Work Text:
Sherlock held himself very still as a weight settled itself precariously against his shoulder. James had been nodding off for a while now, he had noticed. Ever since Mother had retired, leaving the two of them and Mycroft alone in the train compartment. It was late, but not yet egregiously so.
There had been a consistent pattern to the nodding off. First, his friend’s eyes would blink, but stay closed for longer and longer each time they did. After that his head would begin to droop, swaying slightly atop his neck, as if it was becoming too heavy to hold up. Before he could fall anywhere closer to sleep than that, however, James would jolt himself back into an upright position, before repeating the process all over again.
The man had been caught in that cycle for quite some time, drifting visibly towards sleep and then pulling himself stubbornly away from the edge before it could pull him under completely. The fact that any conversation had petered out some time ago, as well as the mostly-rhythmic motions of the train car likely weren’t helping him to stay awake either. Not to mention how utterly exhausted he seemed to be, although Sherlock would admit that he hadn’t recognized that properly until James had begun this cycle of dozing off and waking. He probably would’ve noticed as much earlier, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with thoughts about his father.
It would seem as though this time around James had finally lost the fight against his own fatigue, seeing as his head was now resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, although not in a very secure fashion. He didn’t dare make a move to disturb the man, even as the trundling motions of the train car threatened to upset the delicate balance of their position. Especially as more of James’ weight continued to settle in along Sherlock’s side, no longer being held back by conscious effort.
In spite of how carefully still he was holding himself, James continued to slump over slowly, incrementally, until an abrupt jolt travelling up through the train’s wheels sent him sliding off of Sherlock’s shoulder entirely. He braced himself for pain, but thankfully none of James’ weight landed on his abdomen, with its stitched up bullet-hole and questionably applied bandages. Instead, James had landed mostly in his lap, with his head resting atop one of Sherlock’s thighs.
He felt his face heat with a furious flush, as he actually took in the new positioning. He was left trying to figure out what to do with his hands, but for now, simply held them hovering uselessly over where James lay sideways across his legs. The man’s lower half was still angled as if he were sitting upright, feet on the floor. It couldn’t have been very comfortable for his back, to have it twisted up in such a manner.
Sherlock cast a glance across the compartment and was unsurprised to find Mycroft’s attention on him, rather than the travel pamphlet he’d been examining previously. Although he wished that his brother wouldn’t have noticed the current change in his circumstances. In all truth, it was terribly improper for James to be laying on him like this, but he didn’t particularly want to wake his friend either.
“About time.” Mycroft whispered, which was not the reaction Sherlock had been expecting.
A quick glance down revealed that James hadn’t stirred at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, quiet as it had been. His eyes were still closed, long lashes fluttering a bit, although there was also a furrow in his brow, and he remained slumped across Sherlock’s lap. He could feel the warmth of James’ breath heating his thigh through the fabric of his trousers, a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to be deepening.
“Certainly took him long enough.” Mycroft added, equally as quietly and equally as perplexing as his previous comment had been.
Sherlock looked up and quirked a brow at him in silent question. Surely his brother didn’t think it was usual for James to have fallen asleep using Sherlock’s legs as a cushion.
“He’s been awake since before you were shot.” Mycroft explained, still keeping his voice low and quiet.
Sherlock frowned, it had been two nights since then, not including tonight. He was missing some time from the haze of the opium he’d been administered during the surgical intervention that had saved his life, but he was reasonably certain that he’d been kept abreast of how much time had actually passed. He had also been made aware of what had happened since then. Although perhaps not every detail.
He remembered being shot while attempting to prevent Shou’an from killing his father in the catacombs beneath Les Folies Bergères. He had awoken the following day in the hospital, after the surgery. He had spent the next day in bed, and the following night still in the hospital as well. Then they had attempted to meet with his father, unsuccessfully, but had at least been able to follow Esad Kasgarli’s man to the telegraph office where they’d learned of Silas’ next expected whereabouts.
That was how they had all found themselves on the train to Constantinople as they were now. But surely James had slept at some point since everything had gone topsy-turvy. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Mycroft beat him to it, his expression was unusually solemn.
“Mother’s been worried about him.” His brother said, still quietly. “I confess that I find myself feeling similarly. She and I each took a turn to rest, while we were keeping vigil for you, but he never did.”
“He must’ve done.” Sherlock argued.
“Does it look to you like he has?” Mycroft countered.
Sherlock considered the question, and everything he had seen from James since he’d first come to in the hospital. Just after he’d woken up, James had returned with Shou’an, or rather Xiao Wei, as they’d since learned she was actually called.
She had explained her own situation and they had ultimately come to an agreement regarding Silas. After that, James had gone with Xiao Wei to locate the two corners, which had then lead them to their semi-successful subterfuge the following day, which had preceded boarding the train they were currently on.
If James hadn’t, in fact, taken advantage of the opportunity to rest upon returning to the hospital the night after he’d been shot, as Mycroft claimed, then it would mean this was the first time James had slept since before Sherlock had been injured. In which case, it was no wonder he’d finally succumbed to his exhaustion, in spite of the impropriety of it.
