Archive of Our Own

James had been sent from Appleton Manor in disgrace. Sherlock Holmes would be grateful never to see his face again.

Not glad. Really the opposite of glad. But he had made his decision and he would stick to it. It was better this way.

They’d arrived back from Constantinople, a family of sorts. The loss of Silas and addition of Bea increased the Holmes family by net zero, but it was yet to be seen what qualitative changes would be wrought on the Holmes family unit. James had trailed along with them all the way to Appleton, as was his habit, and everyone had taken it as a given really, but then it had all come out.

Beatrice and James.

Sherlock couldn’t verbalise why he was so furious. He worked it out himself, through one of those brilliant deductions he was apparently cursed with. Whenever he sensed that something was amiss, his brain just wouldn’t let it go – like someone who, finding a loose thread on the cuff of their jumper, is compelled to worry at it until they have unravelled their whole sleeve. And if he decided to lock away the thought, his vivid imagination would intrude with ever more attention-grabbing improvisations until he was forced to face it again.

The first loose thread on the cuff of Sherlock’s sanity was an awkwardness he noticed between Beatrice and James. Not an increased intimacy – but in fact this was more stark, because James Moriarty was a flirt. If he wasn’t flirting with somebody, that in itself was highly suspicious. So despite his best efforts, Sherlock began to pay attention. He saw how Bea and James had started to evade each other’s eye contact, and a certain sombreness in James’ conduct generally, a certain worried set to the mouth. And then he’d tried to shove the whole thing to the back of his mind, but the harder he tried to dismiss it, the more lurid were his mind’s damned insistences that something was up.

When he confronted James about it, James confessed immediately. He did so with something strangely like relief, as though a weight had been lifted. He looked rather awful, and he’d begun to explain something rather urgently, but Sherlock couldn’t listen to him – he really couldn’t. The whole affair was intolerable. It had quickly turned to raised voices, and Sherlock landing James a blow that would certainly leave a large and prominent bruise, himself trembling with held-back emotion, and James just sort of standing there by this point, making no defense of himself, as though resigned to weather the whole storm. This was when Sherlock issued his ultimatum: James was to leave, and he would have nothing to do with him any more.

It was a decree so absolute in its delivery that Appleton obeyed. James was barred from the house and his bags were fetched by Mrs Crowle and taken out to him on the drive. James was sitting on the wall, actionless. Sherlock watched unblinking from the safety of an upper window, until animation finally returned to the man and he ambled unsteadily away from the Holmes’ estate.

That, Sherlock hoped, with a tightening feeling of finality in his gut, would be the end of it.

***

It wasn’t.

James sent letters. Sherlock burned them.

“Don’t want to open it first?” commented Mycroft from a nearby arm chair where he watched impassively, one of the first mornings after James had been sent on his way.

No, Sherlock did not. He could imagine the gist. James trying to denounce the whole thing, feeding him some stupid, infuriatingly plausible excuse. It was pointless. Whatever the man had to say, it was nothing to him.

This carried on for some time. Sherlock would descend the staircase at Appleton and find a letter waiting for him on the console table in the hall. When this occurred, he would pick it up with a detached automation of movement, carry it straight to the fireplace and condemn it to the flames.

At first they were addressed in plain English, but soon the letters began to arrive in code, as though their author thought this might catch his attention. Nonsensical jumbles of letters, strange runes, blank pieces of paper folded into obscure shapes. A different puzzle every day, James apparently getting more creative or more desperate in his attempts; as if he believed that if he could find a good enough puzzle, it would be irresistible to the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had found some puzzles irresistible before now, but James was mistaken as to why. He’d grown up a lot in a handful of days. He’d been changed by them.

In those first few weeks, Sherlock went for long walks in the Appleton grounds. The weather was turning. A long hot summer was losing her footing, the light beginning to dim earlier each day. In the garden at dusk, past scenes revived themselves. Here was the river with his mother wading through it, calling out; here was the maze where gunshots had sounded in the night; here was the tree where Sherlock had dug for hours, caked in mud and rainwater, in the feverish grip of a clarity so terrible it felt like madness. James had not left his side that night. Bedraggled and cold, he had stayed to the end: grounding, fortifying, sustaining Sherlock with his presence.

When he came to this spot he remembered Bea, not the Bea they had found or the Bea they had lost but the Bea who had haunted him for years, always his age mate. She’d been a gentle kind of phantom, meeting his eye with a certain look. His oldest memories were the feeling of failing her.

There was the problem of matters with Bea.

Sherlock had dreamed so long of meeting his sister, his family whole and restored – but now it had happened he didn’t know what to make of her. She reminded him of a forest animal, lightning-quick in its thoughts and impulses, but uncertain of the woodland hierarchy. Spotted in moments of clever stillness, unclear whether it was predator or prey.

