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"That's another thing I—hey, are you listening?"
James pushed himself up from the bed, onto his elbows, peering over at the armchair where Sherlock was lounging. He'd given up his own bed so that his friend could splay out comfortably, opting to settle himself in an odd position. Not that that was entirely uncommon for him.
A comfortable silence had filled the space around them, filled only by the ebb and flow of conversation. Cordelia was asleep somewhere on the other side of the manor, which left them to their own devices. And, true to his pickpocket ways, Sherlock had managed to nab a decanter filled with something that James assumed was whiskey. From where, he wasn't sure. But he wasn't complaining in the slightest.
In the hours since this night had begun, the scout's posture had slowly, but visibly, relaxed. His sharp edges softened into something that more resembled a usual boy of their age. James had never seen him this way before, but it was something he thought he could get used to.
"Of course," Sherlock declared, eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. He was swirling it, lazily tipping his fingers side to side. James had half a mind to worry that he would end up spilling it. But there wasn't much of it left in his glass to spill, anyway
He knew Sherlock hadn't, in fact, been listening. Mostly because he'd already let three questions go unanswered, and the latest of the three was: "Would you object if I asked your mother to dinner?"
But he didn't push the matter. He knew better than to try to hold a halfway sensible conversation after one of them had crossed the line from tipsy into drunk. Sherlock was, most commonly, the first to go. But James knew he wasn't far off. His own glass had been drained and refilled enough times that he was beginning to lose count. Beginning not to care that he'd lost count.
"Hey now, I think that's your last one," James commented loosely as he raised his glass in indication. "You're far gone, my friend."
Sherlock grumbled in protest, fumbling for the glass decanter on the side table between them. Whether he aimed to simply pour himself another, or snatch the bottle for himself, was unclear. However, unfortunately for him, James was slightly less drunk, and therefore a great deal faster. In one fell swoop, he stretched out to his full length, rescued the decanter, and swiped Sherlock's glass from between his fingers.
"Not much of a thief, when you're bladdered, eh?" He chuckled to himself, setting the two glasses and decanter down on a shelf beside him, for safekeeping. Sherlock could, theoretically, still reach it, but James doubted he could manage to stand up without stumbling. Much less put up the fight that it would take to get past him.
"You underestimate my alcohol tolerance," Sherlock muttered. A deep crease formed between his brows, giving him the impression of being deep in thought.
James knew better, though. He knew Sherlock like he knew himself. And he knew that the man was currently incapable of any profound thought. Therefore, he knew that the brunt of his thinking was simple. An attempt at staying awake, at staying coherent for long enough to satisfy James's deep-seated need for companionship on long nights such as these.
"You overestimate your alcohol tolerance," James's voice came off too fond to be directed toward a boy he'd barely just met. He wasn't sure when they'd crossed the line, from two boys who attended the same school to two men who were so close that their names came as an association. Always Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Never separate. Never individual.
It was the closest he'd ever gotten to a best friend. The closest he'd ever gotten to anything more. The same could be said for both of them, if his conversations with Mycroft and Cordelia were any indication. Never before had he known someone like he knew Sherlock, like he was just an extension of himself. Two bullets in the same gun—or however it was the metaphor went.
When James looked up again, a smile twitched up at the corner of his lips. Sherlock was barely hanging on now, eyes heavy-lidded with alcohol-induced stupor. His cheek was pillowed against his palm, but it was sliding off inch by inch. A few moments longer, and the man would find himself on the floor, propelled forward by his own body weight. It would have been extremely entertaining to watch, but he wasn't entirely a terrible friend.
"Aaand, up you go," James sighed affectionately, sliding out of bed and to his feet. With the expert ease of someone who spent his fair share of time tipsy, he held onto the bedframe, allowing his body to acclimate to the feeling of standing on his own two feet.
Once the world stopped spinning on its axis, he crossed to the armchair and hefted Sherlock up with hands pressed under his armpits. The man was a dead weight, and doing nothing to aid in the cause, but James was a relatively strong man. Not quite "dragging his drunken friend around" strong, but strong enough not to make mention of it.
It took much longer than it should have to wrangle Sherlock into bed. But the journey never mattered so much as the end. Once he was happy with the dozing man's placement, James made work of untying his shoes, slipping them to the ground one after the other.
Left shoe, right shoe, placed neatly underneath the bed, where they would avoid being tripped over in the morning. Because that was the last thing either of them needed to wake up to.
"Hey, James?" Sherlock mumbled. He was unfiltered now, his tongue looser than James had ever heard before.
"Don't say anything you'll regret in the morning, mate," he advised sagely, patting his palm against Sherlock's chest. For he, himself, had been a victim of saying things he didn't mean in the deceptive safe space that was being sloshed.
