. Now James knew he could have this effect on Sherlock, he was like a child with a button. It was delicious, how easily James could rile him up, get under his skin. Now he was experimenting with the results: could a feather-light touch fly under the radar? How subtle could he be without those grey-blue eyes narrowing at him? How far could he go before the man tipped into full anger?
So far he’d learned (to his great pleasure) that very little he did could evade Sherlock’s notice. He was mulling over where to go next with it. Perhaps he would be audacious enough to earn some physical violence. He felt a little thrill at the idea of Sherlock launching himself at him with fists James himself had trained, and the ensuing struggle that James would inevitably win. He imagined them sitting opposite each other afterwards, blood dribbling from Sherlock’s nose, James’ own skin smarting with red and blue bruises; how their gazes would lock as their fingers danced on the rim of a glass, unspoken conversation passing between them; and finally Sherlock’s small clever smile breaking like sunrise as they settled the matter in that imaginary place that was accessible only to the two of them.
To provoke. It had been James’ aim for some time now. He sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to name the thing between them. He wanted to goad Sherlock into it. Through whatever it took – charm, touch, provocation, or outright war – he would have this man.
They settled in the First Class Lounge. James took his stage directions from the calligraphied sign over the door, lounging very effectively on the upholstered booth seat and surveying the room with the air of a man who owns it. First Class. He could get used to travelling with the Holmeses. Of course, he could easily gain entry to any space he liked, but being there aboveboard exchanged the thrill of trespass for the leisurely glow of entitlement. James liked a novelty and thought both experiences quite fine in their own way.
Sherlock ducked into the booth seat beside him, eliminating the risk that his mother might. Good, James was getting to him. Cordelia Holmes sat opposite, conspiratorial as she spread out some souvenirs from their burglary. “Shall we read through these more thoroughly, in case there are any more clues?” she asked, slightly breathlessly.
“Do you doubt our Sherly’s eagle eye?” James grinned, giving Sherlock a firm smack across the shoulders for emphasis.
“I think that’s an excellent idea, mother,” said Sherlock. “This crossing is the perfect opportunity to think things through.”
“It has all been a bit of a whirlwind, hasn’t it!” said Mrs Holmes.
“I’d say it’s the perfect opportunity for a drink,” said James, eyes sliding across the luxurious interior. “Sherlock, why don’t you fetch us something…”
Staying resolutely seated, and only taking his eye off James for a necessary moment, Sherlock gestured to one of the ship’s passenger crew. “Excuse me, sir.” In the time it took for the fellow to approach their booth, Sherlock shot James a long glare. “Three glasses of your best scotch, if you’d be so kind.” The man bowed and retreated. James grinned wider.
“I forget the ways of the other half,” said James.
“When I met James, mother, he was a scholar and I was a scout.”
“And how you’ve risen in the world,” James crooned.
Ignoring him, Sherlock asked his mother, “Did you find anything interesting?”
“Mmm?” murmured Mrs Holmes absently, her attention on the stolen notebook she was poring through.
“Perhaps we should take a little walk about,” James suggested. “I reckon there’s a bar at the front, maybe some entertainment. A string quartet.”
“We’re not here for pleasure, James.”
“Might be full of interesting people.” He leaned closer, voice lowered. “We should check if anyone’s following us.”
“And find ourselves in another fistfight?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Sherlock still wasn't rising to the bait. Oh well, James had only just begun.
The man returned with their drinks and set them on the table. “Thank you, sir." The man departed.
They sipped their drinks in casual enmity, James sprawling so that his legs encroached into Sherlock’s space, and watching as Sherlock sat fuming in that blessed upright way of his. Suddenly Cordelia put down the notebook and looked up at them with a satisfied expression. “I’ve noted every time he mentions the Thérèse,” she said. “Seven times in the last year. That could be important, yes?”
It probably didn’t add much they didn’t already know, but nevertheless. James beamed, resting his head on his hands and sliding his elbows across the table. “Oh, I expect so, Mrs Holmes,” he said. “What else did you glean with that brilliant brain of yours?”
“Well, there are some other patterns–”
“Patterns!” James gazed at her through half lidded eyes. He was conscious of Sherlock’s eyes on him, although when he stole a sideways glance he saw not fury but a thoughtful frown on the man’s face.
“I’d need to read it again to be sure, just a few names that appear several times.”
“Magnificent work!”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Sherlock abruptly. The other two looked at him. “James, perhaps we should have a walk about, as you put it. Mother, we’ll be back momentarily. Shan’t we James?”
James arched an eyebrow at Sherlock, then gave a small nod. “Do excuse us, Mrs Holmes.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just for a quick circuit of the ship, to check the lay of the land.”
“Sea, James,” corrected Sherlock instinctively.
“Oh good. Oh, but! Do be careful, boys.” Cordelia returned her attention to the notebook as Sherlock and James rose and strolled out of the lounge.
A narrow wooden staircase led up to the deck. It was spitting with rain out there, and already they could feel the fine drops blowing in from above. Sherlock stood smartly to the side with an “after you,” politely letting James bear the brunt of it as he followed behind.
As they emerged, the world was a dull grey mist over slate grey seas. The deck was empty, sensible people having retreated inside. James strolled a little way along the railings, then turned, ready to face Sherlock’s ire. He was full of anticipation for it, enjoying this setting for whatever scene might follow, the rebukes, the delicious jealousy, and how he’d eventually corner Sherlock into admitting why it made him jealous, and then–
What he did not expect, as he turned to face Sherlock’s ire, was for the fellow to grip him by his besuited shoulders, push him up against the ship’s columns and kiss him firmly on the mouth. James let out an odd sound, about an octave out, brain cartwheeling to catch up. But it was difficult to think, his thoughts felt as though they had been stopped at the source leaving his mind quite extraordinarily empty. So he decided that the heavy current of questions straining behind the sluice gate could be a treat for future James, and gave up, and focused on kissing Sherlock back.