It wasn’t just the timing that had contributed to James’ fatigue, either. There was no mistaking that James had been through an ordeal of his own during the time between Sherlock having been shot, and now. An ordeal that Sherlock wasn’t privy to.
He hadn’t yet been able to ask James about why he’d returned to the hospital that first time with wet blood staining his fingers, only for it to be quickly washed away. James had been noticeably shaken, too, but had quickly put on a charming smile and had deflected Mother’s verbal concern with teasing. Sherlock regretted that he hadn’t had the presence of mind to question James’ countenance any further in that moment, instead having been distracted by Xiao Wei’s arrival.
Initially, he’d thought the blood might’ve been from his own wound, and had written it off as nothing more than that, since he remembered James trying to staunch it with his hands once his friend had reached him in the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Although after spending more time awake, and after having come down from the haze of the opium he’d been administered, Sherlock knew that was impossible, given the time that had elapsed. If the blood had been his, it wouldn’t have still been wet.
It meant James had gotten the blood on his hand somewhere else along the way. There were still traces of it under his nails now, long dried and lingering on despite his attempts to clean himself up before playing a waiter in L’aigle et l’olive. There had yet to be an appropriate moment of privacy with which to ask James anything about it, and so Sherlock was left with more questions than answers.
“He seemed troubled, when he first came back to the hospital with Xiao Wei.” He remarked.
“Yes.” Mycroft agreed, there was a pinch in his brother’s brow that spoke of concern.
“Do you know what what might’ve happened?” He asked. “He hasn’t said anything to me.”
“Afraid not, Brother Dear.” Mycroft said. “Although it very well could’ve been his worry over you.”
“Nonsense.” He scoffed.
“You didn’t see him when you were asleep.” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” Sherlock pressed.
“He was terrified.” Mycroft explained, matter of factly enough for it be a cutting revelation. “He was pretending otherwise, of course, but it was rather plain to see… He sat at your beside, across from Mother and I, and kept track of your pulse until you woke again.”
Mycroft tapped two fingers to his own inner wrist demonstratively while he spoke, and Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably at the thought of what kind of worry would drive a man to spend an entire night counting another’s heartbeats, like his brother had just described.
“I know Mother and I both encouraged him to rest, but he never did.” Mycroft continued. “You frightened us all rather badly, Sherlock, I’m not quite sure if you realize that yet…”
Mycroft trailed off with another fretful sigh and a shake of his head. Sherlock was still trying to process the nauseating tangle of emotions that had bloomed to life in his gut as a result of his brother’s words. Guilt was certainly one of the more prominent feelings, but there were many others he had yet to identify.
The train jolted sharply once again, as it had done before, and Sherlock found himself steadying James with both hands, before he’d thought about doing it. One landed on his friend’s shoulder, helping to anchor his upper body in place. The other hand landed atop James’ soft, dark curls, and kept his head pillowed securely atop Sherlock’s thigh.
He felt his earlier flush return full-force, but when he dared to meet Mycroft’s gaze again, he found no judgement in his brother’s eyes. It was strange, given how unmistakably improprietous the situation was, but in light of Mycroft’s apparent non-reaction, he allowed himself to give in to the urge to stroke through James’ hair. Especially when the man pressed into his touch, if unconsciously, given that he had remained asleep.
“I don’t want to wake him.” He admitted quietly.
“No, best to let him rest, so long as he’s not making you uncomfortable.” Mycroft nodded.
“He’s my friend.” Sherlock declared. “Of course he’s not making me uncomfortable.”
“I meant in regard to your injury, Brother Dear.” Mycroft said drily.
“Oh.” He said. “Right. Of course…”
Sherlock would’ve been grateful if the ground had opened up and swallowed him whole, just then, if not for the fact that it would be sure to disturb James’ rest in the process. The roiling tangle of emotions inside of him refused to abate, and Mycroft’s scrutiny certainly wasn’t helping.
“Whatever you and Mr. Moriarty may or may not be to each other is no business of mine, Sherlock, so long as you’re both careful.” Mycroft added, with an alarming degree of sincerity, and an even more alarming tone of implication, despite how he was now also studiously avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. “I wouldn’t see you hurt because of something like this. Either of you, for that matter… The world is not kind to those who do not conform to its values. I know you are aware of this, Brother Dear, but there is a different kind of danger involved in atypical relations. Not like anything you are accustomed to navigating on your own.”
“We’re only friends, Mycroft.” He protested, hating how strangled his voice sounded as it escaped him.
That was the truth. He and James were friends. No matter whatever other unspoken impressions he may have noticed directed his way, or else perhaps given in turn. Lingering glances, teasing banter, and even contact that was more intimate than was admittedly standard didn’t make it any less true than it was.
There was no danger to be found in something that wasn’t quantifiable, in something that wasn’t real. The only real, quantifiable thing between he and James, for now, was friendship, and so Mycroft’s concern was both misplaced and unwarranted. Not to mention unwelcome.
“We’re only friends.” Sherlock reiterated, stifling a wince at how sullen he sounded.
“Yes, well, still best to make sure you’re careful about how your friendship is perceived by others.” His brother insisted, nodding at where James remained asleep, head atop his thigh.
