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The sun is sleeping quietly.
Sherlock’s head has fallen as he bowed before exhaustion. Oh how peaceful he looked. So far removed from the pains of the day. No prejudices and no fears to trouble his sleep. He was equal to any other. There was no need for facades in a place like this, but some masks are sewed too deep into your soul to take off with ease.
And he couldn’t help it. James just could not help stealing a glance at his face. He drank as much as he could decipher in the dark. Really, could he ever be blamed? There was a completely new part of his friend that he was only just beginning to explore. This side of Sherlock had no witty retorts, no games, nor action, interestingly it still didn’t bore James. If anything it enticed his mind even more. What dreams ruled his mind, he will never know — mattered not how much he wished. That didn’t stop him from hoping he’d figure them out one day, though.
He didn’t bother suppressing a smile.
“Goodnight, Shirley.”
As the chains of sleep guided Sherlock deeper and deeper, he was now slightly more leaned forward and fearing that Sherlock would fall, James thinks to move him, although he is uncertain how or where. Just leave him in a corner of that cold, cold room, alone, on a probably dirty blanket? Well, that sounded.. wrong, so wrong to do. Lay his head on his shoulder? James didn’t want to risk him slipping and waking. What kind of friend would he even be if he was to do that?
It left him with only one option that would ensure the best for Sherlock: Hold him. That should be.. easy enough to do. Sherlock did seem to sleep like a log… Understandable — the last couple of days he had spent running around campus like a headless chicken, at everyone’s beck and call, and, now, as a suspected criminal... Not to mention his stay in prison. What horrors he has endured there, only he knows! James’ heart twisted at the mere thought. Ugh.
The task was easy. Just pick him up and slowly put him on his lap. It was easy. Easy. Easier said than done…
His hands trembled as they neared Sherlock’s sleeping body. He pursed his lips, his mouth dancing on a thin between a smile and a pout. He had never been quite like this. How bizarre — his heart was pounding in his chest.
James told himself he had drank too much. Why else would it happen?
He took a deep breath and grabbed Sherlock by the waist. Soft. James realized only after the act was done that he had closed his eyes. Maybe, if he didn’t see it, it would be less sinful.
But helping another couldn’t be a sin.
Loving another shouldn’t be a sin.
What God and what religion would ever consider love a sin?
But James was not in any position to make claims upon divinity or its wishes. He was just another flawed human.
When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was sat on him, with his back supported by James’ chest. Up close, like that, he was able to get a better look at his friend’s face. Sleep had softened his features. James watched as his lips parted when he breathed. His eyes bore the fascination of a cat admiring a mouse.
Only a small, almost unobservable smudge of red remained on Sherlock’s cheekbone, from where he had been punched. James longed to have been the one to tend to it, because he cared for him… just like any friend would.
Sherlock had been cared for by the princess. It must have been bliss. To have the princess’s hands caress his face, what an honour! It is without doubt to James that Sherlock must have enjoyed it. However he is sure he would have done it better, after all, it was him who knew Sherlock. It’s him who understands Sherlock. Him. HIM.
It should have been his bliss. He was the one to run by Sherlock’s side, so, logically, he should also be the one to run his fingers across his features. Him and not the princess!
Was he not enough for him?
Why was the princess needed when he had him?
What embarrassing thoughts! His leg started bouncing up and down, crushing the unwanted idea. A crucial detail seemed to have been forgotten, luckily he was soon reminded of what he had omitted to take into account before his sudden movement.
“James…?” Sherlock spoke with furrowed brows.
Snapping to reality, James’ mind remained a couple of steps behind, but his instincts took the lead. “Right here, Shirley,” he kissed his cheek, his eyes running to the door. “Go back to sleep.”
Sherlock mumbled something and leaned his head forward, returning to sleep, as if he had never waked to begin with.
James ran his right hand through his hair. His fingers twisted and tied in his curls, but with one hard pull, they came out like a bullet.
This behavior was terriblely irrational. Exhaustion must certainly be faulty. He tried to join Sherlock in his slumber, but, either due to his now numb leg or inability to move, his eyes wouldn’t stay shut for more than a measly couple of seconds.
Outside lived such a clear night, not a cloud to cover them. The shine of stars sneaked through the cracked open window, it brought with it a small gust of wind.
So light. So heavy.
The breeze had the scent of leftover Chelsea buns. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to get his hands on about a dozen of them; and they were fresh ones too! So fresh in fact that their appetizing steam was still thick. “Rich boy money”, James had reasoned. He didn’t care much to ask how he got them then, sinking his teeth in the piping hot patisserie had his mind fogged up with delight and suddenly, nothing else mattered for him, for them.