Kissing Sherlock back – when had he begun to do that? One of his hands was pressed against Sherlock’s jaw, the other on his back, and he didn’t remember putting them there, but he was very involved now. The kiss had rainwater mixed into it, dripping from Sherlock’s eyelashes and James’ curls, and the air smelled of brine and burnt coal, and Sherlock smelled fascinatingly like soap and wood polish. He realised that Sherlock’s eyes were half-open, and that even now he was being watched in some way. James pressed closer still, maneuvering them away from the column so that Sherlock’s back was against the white railing, nothing but sea beyond. It felt to James like there was nothing but the two of them, sharp and bright against the endless mist.
After some time, they parted. James couldn’t help the intense look that creased his face, like if a smile could hold somebody at gunpoint. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock, delighted, fascinated, quizzical: explain.
Sherlock stood upright, entirely composed. “Just testing a theory,” he said levelly. Then he strode past James towards the stern.
James grabbed his arm. “No,” he said, preventing the man’s escape.
Sherlock faced him again. “James,” he said. “There is a reason you and I are currently standing on a steamer bound for France. I know my reason. I’m looking for my sister.” His eye flickered across the deck, as though she might just stroll out of the cabin towards them. It lasted only a moment but James didn’t miss it. He regained himself and continued. “There is a reason you have followed me from Oxford–”
Unfair. They were perfectly matched until circumstance, not superior talent, had made Sherlock the main character. James began to protest, but Sherlock cut him off.
“–just as there is a reason you have been flirting with my mother. And every person within a ten mile radius of me. Am I wrong?”
James shut up. Sherlock’s voice may be infuriatingly level, laying out the evidence, but there was an intensity in his eyes. Eventually James gave a little smile. “You may be on to something.”
“Hm.” Sherlock nodded. He started to walk again, slow, measured steps that invited James to join him.
The mist transformed, the boards darkened beneath their feet.
“Here again. Why?” said James. They were in the library.
They saw themselves standing over a glass display cabinet. They circled the pair, Sherlock coming to a pause at the foot of the cabinet, James inspecting the scene with his face inches from memory-Sherlock’s neck.
The phantoms of themselves bent over the scroll.
“My father had a copy of this. Didn’t do him much good, now. I’d say it’s worth a pound or two. Let’s steal it. Or better still, you’re the expert, you steal it.”
James watched as memory-Sherlock reacted to the incitement, offering a charmed smile as he rejected the proposal.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” He furled up the scroll.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” James chorused with his phantom.
“You could do a lot with the money.”
“Could do more with my freedom.” The scroll was locked away, and the scene froze. James looked over to Sherlock expectantly.
“I’m interested in why this keeps happening,” Sherlock said.
James Moriarty could keep up with the best of them (the best of them being Sherlock Holmes), but even he was beginning to feel dizzy from the amount and velocity of the subject changes they’d gone through in the last few minutes. He felt strangely weak-kneed.
“I know what I feel regarding you, James,” Sherlock said. “And your feelings towards me have been no great mystery.”
James tilted his head to the two figures still like waxworks. Then? Sherlock nodded, a little sternly. Apparently, this was not the point he was aiming at.
“You have a habit of getting us into trouble, James.”
“You have a habit of getting into trouble, Sherlock.”
“Do you like trouble, or do you like me?”
James stared at him like a man entranced. Both?
The library dissolved, and they were back on the ship’s deck. The rain was light but blown forcefully by the strong breeze.
“We have a couple of hours to Calais,” Sherlock said. “I suggest we make the most of a few hours’ peace. No more mind games.”
A bit rich from a man who’d just yoinked him along into the corridors of his own vivid imagination. James laughed. “As you wish, Sherly.”
Sherlock grasped James by the upper arm. “I’m serious, James. Now my family is involved. And,” James felt the grip on his arm soften into something else, “I won’t have harm come to anyone I care about.”
James saw what it truly was. That glare, that intensity in his eyes: intelligent, sombre, concentrated like the centre of a gas flame; where the heat is greatest it is almost clear. Sherlock Holmes may not be able to land a punch, but he could land a look so forceful in its fondness that James’ entire being reeled from the impact.
“So, you and I?” James asked. Their faces were close again. James considered whether he should kiss him again.
“It seems inevitable, doesn’t it?” His voice stayed remarkably flat despite the charming smile. He sounded as though he was discussing nothing more personal than geology: the slow movement of tectonic plates, or the way water erodes a stone.
Fondness, and concern?
There was nobody else in the world like Sherlock Holmes.
When they returned to the lounge, James was in a quiet mood. He sat back in his corner, and his eyes kept travelling to study Sherlock’s face. Mrs Holmes cast an astonished look at their rain-soaked suits. “Whatever happened?”
“No misadventures, mother,” Sherlock reassured.
“Oh good.” She began to inform him about her discoveries. James wasn’t listening. He felt craving. Giddy.
He felt annoyed. He’d devoted his last few weeks to the study and seduction of Sherlock Holmes. Now it seemed his entire game had been turned on its head, without him quite knowing how. The confession he’d just received had felt very much like a scolding. He hated it. Or he loved it? It was certainly very interesting.
He relaxed a little, watching Sherlock. He would take it as what it was. A challenge. Sherlock had just shown him the scroll. In order to know your enemy, you must become your enemy. His face settled into a smile, anticipation burning throughout him. He could only guess how it might all unfold, but it would certainly be full of surprises. Sherlock was.