“But I don’t want to wake him.” He frowned. “You said it yourself, this is the first time he’s slept in days! I know it’s not exactly proper, but can you truly begrudge him given the circumstances?”
“I didn’t mean in front of me, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, exasperated. “I only meant in general. The point is—”
Anything else his brother had been about to say was cut off by James beginning to stir where he lay, still half-slumped across Sherlock’s lap. He found himself hushing the man gently, speaking soothing nonsense and stroking through his hair in a more deliberate fashion. He also rubbed across his shoulder, and up and down the length of his arm until he settled again.
His friend’s brow had remained furrowed this entire time, evidence of tension and unease. Sherlock wished he knew how to counteract whatever was troubling him. It didn’t seem right for James to be troubled in his sleep, as well as during his waking hours. He didn’t deserve it.
“For goodness’ sake.” Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes as he stood up. “Here.”
Sherlock frowned when his brother reached for James, and prepared himself to try and tell him off quietly, but he quickly realized that Mycroft was only reaching for James’ legs. He lifted them slowly, and carefully, as Sherlock continued to card through James’ curls and murmur little nonsense-things in an effort to keep him from stirring.
His brother, meanwhile, arranged James’ legs so that they were laying on the seat, putting the man in a more proper horizontal recline compared to his previously twisted posture. It was sure to be much kinder on his spine, and between Mycroft’s cautious approach and his own attempts at soothing him, the repositioning was accomplished without waking James in the process.
“I think I might check in on Mother and then get some sleep.” Mycroft said softly. “Are you sure you’re not uncomfortable?”
“No. I’m perfectly fine.” He said, now that he knew exactly what his brother meant by uncomfortable. “I’m not in any pain right now, and I don’t feel all that tired. I think I’ll stay up for a while, let James sleep.”
“I figured as much.” Mycroft agreed, although Sherlock couldn’t quite read his tone. “Do try to get some rest yourself, though, will you, Brother Dear?”
“I am resting, Brother Dear.” He argued. “Just not sleeping.”
“Hm.” Mycroft huffed, before stepping out of the compartment and sliding the door shut quietly behind himself.
Sherlock loosed a long, slow breath in the wake of his brother’s departure, although he was careful not to jostle James as he did. For a while he just sat there, stroking through the man’s hair as he slept with his head in his lap. James’ curls made for a pleasant texture beneath his fingers, and there was something undeniably calming about the sensation of running his hand through them. It was just as well that James seemed to be calmed by it as well, although he might be cross to discover how disordered his hair had become.
Sherlock continued stroking through it in spite of this, deciding that James couldn’t be too bothered with him, considering that the touch was helping him to stay asleep. With his other hand, he lifted his friend’s arm from where it had been hanging, since it didn’t look to be at a particularly comfortable angle. Once he had managed to rearrange the limb, without waking the man to whom it belonged, he took a moment to examine the mysterious bloodstains still lingering under his fingernails.
There wasn’t much left, only a faint, rust-coloured crescent wedged at the joining of each finger and nail. Blood could be a stubborn thing, and considering that James hadn’t taken the time to sleep in the last few days, it was unsurprising that he hadn’t yet accomplished a comprehensive enough cleaning to remove the last vestiges of the stuff from under his nails.
No matter what Mycroft had said earlier about how James’ worry might have been borne from concern for him alone, Sherlock was confident that the source of the blood must also have something to do with how troubled James was. He intended to find out for certain, but would have to wait until he had an opportunity to ask James in order to ascertain the truth. That would require privacy, which they did currently have, but it would also necessitate that both of them were adequately rested for a potentially tenuous line of questioning, which was currently not the case.
With that in mind, he allowed himself to relax into the soothing sensation of petting through James’ curls. He also found himself curling the fingers of his other hand around James’ wrist, where he had rearranged his arm. He could feel the man’s pulse, if he pressed in slightly, and was glad to find it strong and steady.
For a moment, he tried to imagine what it would be like if their places had been exchanged, if James had been the one injured and Sherlock left to worry over his health. That was a very different kind of worry than what he currently felt in James’ regard. To have to rely on the work of a foreign doctor in the midst of a revolution, and to be left with only a pulse as a means with which to monitor the situation.
As it happened, Sherlock didn’t envy James, and although he would’ve been glad to have not been shot, he also didn’t think he would’ve managed very well if he had been left to worry over James, as James had been left to worry over him. In pondering that hypothetical, he also resolved to try and be more tolerant of Mother’s and Mycroft’s fussing, even if only a little bit.
None of that mattered now, though. For now, all that mattered was the feeling of James’ soft, dark hair beneath his fingers, and the slow, even rhythm of his breathing where it could be felt against his thigh. For now, he was alright, and James was alright, if exhausted. They were on the way to Constantinople, and until they actually arrived there, there was nothing to do but rest.
To that end, Sherlock closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the seat behind him. He knew sleep would evade him for a long while yet, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t actually get some rest of his own. Especially not when James was still asleep in his lap, although the man hadn’t necessarily done it of his own volition. Either way, Sherlock decided to just let things be, at least for now.