It was difficult on her, returning to a family that had gone on without her, shaped entirely by her absence. Admittedly, she’d made a bad start of it by sleeping with Sherlock’s best friend. Things were at best awkward and at worst horribly tense. She had an inscrutable attitude towards her life of crime, and as they were swapping small-talk and trying to catch up on the missed years, she’d sometimes drop the most appalling details into the conversation, throwing everybody at the table into startled silence. Perhaps trying out how she felt about it all. At other times she seemed almost serenely composed. Her poised artifice set Sherlock’s teeth on edge, who didn’t have her skill at hiding his emotions. Despite his efforts, his own thoughts and feelings always seemed to radiate out of him sooner or later.

The business with James had been an awful betrayal, and everybody saw it. Nobody quite knew what to say or do.

They all had their opinions, though.

Mrs Crowle was the first to broach the subject. Sherlock’s family were still tiptoeing somewhat, figuring out how to approach things, but Mrs Crowle was not for pussyfooting around. She’d sent James packing but she hadn’t liked it, and she liked it even less when it fell to her to turn him away at the door one day.

She brought it up the same afternoon, while Sherlock was helping in the kitchen. He’d got into the habit of involving himself in the various chores and household management tasks at the manor to stay occupied and keep his mind away from James, but today there was no escape.

“If you’ll pardon the liberty, Master Holmes. The young man, James. You should see him.”

Sherlock looked up at Mrs Crowle, surprised and displeased. “Liberty’s the word,” he agreed. “I take it he called today.”

“He had flowers,” she said.

“Probably his strategy for getting past you.”

She folded her arms. “Is it now?”

Sherlock returned to peeling carrots and was silent for some time. “He’s not welcome here,” he eventually said.

“It’s a shame is all,” said Mrs Crowle, but she didn’t argue any further.

***

Mrs Crowle had probably been too soft on him at any rate, because the same night, Sherlock was awoken by the irregular, tinny sound of little stones being thrown one by one at his window. He was sleeping fitfully these days and the unexpected noise was enough to bring him to full alertness. Cursing, he walked to the window.

James stood below, looking up at him with a face like the moon. He’d taken off his hat and was holding it in one hand while the other flung pebbles collected in his pocket from the gravel drive. Once Sherlock was fully visible at the window, he just fidgeted at the felt brim, staring up, and called in a low hiss: “Sherlock. Sherlock.”

Sherlock was motionless for a moment. He stared back down from the highest window in the house, strange feelings churning in him. In the strangeness of night, James’ face was enough to make him feel a full spectrum of human emotions, some full of anger and unease, others of terrifying fragility. He felt compelled in every direction at once, and so he did nothing but stare, until he could choke it all down. Then he shook his head no, pulled the curtains closed and went back to bed.

Pling. Pling. Stones fell against the window at steady intervals. Sherlock lay in bed, listening to the noise for what felt like forever. Finally it abated. He waited twenty minutes more. Then crept to the curtain and glanced out. James had not gone. He was sitting on the steps with a flask in hand, looking settled in.

After a while, rain began to fall, and Sherlock watched James facing the dark empty garden, taking an occasional swig from the flask, his careless angular slouch as his clothes and hair and skin became drenched with rain.

***

There were no more letters. Sherlock had longed for them to cease, so of course he felt no particular emotion whenever he sighted the empty spot on the hallway table where he’d grown accustomed to finding them, morning after morning.

He sat in the drawing room lost in books, distantly aware of his family observing him. He made it through the undergraduate reading lists for half a dozen subjects spanning the arts, sciences, philosophy and mathematics. As long as he was reading he could lose himself in the pages, but at the slightest lull in mental stimulation his thoughts would turn traitor again.

He was quiet too at dinnertimes. Mycroft had superseded Silas at the dinner table and Bea took his old seat at his left, but the place beside Sherlock remained empty. There were no more dances for now, everyone too troubled by the illusion of happy family that clung to the tradition. Instead there was after-dinner coffee and stilted conversation, from which he’d excuse himself as early as possible. Bea was clearly doing her best, but whenever she spoke Sherlock’s ears swam and he could hardly focus through the ringing of them. He wondered if he’d sustained some damage in the blast, now set off by the occasional bloodrush of strong emotion. It ashamed him that he was still very far from forgiving her. In his sallower moods he thought he preferred her ghost.

Sherlock’s mother was the next to brave the topic. She ventured up to Sherlock’s attic room one evening where it was possible to have a quiet word.

“Why won’t you see him?” she asked, after gently closing the door.

Sherlock was working on plotting out some mathematical problems and took a few minutes to reply. “I have to repair my education.”

His mother laughed musically. “Sherlock Holmes, my bright boy! You’ve read every book in this house, and nearly exhausted the parish library.” She took a seat by him. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“Don’t worry about me, mother,” said Sherlock stiffly.

“You’re withdrawn, darling.”