They ate and drank while talking about things that James was far too distracted to keep in his mind. He didn’t remember Chelsea buns tasting this sweet, nor the whisky this smooth. Hunger does make the best of chefs, does it not? But it was not just hunger, the company he had played a part in it too.
Sherlock claimed he was full after the fourth and heartlessly left the task of finishing the rest to James, who had no choice but to oblige. By the seventh, he too was stuffed, so the last two had been left for breakfast.
Cinnamon and currant still lingered in the air. James licked his lips as he thought of the Chelsea buns again. A shame they would never be the same. Their warmth would disappear. They'll go cold, with no way of being reheated. Tomorrow, when they'll eat anyway, the stale crumbs they'll leave behind will get looked over.
They only serve to show the beauty of what has been wasted and no one ever wants to think about that. Not during the happy times.
The warmth remaining in the room came from their hug. Just a candle in the chilly English night, but with the flame that would make the stars pale by comparison.
He squeezes Sherlock a bit more, still due to some irrational fear weighing nameless upon his heart, the hug was, for sure, much looser than James would have wished. He was aware Sherlock was not a frail man. He would not break from being held, but for all he knew, there might be scrapers and bruises spread like freckles all over his body from all of the unfavorable fights he had gotten himself into. James was on Sherlock's side, why would he risk hurting him, with his care no less? If left to its own accounts, his affection will only do harm.
Without any onlookers, the world felt unfamiliar. Strange. The only eyes seeing him were his, and even that was through a mirror. It granted him the rare opportunity to ignore his surroundings, to sink into his mind.
And his thoughts - they are absurd. Totally absurd!
Obviously, this was a simple display of friendship. Having a man like this throughout the night is nothing special. Holding him, desiring to stoke his face, admiring every detail of his stupidly perfect face, wishing never to be made to let go... All of these are gestures of good camaraderie and nothing more. Sherlock, if he was in his shoes, would do the same things.
James knew what being in love felt like. It was slow and careful and organized and predictable. This was rushed, messy, volatile, uncertain. No woman had ever had James feeling like this. Not even one! Therefore, it should be obvious that the subject of his affection was not Sherlock, nor could it ever be.
Enough! He has deviated from his plan of falling asleep for long enough. It was about time to return to it.
James' right hand wrapped around Sherlock's middle, resting on the left side. He gripped it tighter than necessary. He didn't want to let go and he wasn't sure why. Something told him not to let go. And James was far too tired to question it.
And even the specks of dust surrounding them didn’t feel unclean. A halo of faint stars crowning the sleeping boy. The more he looked, the brighter the stars burned.
All the stars — so beautiful, so bright, but none could match Sherlock’s light. They now bear witness to James’ revelation.
The stars spelled out Sherlock’s name across the sky’s length. Maybe they always had, but James only now had learned how to read it. What more could he be able to decipher if he dedicated himself to them? What secrets could he unveil between planets? If he read and read and learned the stars, planets and comets by heart could they tell him how to obtain what he most desired?
If it isn’t there, James wouldn’t lose anything. But, if the key to Sherlock’s heart is hidden deep inside the universe he never explored, James would lose everything.
“Oh Lord, if you truly are merciful and kind, never take him away from me and spare me the pain.” James prayed under his breath. “Oh Lord, if you truly are merciful and kind, just take him away from me and spare me the pain.”
He sighed and placed his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, nuzzling his head lazily against his neck. They were so close, almost melting into one another. There was no practical need for them to stay like this, none at all. The room was spacious enough for multiple people to sit comfortably without even touching. No, they chose this, chose each other. The beating of Sherlock’s heart lulled James to sleep. Oh why couldn’t all nights be like this?
This amusement, this game it’s just a deceiving race. They run towards the finish line, hand in hand. Naive children. You can expect from them to see, to feel the world like adults, but you can’t expect them to fulfill your expectations. At the end awaits them no happily ever after — it never has. Fate has been carving them a cliff. It blends into the night, so hard to spot, so hard to spot! However, not all that glows makes a star. Clueless he who reaches for deceiving lights. He who believes the lying skies is bound to pay, without fail, a ransom he can hardly afford.
Tomorrow, tomorrow he’ll try and he’ll forget; they’ll forget. And if neither will remember, has it truly taken place? But he didn’t want to forget.
He said he had stopped thieving, that lying pickpocket! Now, James was able to tell that it was a lie, for he could hear his heart beating from Sherlock’s chest and not his own.
The heartbreak won’t happen if he does fall in love.
“Good morning, James.”
But he did.