Summary: James Moriarty x fe!Reader -> When James gets shot, you're there to patch him up. But, during his recovery, you both start to realise maybe you could be friends after all.
Disclaimer: mentions of wounds, reader takes care of James, anxiety over love, forced proximity, yearning in a bathroom, enemies to lovers, domestic fluff towards the end, swearing.
“You’ve gotta be fucking joking.”
For the last four days, you’d been practically confined to the uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner of the room, waiting (and secretly praying) for James to wake up.
But the minute you heard his voice, a small part of you wished he was still sleeping.
“Hello to you, too.”
James looked around himself, trying to figure out where he was and how he’d gotten there. But, as you watched him try to figure it out, the pain in his side reminded him of the moments just before he passed out.
“What happened?”
Laying down the embroidery hoop, you looked at him, mostly fed up. “I would have thought you’d have remembered?”
He glared at you. “I remember being shot and getting to a hospital. What happened after I passed out?”
You sighed, watching as he tried to sit up. So, placing the hoop on the table, you stood and walked over to help him.
“They needed the extra beds and since you were no longer on death’s door, and you’d have access to some pretty good medical care elsewhere, they let us bring you home.”
“What are you doing?” James asked, quickly, with a confused and slightly frightened look on his face.
“If you turn yourself any more, you’re going to rip open your stitches. And I’ve already sewn them back up twice. Did you know you wriggle a lot in your sleep?”
Mostly due to the shock, James stayed still long enough to let you fix his pillows and gently guide him into a comfortable sitting position.
“I have so many questions,” he admitted, still looking at you.
“I’m sure Sherlock can fill you in on most of the information.”
“Where is he, by the way? I thought that wee bastard might have been here when I woke up. I did take a bullet for him, afterall.”
You chuckled, knowing James didn’t really mean his harsh words against Sherlock. “My, my. For a man who’s just been told he’s alive, you certainly do have a rather gloomy disposition.”
“That’s another thing,” James said. “Why are you here?”
“Somebody had to make sure you didn’t die.”
“I would have thought you’d have smothered me in my sleep.”
“Believe me,” you told him. “I did think about it once or twice.”
“Once or twice?” He asked, watching you walk away.
You turned around to look at him. “Okay, maybe three or four times.”
You knew he would never admit to it, but even you had to admit that you’d caught the small smile on his face as he looked at you.
For a moment, the room fell silent. But, it was swiftly broken by James’ next question.
“You stitched me up?”
You nodded. “I did. Twice.”
“I’m assuming you’re not the medical professional that signed off on my home release,” James said. “And knowing Sherlock, he would have called for the local doctor. So would you.”
“Is there a question in there somewhere?”
James nodded. “Why? Why patch me up?”
You shrugged, mentally debating on whether to tell him the full truth.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. I can see it on your face. Why did you patch me up?”
With a slight smile, you sighed and placed a hand on your hip. “Because I…because I didn’t think the last nurse who sowed you up did a very good job. I don’t blame her, obviously. A hospital is a busy place and she was in a rush and she probably got distracted with…you.”
Feeling yourself blush, you cleared your throat and looked to your feet in fear of James noticing what you were hiding.
“But, if it wasn’t for those reasons then I don’t exactly trust a doctor who hasn’t been a surgeon for many years. So…I did it myself.”
“But they came undone.”
You looked at James, quickly, offended. “Like I said; you wriggle in your sleep. And besides, I don’t exactly hear a thank you.”
James took a breath and laid a hand over his heart. It was rare you got a sincere word from James, directed at you. But this one was.
Even if you were being made acutely aware of the fact he saw your slight embarrassment about being distracted by him.
“Thank you.”
You nodded. “Well…you’re welcome.”
A few more moments of silence passed over the room so you moved back to freshen up the bowl of water, as well as change out the old clothes for some new ones.
“Out of curiosity,” James said. “How long have you been watching me sleep, exactly?”
“I haven’t been watching you sleep.”
“Based on that terrible embroidery work, I’d have guessed otherwise.”
Looking at the hoop on the table behind you, you sighed, looked at James and then looked back to the task at hand. “I was never any good, even as a child.”
“Clearly practice makes perfect doesn’t apply in this situation.”
“Anyone ever tell you, you have an excellent bedside manner?” You asked, forcing a smile.