“I’ve merely come to appreciate the gravity of my situation. Mycroft was right, I’ve been on the wrong track for some time.”

“Mycroft was right?” she echoed, with a playful incredulity. Then more gravely she shook her head. “You’ve always had the weight of the world on your shoulders. I am so sorry for the years I was absent. Someone so young should not carry so much…” She sighed, then spoke carefully. “One of the things I miss about James is how carefree you often looked together.”

The muscles at the edge of Sherlock’s mouth tightened slightly. He didn’t speak.

“He brought out this outgoing, sociable side of you,” she continued with a sad smile. Then after a tentative pause – “What do you miss about James?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock’s face crumpled. Then she was holding him, protective arms around her boy in the eloquent silence that was upon them.

Finally he sniffed, and regained himself. His mouth was a trembling line.

“Hush, hush,” Cordelia murmured. She thought for a little while. “You know, when you were – injured in Paris, I kept seeing you as a much younger boy. There was so much I didn’t know about you… James had known you for, how long…?”

“A week,” Sherlock replied thickly.

“A week!” Cordelia smiled. “And already he knew so much about you. You didn’t stir for hours, but when he arrived at the hospital, it was like you suddenly had all the energy in the world. I was so grateful that you found somebody like that.”

“I don’t think,” Sherlock faltered. “I don’t think he…”

“No? – well, what do I know?” said Cordelia gently. She rose, but paused at the door. “You should talk to him,” she said.

***

It was looking doubtful whether Sherlock would get the opportunity. After the night in the rain, James did not return to the house. Cordelia ventured to ask after him in the village. She learned he’d been renting a room at the inn, but had vacated it recently. Nobody had seen him.

Sherlock did not join her in these investigations. With Mycroft’s help he composed a letter to the Dean at Candlin College. Citing his connection to the college, his services for it and the nation at large, his undeniable promise, and excellent references (courtesy of brother dearest), they pled Sherlock’s case to return – not as a scout but as part of the next year’s cohort.

When it was finished they read it through.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sherlock grinned at Mycroft.

“Oh?”

“You’re thinking, ‘here is what I should have done to begin with’ – instead of that subterfuge you subjected me to last year.”

“On the contrary,” said Mycroft. “Your days as a scout are my most valuable gift to you. You are the better for it.”

It was clear, however, that he was proud of Sherlock.

The letter earned him an admissions interview. They rode up the day before. Mycroft accompanied his brother on the two hour drive to Oxford and not only tolerated but encouraged Sherlock as he rehearsed for the interview out loud.

It didn’t escape Sherlock’s astute notice that his brother was also concerned for him. Mycroft favoured practical assistance over verbal consolations – and was most comfortable if he could be a bit of an ass about it at the same time. If ever his brother went out of his way to make himself helpful to Sherlock, Sherlock read between the lines.

Their early arrival in the city enabled various errands; Mycroft had planned it all out like a military operation. Visits to a tailor, a barber, and the reading room at the Bodleian would prepare Sherlock both superficially and intellectually for his reappearance at Candlin College. After obtaining their key at the inn where they would be staying, Mycroft marched Sherlock down the High Street for minor alterations to his best suit. His trouser fitting revealed that Sherlock had gained in height and lost in circumference that summer. “You’ve been wasting away, brother,” Mycroft muttered. It seemed to the older Holmes that James’ betrayal had affected Sherlock’s appetite for everything; life, puzzles, and supper included.

He sent Sherlock on to the barber while he waited for the alterations to be completed. Sherlock meandered down the street, somewhat dazed to be in Oxford alone. He wondered briefly if he was doing the right thing by attempting to return, or whether he should seek out an education somewhere less loaded with memories. Then he dismissed the thought abruptly. What kind of a man is so injured by the loss of a youthful friendship that entire cities are spoiled by association?

He was welcomed at the barbershop by its proprietor, a short, round-faced man with oiled black hair and a friendly demeanour. Sherlock had visited his establishment before during his time in Oxford and was greeted with enthusiasm as a returning customer. The fellow sat him down in a brown leather chair beside a table where various things were arranged, including a small hand mirror, a brush, and various jars and salves. It was not a complete collection, however: he appeared to have mislaid some essential items.

The barber frowned. “My apologies. I must have left my tools in the back. Please excuse me sir.”

Sherlock listened to his steps shuffle into the next room. A door opened and closed with a click. The man’s steps returned.

“Just the usual, sir, or any special occasion?”

“The usual, please,” said Sherlock, who never altered his haircut. “Although it is a special occasion of sorts.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“I’m interviewing at one of the colleges tomorrow.”

“Candlin College, sir?”

Sherlock’s face took on a bemused smile. “Lucky guess?”

“That is the college you’re connected with, sir, no?”

“Hm.” Sherlock was alert now. It seemed unlikely that the man remembered all his customers in such detail. Staring forwards, he asked, “Your clientele are from across the University?”