For a brief moment, it seemed his friend had taken the words to heart. He went quiet, falling back into himself. A thin frown passed across his lips, his brows furrowed ever so slightly. But, of course, silence couldn't stand with him. "I don't ever say anything I regret," he corrected. "I only have a question."
Against his better judgment, James settled himself precariously against the edge of the bed, tipping his head downward toward the resting man. A listening position, to show he was interested in what his friend had to say. He huffed a laugh, "Go on."
"Have you ever been in love?" Sherlock asked, his eyes fluttering closed in contemplation. "Flirting doesn't count. I mean, truly, deeply. Like they speak of in poetry."
And, for some unknown reason, James's heart rate doubled over at the question. He couldn't delude himself into thinking it was simply because the question was so unexpected. It was unexpected—that wasn't brought into question. But it was just of such an emotional, relational nature that he'd never heard from Sherlock before.
To his knowledge, his best friend didn't involve himself in matters of the heart. The closest he ever got was chiding James for his unrelenting flirtatious tendencies. But he never paid much mind to it. If he was honest, he never considered the idea that Sherlock was even capable of something such. The man was always so controlled; even on the off chance James directed his flirting toward him, he made no obvious indication he ever noticed.
And now, here he was, asking if James had ever been in love?
Perhaps the question startled him because he wasn't sure how to answer. His heart knew what it wanted to say, the same sort of proclamation that he'd warned Sherlock about before. But his brain, the small bit of it that still desperately clung onto rightmindedness, knew better.
"I can't say for sure," he said instead, with a one-shouldered shrug that emphasized just how unsure he was. Without making a deal of it, he settled into bed next to Sherlock, shoulder to shoulder. He could feel his body heat, radiating into his own. He'd never felt so warm. "Why? Have you?"
It was a cruel thing, fueled by curiosity and the newly abandoned need for privacy. He shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have planted the question in Sherlock's mind. But he couldn't help himself. His inhibitions were rapidly lowering. And though the alcohol wasn't entirely the cause, he blamed it all the same.
All at once, Sherlock's frown was replaced by a smile. The sort of crooked, dopey smile that only belonged on the face of a man who was far, far away from his own mind. James had never wished more for a photograph.
"I believe so." He answered, rolling onto his side to face James. The unsaid context was clear in those eyes, spoken louder than words could ever manage.
Still, he couldn't resist the temptation. "Yeah? Who was it? Old, dead philosopher?"
James had kissed many women, far too many to keep track of without a physical list. (Which, for the record, he would never stoop so low as to make.) But it had never been like this before.
Every time, with every woman he encountered, he felt as though there was something fundamentally missing. Always fleeting, single-night affairs, never truly something deeper. Nothing more than a way to spend an otherwise boring evening. He was a skirt-chaser (as they said), and he had always been quite content with the fact. It was what he was known for. Both parties were always well aware of the fact. And he'd never wanted anything more than that.
Now? He felt as though he could stay here, just in this moment, for the rest of his life. If he died now, struck down as a repayment for every wrongdoing he'd ever committed, he would feel satisfied, knowing this was how he spent his last moment.
Sherlock's lips were soft against his own, softer than they looked. Because, as much as he wanted to deny it to himself, he'd thought about this before. Countless, countless times. It was the sort of late-night torture that one endured, something just out of reach enough to be unbearable to think about.
But the more he thought about it, the more he saw in hindsight. Sherlock's eyes lingered on him for too long as they changed into various disguises. The way he entered his space seamlessly, like he already knew that was where he belonged. The way he seemed to only tolerate his company, with rare excuse for anyone else.
And now, here he was.
James didn't need to question the fact that they were both tipsy. It had taken a bit of liquid confidence to bring to the forefront, but the feelings had always been there. They'd just been too caught up in the adventures that came along with their lives to notice. All it took was a bit of time alone to reveal what had been there all along.
Gently, Sherlock eased back, and despite how much it pained James to do so, he let him. And it was worth it; it was so worth it. Because the words were almost lost beneath the sounds of their combined breaths. He felt words against his lips, more than he heard them.
"You," he said, "love… uh, I?"
And James just had to laugh, a loud, boisterous sound for so late into the night. It was lucky for Cordelia that her quarters were removed from Sherlock's, or she surely would have been woken by the sound. He pressed his forehead into Sherlock's own, holding him there for a tender moment. Right words, wrong order. A fumble that he would never, ever, let him live down.
He'd make a point to tease him about it in the morning, if he managed to remember.
"For sure?" James clarified, slipping his palm up to cup the back of Sherlock's head.
"Sure," Sherlock answered, unflinchingly, and pulled him in once more.