“Oh, all the time. So?”
“So…what?”
“How long?”
“Four days,” you told him. “Sherlock stayed with you at the hospital whilst I came here to get everything prepared. By the time I got back into London, you were being discharged so I took over whilst Sherlock went to find his brother.”
“And why did he go to find his brother?”
“Because he believes he knows who shot you. Rather, who was trying to shoot him but shot you instead.”
“And that is?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. He was in a daze when I saw him last and neither he or his brother has been in touch since. I’ve sent word but I’m yet to have a reply.”
“Should we be worried?”
You shook your head. “Not yet. I’m expecting he’ll turn up, if not tomorrow morning, tomorrow night.”
“And how do you know that, exactly?”
“Just a feeling.”
“Just a feeling?”
You nodded, pretty sure. “Yep.”
“I wasn’t aware we had a fortune teller in our midst.”
“Poke and prod all you like, James. But when you know Sherlock as long as I have, you get used to these things. It’s almost like an internal alarm. I’ll know when to worry. And right now, neither of us have to.”
James nodded, slowly. And then you heard a grunt.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
James swung his legs over the edge of the bed and was readying himself to stand. “If I’ve been laying down for four days, I need to move my legs. I’ll get restless if I don’t.”
Rushing to his side, you took his arm and helped him up. “You’re already restless. I’m pretty sure it’s in your nature.”
“Explains why I move in my sleep.”
You just hummed in agreement. “How do you feel?”
“Like a bird in a gentle breeze.” James said, his voice light. “How do you think I feel? I was shot.”
“You’re the one being sarcastic, not me.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“If you can walk well enough, I can have Mrs Crowle draw you a shallow bath.” Placing your hand on his front, you lifted his shirt a little and took a look at his wound.
It wasn’t infected; rather, it was healing nicely.
Standing in front of the mirror, you lifted his shirt high enough to let him see for himself.
“It’s gonna leave a nasty scar, so.”
You nodded, a slight grimace as you lowered his shirt. “The bullet was still inside. With the amount of blood pouring out of you, they couldn’t find it so they had to guess as best as they could.”
“Just as well,” James sighed. “That shooter was a lousy shot to begin with. Before he got a clear sight of Sherlock, he’d hit several wooden barrels.”
“Think you can walk on your own?”
James nodded. “I think I can manage.”
“Good. I’ll go and ask Mrs Crowle to draw a bath. Don’t go anywhere.”
James chuckled. “I’ll start training for my run back to London, then.”
“Very funny.”
By the time the bath was ready, you waited outside the door for James to be finished just in case something went wrong with his wound or he…passed out or something.
Which was probably a good thing, because as James was finished, he called out for you.
“You’re not dead, are you?”
“Would I be shouting your name if I was dead?”
“You did say you’d haunt me.”
“Just…get in here, please.”
Looking around before opening the door, you entered the room and closed the door behind you quietly. No doubt Mrs Crowle would probably faint at seeing you alone in a room with a man who was, for lack of a better statement; as naked as the day he was born.
Entering, you took in the sight of James Moriarty, sitting on the edge of the bath. His back was turned to you, his shoulders broad but hunched in pain.
Your brain took a mental image before what came next changed the entire atmosphere of the room.
“Jesus Christ,” you swore, seeing the blood running down James’ bare front and onto the towel he’d pulled across his thighs in order to cover himself.
Reaching for a clean flannel that lay on the dresser, you came to his side and pressed it against the wound. He hissed.
“Sorry,” you apologised, your voice soft as you leaned towards him.
You took a seat next to him on the lip of the bath, examining what had happened.
“The bath helped, but I think I moved too quickly.”
You nodded. “It’s alright. We just need to keep a little pressure on it.”
He hissed again as you pressed the flannel back onto his wound.
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
As silence swept over the room, it was becoming harder to ignore the fact that James was still – save for the towel covering him – naked. And you were, for all intents and purposes, an unmarried woman.
“Thank you for helping me.”
“You don’t need to thank me, James.”
“Why not? It’s not like you’re my actual doctor. Or…I wouldn’t have considered us friends before today, would you?”
You shrugged. “I suppose you have a point.”
“That’s not to say I wouldn’t thank them, too. My mother raised me to have manners.”
You gave a fake but playful gasp. “She did? Jesus, I’d have never guessed.”