“Never forget a face, sir. Nor the back of a neck,” the man chuckled, as his scissors went snip, snip, snip.

The jovial voice was exactly as Sherlock remembered, but the larynx from which it originated seemed to belong to a somewhat taller man than the barber should have been. Sherlock stayed very still. He glanced towards the table, but could see only a far corner of the ceiling reflected in the glass that lay there.

“You have a good memory.”

“I’m sure it’s no match for yours, sir,” said the jolly barber. “You must be a bright sort. Congratulations on your interview, I’m sure it’ll be a doddle.”

As he spoke he’d moved round to the side of Sherlock’s head, and a portion of his face was now visible in the small oval mirror on the table. It was not the barber, Sherlock was confident now. It was not the barber, because it was James.

“Congratulations indeed…” The voice transformed mid-sentence, taking on a familiar lilt. “Though you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Sherlock swallowed. For a man whose sworn enemy was holding a sharp object mere inches from his throat, he felt surprisingly unafraid. “I am?”

“You don’t want to go back to Candlin, Sherlock, after what they did to us.” James’ brown eye met his in the mirror. “I asked around, I learned that Sir Bucephalus Hodge weren’t the most popular man – big surprise. The Heads of the other colleges think we did everybody a favour exposing his corruption, and now they won’t have to deal with him at dinner. I wrote to them, and found a dozen who were only too happy to offer me a place.”

He paused, and Sherlock wondered whether he was expecting him to say something. Sherlock’s own mouth was a still, thin line. On discovering the imposter in the barbershop to be James, his instinctive reaction had been relief that he was (probably) not about to be murdered. However, as all his feelings regarding James had time to rush back in, he began to think that a murderer might at least have been more straightforward, and by this virtue preferable.

Sherlock did not speak, so James continued. “They want me. They’d want you too, for what you did.” Finally dropping Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror, Sherlock felt and heard the return of the scissors’ snip, snip, snip. “Why would you go back to Candlin, Sherlock? Why would you keep going back to someone who didn’t want you? Over and over again. Can you think of any reason a man might do something like that? No, I can’t think of a reason.” In the pause that followed, Sherlock felt how much his silence was vexing James. “You won’t see me, you won’t answer my letters, you won’t give me a chance to explain myself. Is that what it’s come to? You’ll only speak to me if I hold a knife to your throat?” Sherlock felt James rest the cold metal of the scissors momentarily against his skin.

“A pair of scissors,” Sherlock corrected.

“Details,” said James. Even the small utterance from Sherlock seemed to cheer him up considerably.

“I’m not talking to you,” said Sherlock.

“You are now,” said James with a sudden smile.

Sherlock exhaled. “So you are returning to Oxford?”

“I’ve got myself a place at Lovelace Hall studying Mathematics. I can pick up where I left off.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened. Lovelace Hall was Oxford’s youngest college. It had been founded by its patroness some thirty years ago with the noble aim of bringing more women mathematicians into the University. Though technically co-educational, it was most famous for its brilliant female undergraduates known by the other students as Lacies, who were the subject of many puns on the word ‘figures’. Its male cohort was fewer in number and had a counterpart reputation; the mention of the college confirmed James as a rogue and a villain.

Though of course, it was possible that James had chosen the college because it was the best place to study Mathematics.

Either way, Sherlock had decided some time ago that talking to James would only bring him grief.

“I don’t suppose we shall have to run into each other very much,” he said.

James made a tiny sound – less than a sigh, less than a breath – that most other listeners would have missed entirely. “If you don’t want to…”

“You wanted me to congratulate you?” Sherlock closed his eyes. “Why are you here, James?”

“Well, I decided I’d rather like to finish my degree, Sherlock. Oxford’s not just for–”

“Why are you here, right now; why are you cutting my hair?”

“I’ve actually just finished cutting your hair.” James placed the pair of scissors down on the table. Sherlock placed a flat palm over them to prevent their continued use as a weapon. “Don’t worry. You look lovely.”

“What did you do with the barber?”

James picked up a bottle of macassar oil and a fine-toothed comb. “He’s just enjoying a break.”

Sherlock decided to look no further into this obviously suspicious claim. Unless James’ modus operandi had changed drastically in the last month, he doubted any lasting harm had come to the man. At worst he might be locked in a cupboard somewhere.

He resigned himself as James combed the oil through his hair, shaping it neatly. The man lingered at the task. Sherlock thought it unlike James, whose own appearance tended towards impatient and haphazard charm, but somehow the back of his head held endless fascination for him. This must be another game, James showing off exactly how well he could play the character of barber. Sherlock’s silence crackled with anger, but was smothered in the velvet expanse of James’ answering silence.

Finally he held up the mirror. “Done.”

Sherlock looked. It was precise. It was his haircut, no deviation from form.

Sherlock stood to his feet, and discovered his legs felt a little unreliable. He turned to face James. “Stop this,” he said seriously.

“Let’s talk, Sherlock.”

“I’ve made my position clear.”

“You haven’t let me explain–”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

James opened his mouth to say something more, but then his eye flicked towards the window. He turned abruptly on his heel and disappeared through the door at the back of the room. A moment later, Mycroft entered through the front door. “All done?” he asked, and cast an eye around the shop’s interior. “There’s no-one here. Where’s your barber?”

“Already settled up.”

“Good.” Mycroft was already striding out of the shop, and Sherlock stumbled forwards to keep up, quickly pulling himself together. If he and James were both in Oxford, their paths would inevitably collide daily. He felt suddenly uncertain of the plans he’d made. He thought of turning home now, or botching the thing on purpose. But that was not really an option.

He didn’t mention his doubts or James’ surprise appearance to Mycroft, and the next day Sherlock made it through his appointment with the Dean with admirable composure. He was then given an admissions paper which he completed in less than half the allotted time. “As long as that’s in order, we’ll be glad to have you,” the Dean had said. He was evidently not a member of the Sir Bucephalus Hodge fan club either.

Sherlock knew that the paper was in perfect order, and so his education was secured. It should have felt triumphant, but all Sherlock felt in the pit of his stomach was a gathering dread.

***

“What do you think: is it definitely too late to transfer to Cambridge?” It was breakfast several days later at Appleton Manor.

“I’ll kill you,” said Mycroft, matter of factly.

Bea laughed. “Someone’s getting cold feet,” she said.

“Do you want to go to Cambridge,” asked Cordelia Holmes.

“I couldn’t imagine why,” said Mycroft. “It’s full of fens. It’s a terrible, boggy place.”

“The peelers don’t know him there, so he’d have a head start,” joked Bea.

Mycroft made a gesture of concession with a breakfast roll that he was holding. “Well, he can’t at any rate. I went to a darned sight of trouble to get you that offer.”

“And to think I wasted my summer reading books,” rejoined Sherlock.

“Offended.”

Cordelia Holmes laughed happily. “Don’t squabble, children.” In fact, she loved it. They were finally becoming a family, bickering and all.

At that moment, Mrs Crowle burst into the dining room, eyes wide. “He’s done it – I can’t think how he’s done it!” she cried.

“Goodness, Mrs Crowle, are you quite alright?” asked Cordelia.

“Who’s he and what’s it?” Mycroft asked efficiently.

With a feeling of foreboding, Sherlock became very engrossed staring down into his bowl of porridge. He was aware of Bea glancing towards him.

“There’s a message in the marrow,” said Mrs Crowle – a cryptic pronouncement which did not clarify things.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Mrs Holmes.

“Bone marrow?” asked Bea, whose mind turned quickly to morbid things.

Mrs Crowle puffed out a breath. “It’ll be easier if I show you,” she said, retreating to the kitchen. The Holmes family exchanged various glances around the table. Mrs Crowle returned with a wooden chopping board, on which was a kitchen knife, a bisected vegetable, and a small silver disk.

“I can’t think how he’s done it,” said Mrs Crowle. “It was inside the marrow, right inside. It must have grown like that,” she said.

Sherlock looked up from his porridge and everyone fell silent. “Let me have a look.”

Mrs Crowle handed him the silver disk, which turned out to be a medallion, such as would be hung on a silver chain. Sherlock gave it a cursory glance before passing it on round the table. “Marrow, please,” he said. “This is from our greenhouse.”

“It is,” Mrs Crowle confirmed.

He inspected it. “I’m afraid it’s rather trivial, Mrs Crowle.” He held up one half of the marrow. A little scar ran down the outside of the plant. “Here is where the incision was made. I’d say at least ten days ago. It’s healed over. Hardly a reliable method of conveying a message.”

“Impactful,” said Bea.

“I suppose that is its one advantage.”

“What about the message? Do you know what it means? I’m sure it’s from–” Mrs Crowle suddenly halted and, with a glance at Sherlock, banished the excitement from her voice. “James.”

“Yes,” muttered Sherlock. There was no doubt in his mind that this was one of James’ stunts.

The silver charm had made its way around the table and Cordelia Holmes handed it back to Sherlock. He received it without enthusiasm and observed the iconography. It showed a woman holding a cross of woven corn and a flame. “St Brigid,” he stated.

“Who is,” prompted Mycroft.

“An abbess at Kildare in the fifth and sixth century. Patron saint of poets, blacksmiths, beekeepers–”

“That one,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock glowered at him for some time. Then he said, “it must be a message for Bea then.” With distaste he slid the little medallion to land on the table in front of her.

Bea glared unblinking at Sherlock, then rose from the table and left the room. Cordelia Holmes ran a worried hand across her temple and followed after her daughter. Mrs Crowle hovered awkwardly in the doorway. St Brigid remained on the table, unaware of the family feud unfolding around her.

“You know it’s not a message for Bea,” Mycroft whispered accusingly. “Why say that, when you know it’s for you.”

“I don’t see how it could possibly concern me,” said Sherlock coolly.

“Damn it, Sherlock. Apis mellifera. It’s clearly a code–”

“I don’t want to decode it, Mycroft,” said Sherlock with sudden vehemence, voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Mrs Crowle took a small step forwards. Her voice was the one she’d used for the boys when they were much younger, in the dead centre between kindness and authority. “Master Holmes, you carry in these plates and help me with the washing up.”

Sherlock was grateful to be bustled out of the room and set to work. He stood at the sink, listening to the thud of his own heartbeats slowly steadying.

Unfortunately, Mycroft did not take the hint. Barely a few minutes later, he’d strolled into the kitchen and come to stand near Sherlock. “I’m sorry to press the point,” he began (though clearly not sorry enough), “but you really should talk–”

“If one more person tells me to talk to James, I swear I shall – commit you en masse to the sanatorium and I shall – flee the country and you will never hear of me again.”

Mycroft held up his hands. “To Bea.”

“Oh.”

“She is trying her best. This is hard on her too.”

“Well. Everybody seems to have an opinion.”

“Yes, but Sherlock – he stopped seeing her but it feels like you’re the person he’s in a quarrel with. Who exactly has been broken off?”

Sherlock was silent.

This really was the heart of the matter, the thing he’d been avoiding. James did not feel the same way about Sherlock as Sherlock felt about James.

Although it had contained just as many days as any other, the week they’d spent together had been one of those that would inevitably define a whole era of his life. His father dead, his mother and sister restored. All the revelations, crises, changes in fortune. But also, perhaps more than anything else, because of James Moriarty.

Within minutes of meeting the man, Sherlock had had the feeling of being understood so deeply that at times they seemed to share one mind. Throughout his solitary childhood, he’d never experienced anything like it. He hadn’t known to miss it. The social life he’d observed at his various schools (or on the rare occasion Mycroft or Silas dragged him along to something) mostly consisted of playing roles, following predetermined scripts that those present had had sight of at a rehearsal Sherlock hadn’t been invited to. He was content to sit on the sidelines. It all seemed pointless, except as a study. He’d honed his art of noticing things.

Then there was James. Nobody had told him there was a type of friendship that sharpened you, made you more yourself. That when somebody saw you, really saw you, you could feel like you were aflame. That a pair of brown eyes could become a poem to be close-read endlessly, an equation to be balanced, a favourite puzzle clicking into place. That when they watched you, there was a feeling a person could feel about being watched; fluttery like nervousness, hungry like anticipation, warm like fire.

He’d never expected somebody who could keep up with him. James not only kept up but tugged him along – into the sunshine, into the night, into chaos and sweat and moments of stillness – and every madcap second, Sherlock was in love with the world. It belonged to the two of them. The blaze of it devoured everything.

It was, to Sherlock’s naturally grounded personality, a dangerous feeling. Splendid, but completely overwhelming. It was easier to think with James around, but his judgement was skewed. He had to deal with a new centre of gravity. It frightened him. It made him feel like he could lose everything.

Then he had indeed begun to lose. He’d stood at the very edge of things: his father falling from the cliff face, Shou’an falling from the tower. He’d been shot in the abdomen and James had gone running after the marksman. He’d survived two explosions and multiple gunfights, and that meant that he would survive this too, because there was no blood, no explosion. Just cold, blunt clarity.

The business with Beatrice confirmed what he should have known before. That James did not feel the same way about him as he felt about James. He’d been made into a source of amusement. An accomplice. He’d been played for a fool. He thought of James looking ravenously at the key, their last day in Constantinople, and wondered if the thing that burned in James when he looked at Sherlock was nothing more than a kind of addiction to adventure – that the utility of Sherlock was that he was the one person who could keep up with him as he tore through the world at breakneck speed, popping up wherever havoc was.

James had trailed after him across Europe. If it hadn’t been for love – he felt sick that he’d ever entertained the thought – then it must have been for much more alarming reasons. Sherlock couldn’t trust himself where James was involved, so it was better that he forget the whole thing, even if that seemed impossible right now.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” He became dimly aware of his brother’s voice calling him back from the recesses of his mind.

“All right,” said Sherlock. There was no use quarrelling with Bea as well. He folded the tea towel he was holding and set it down. He drew himself up to leave, then paused. “St Brigid. What’s your theory?”

“It’s a message.”

“Obviously. Translate.”

“Apis mellifera. I was wrong – you were right. It’s an apology.”

Sherlock regarded him. “A boneheaded one,” he said.

“Quite,” agreed Mycroft with a smirk. “You two are made for each other.”

Scowling, Sherlock headed off to find his sister.

***

Sherlock and Bea wandered down the yew-lined walk towards the river. Their conversation was slow and measured – not awkward exactly, but each word placed as one places a foot on new terrain.

“It is good to have you back at Appleton.”

“Is it? My return has been overshadowed somewhat.”

“It is not what I imagined.”

“And what was that?”

“I used to see you, did you know? Everywhere. This young woman of my own age insisting that she was out there to be found.”

Bea laughed. “How do I measure up?”

“Chattier.”

“She must have been a woman of few words.”

They exited the alley of trees and looked out as the lawn turned to riverbank, unruly grasses and mud paths sloping down to the water.

It was Bea who spoke again. “Something we have in common, then. After I was taken away, I’d have the most vivid visions, especially of our father. I think perhaps our minds can’t rest when something is out of place.” She wandered right down to the water’s edge and waited for Sherlock to join her. “You’re avoiding thinking about it,” she called out to him. “You can’t avoid it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock picked his way down the mud path. “Well at least James supplies his own phantom. No need for visions when he’s popping up everywhere. Did I tell you he showed up in Oxford? Masquerading as a barber. He cut my hair.”

“He never!” She smiled. “He’s persistent.”

“He’s a villain.”

“Sherlock–” Bea halted. She fidgeted for a moment with a button on her jacket – unusual for her, who was full of composure at all times. “Would you like to know what it was like?”

Sherlock didn’t catch her meaning quickly enough to stop her.

“It was… good, of course, as far as technique is concerned–”

He was shocked back to speech. “I don’t want to hear this.”

She carried on with a detached cruelty that came easily to her, so he thought. “The man clearly has experience, he’s not all empty charm.” She gave Sherlock a sideways look. “He made me feel like a ghost.”

Sherlock stared at her.

“Like he was looking right past me.” She turned her eyes back to the river. “I don’t imagine he’s ever made you feel like that.”

He hadn’t. When James looked at Sherlock, feeling unseen was the last way you could describe the experience. Sometimes he’d give him such a dissecting stare that he felt like a fish being gutted, innards exposed. “No.”

“I think, perhaps, he was feeling some confusion. I would guess he is less confused now.”

A heart-to-heart with Bea was intense. Sherlock should have expected no less. He understood what she was saying, even if she did choose to go about it in the most objectionable way.

The penny dropped about how humiliating it all was for her. “I’m sorry this all happened,” Sherlock said.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. I like James. He’s fun company. I just thought you might need it on record that he did not return to Appleton for me.” Then, to his surprise, she patted him on the arm. “James seems to think you’re very, very clever,” she said, with mischief.

“There’s something else,” said Sherlock. Beatrice waited for him to elaborate. “Something Father used to do. You would be quite sure of something, and he would convince you that the sky was red. Do you know what I mean? You would notice a lie, and you’d call him out on it, and then he would talk in such a way that you felt guilty for ever suspecting it – although underneath it all, you still did.”

“Yes,” said Beatrice.

“James… I want to believe James.”

“You feel safe with him, even when he has a knife to your throat.”

“It was a pair of scissors,” said Sherlock.

Bea chuckled, then turned serious. “I know the thing you’re describing. I know our father better than you do, but I was never an equal partner. It was his way of keeping everybody beneath him. You’re right. It only works because you want to believe him. We Holmeses are too alert to be fooled otherwise. Sherlock, our father was a bastard.”

“And James?”

“Different.”

“James is a liar,” said Sherlock.

“He’s your liar,” said Bea. “Your liar, your problem.”

So, the pairing received even Bea’s approval. They ambled back to the house, better friends than they’d been when they left it.

As soon as Sherlock entered the manor, he knew that something was up. Cordelia and Mycroft were standing on either side of the entryway in a conspicuous tableau of waiting. “What’s happened?” said Sherlock.

Neither one spoke, but Cordelia’s eye flicked towards the study door. Sherlock strode inside; saw who was inside and did an immediate one-eighty. He reacted a second too late though, as Mrs Holmes pushed the door shut and he heard a key turn in the lock.

James was sitting in one of the pair of leather chairs in the inner corner of the room. He raised a hand in a wave of greeting.

“No, no, no,” said Sherlock, crossing the room to try the windows. Mycroft had appeared outside; Sherlock’s brother twirled a set of keys on his finger, shook his head and folded his arms. Sherlock turned back towards James, let out a sigh, and slumped down into the remaining armchair. “I have been betrayed,” he reported.

“And by your own flesh and blood,” said James dolefully.

“Quite.”

“Are you ready to listen now?”

“Do I have a choice?”

James leaned forwards. “Always.” He smiled amenably. “Say the word, I’ll go. This particular bit of tomfoolery wasn’t my idea.”

“No. This has Mycroft written all over it,” said Sherlock sourly.

James shook his head. “Mrs Holmes.”

“Mother.” Sherlock sounded surprised, perhaps impressed. “Huh. Well it hardly absolves you of the rest.”

James gestured palms-up. “Desperate times, Sherlock. You still haven’t answered my question.”

Sherlock settled himself into an attentive pose: hands clasped before him, posture straight and forward-inclined, his head level and his eyes fixed on James’ face. Nobody would have guessed at the gale of emotion gripping his inner landscape; or perhaps one person might. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you.” James breathed in deeply. Despite all his work to get here, it seemed he didn’t quite know where to start. “So. The thing is. Hmm.” He looked at Sherlock a little wildly, as though he might impart everything he needed to say through his eyeballs alone. But Sherlock was merciless. If James wanted so badly to be listened to, he would damn well listen to him. “It was a mistake, Sherlock. A terrible, terrible mistake. I would never have done it if I thought I had a chance with you; but you’re so good, and I’m not.” He chewed on his lip. “It was the thing that made me realise.”

“Made you realise…?”

James’ gaze shifted down and sideways to a spot on the floor. “I am in love with you, Sherlock.” He stared at his chosen floorboard. “Yes, I went about it in quite the wrong way.”

Still as a statue, Sherlock felt his heartbeats going haywire. He didn’t take his eyes off James.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains might still seem too good to be true.

He looked hard for the sign of a lie. He searched James’ downturned face for motive, misdirection. There was only one possible conclusion. James – his liar, as Bea had pointed out – was telling the truth. 

He knew it the only way a Holmes could know anything: with clarity. He knew it and he felt tight bands around his heart begin to loosen, the world slipping back into alignment with itself. Like a ghost dissolving, like a memory yielding up its details, it was right. He knew it because they knew each other too thoroughly to hide. He knew it because he had always known it. The only way to deny it was to stick your head firmly in the sand; to swear off deductions because anything else felt like flying too close to the sun.

A shy laugh began on Sherlock’s lips. “Understatement.”

James looked up, suddenly hopeful. “And you–”

He spoke, though his voice felt stuck. “I am. With you.”

James’ limbs began to fidget with excess energy. “Well that’s good news.”

They stared at each other for a bit.

It had been terrible, not seeing each other.

Sherlock eventually broke their dazed silence. “My family will be thrilled. Can you believe they all took your side,” he complained.

“You’ve driven them up the wall, Sherlock,” James grinned.

“I’ve driven them!”

“Sherlock, you’ve been a nightmare. With your fingers shoved in your ears.”

“I suppose so. Though I refuse to be chastened about it. As communication methods go, I think both of us leave something to be desired.”

James blushed hard. “I’m inclined to agree with you there.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking abashed. Then he moved to stand. “Shall we tell them we’ve settled it?”

“Nearly.” Sherlock rose to his feet too. Suddenly he flung his arms around James and clung on something desperate. The force of it winded the poor man, but he felt James grip him back with equal fervour. He leaned his head against James’, feeling his flushed warmth. “I’m so glad it’s over,” said Sherlock quietly.

James’ mouth curled at the corners as he whispered back. “Some might say, you’re ‘sorry’…”

Sherlock grinned in return. “Don’t try your luck.”

Then it could be prevented no longer: they kissed, mouths clumsy with relief. The moment went on a long time as the longer kiss broke into many smaller kisses interspersed with laughter, which neither one of them seemed able to bring to an end. For the first time since the blessed business began, Sherlock allowed himself to make a deduction – that to James, despite all his infamous experience, this kiss felt like a first.

Well – there would be more-private occasions for more of this sort of thing. There was much to say and much to discover. They turned their attention to escaping the locked room. Mycroft, paragon of discretion, had his back towards the house and was staring into some rose bushes throughout the whole exchange. Sherlock rapped on the window. Mycroft turned round and gave a thumbs-up gesture with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock nodded. A moment later, the door was opened. The family poured in, led by Cordelia Holmes who embraced James. “Welcome back, James!”

“Hello,” said Bea, less awkwardly than was probably deserved. James gave her a nod of greeting.

“Welcome back to Appleton,” said Mycroft. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said James.

“Mother, that was devious,” said Sherlock.

Cordelia Holmes looked pleased. “Wasn’t it! Now, James, I can’t wait for you to catch us up on everything and explain a few points…”

As his family descended on James in a chaotic and joyful interrogation, Sherlock felt almost absurdly grateful. The sins of the past were washed away in their welcome. His mind was coming out of hibernation. His family and future felt complete like never before.

It might so easily have gone some other way. He and James were a part of each other; whatever joy or grief they caused each other, they would cause intensely. As James shot him shy glances and grins, the goddess of Mercy presided with her olive branch and sceptre. Misty things crystallised then vanished; they would not be. Here was James, with his smile and swagger. Here was James, sharp and chameleon-like. Sherlock loved him and it was all that mattered. Like abdomen or marrow, nothing was wounded that would not heal. He would trust his instincts, and he would trust James, and they would be unstoppable, and they would be happy.