“Hey, you can give as good as you get.”
You chuckled, looking away from his gaze and back to his wound. Maybe trying to remember the reason why he’d called you inside would make the whole ‘looking into each other's eyes as you talk’ thing less intimate.
“So just…thank you.”
“Well,” you said, your voice quiet and soft. “You’re welcome.”
Looking at the wound didn’t make the situation feel any less intimate.
Just as your brain started to grasp the concept of ignorance about the current situation you found yourself in; James found your eyeline.
And what followed felt like a lifetime and a few lousy seconds rolled into one; the air became heavy, you felt your chest tighten and your breathing hitching in your chest as your eyes flicked from the colour of his own, to the colour of his lips.
Then his hand touched your own.
Softly, his fingers worked up your wrist and across the back of your hand that held the drying and slightly bloody cloth against him.
For a moment, you felt him lean in.
Or maybe that was you?
Both of you?
Only to have a steady knock on the door become either; your saving grace, or your biggest nuisance – you were unable to tell which.
“James, son! Everything alright in there?!”
Yourself and James sat back from one another quickly. “Uh-” James’ voice broke. “Every-everything’s fine, Mr Crowle. Perfectly fine, thank you!”
“Ah, good lad! Wound isn’t doing any harm is it?”
James looked at you and, secretly reluctant to break eye contact, you both looked down at where your hands met.
“No, no!” James called back. “Practically…fit as a fiddle! Is-is everything okay with you?!”
Behind the door, Mr Crowle nodded. “Oh, yes, yes. It’s just that, well you see, Mr Holmes just sent a telegram. He’s a little caught up in London but has asked you to keep your eye on Miss Y/l/n. He predicts she’s probably ignoring her – oh, what does that say? Oh, her stress…stressor signals!”
James looked at you, at first soft and vulnerable – he didn’t need to be told to keep an eye on you. He didn’t want to take his eyes off you. And then he looked at you knowingly.
Even if you two hadn’t exactly been considered friends, he still saw you. He saw the way you ignored stress; practically barrelled through it and carried the weight of the pain as if it was second nature.
Sometimes he thought you might be like a feral cat, or a wounded horse – or some kind of animal that has been hurt so bad it sees even a helping hand as an attack, so it has no other defence than to attack back.
“I think his point is just to look out for her.”
James swallowed. “I’ll be sure to do that! Have-have you seen Y/n?”
You furrowed your brows quickly as if to say, “What the fuck are you doing?”, but James just held up a patient hand.
“Oh, uh, well, she wasn’t in the hall so I can only guess she’s down by the lake. My wife says she sees her there sometimes.”
“Okay, well, thank you, Mr Crowle.”
“You’re welcome, lad.”
Both yourself and James didn’t move a muscle until Mr Crowle’s footsteps echoed away and down the hall.
“The lake?” He asked you.
You tried to avoid his eyeline. “I go there sometimes.”
“To do what?”
Looking back at his wound, you moved the cloth away. “It’s stopped bleeding. I’ll let you get dressed and-”
James reached out for your hand as you walked away. “To do what?”
Taking in a breath, you let out a sigh. “To..think.”
“Is that where you’ll go now? To think about this?”
You swallowed, hard. “I’ll see you at dinner. Mrs Crowle is making beef stew.”
Quickly leaving before James could ask you anything more, you closed the door behind you and raised a hand to your cheek. You were burning.
Gathering yourself together, you brushed a hand down your skirt before heading down the hallway and around the corner.
By the time you showed up for dinner, Mrs Crowle was plating everything up when she called you in to help James with the bandage around his middle.
“It keeps popping out under his shirt. Can you please help him?”
You made eye contact with James, but said nothing as you slowly approached him. Where he’d usually make a comment, or you would; neither of you spoke above a quiet decibel.
“Lift your shirt?”
He did so, not taking his eyes from your face once. Stripping off the bandage, you pulled it around his back, across his front and so on and so forth until it was tight enough.
“Too tight?”
James shook his head. “No.”
“There,” you said, finishing. “Just tell me if you need any help.”
“I will.”
You made the mistake of locking eyes with him because, in an instant, the memory of the bathtub came back.
“Dinner is served.”
Moving away from one another, yourself and James sat across from one another without another word. Meanwhile, Mrs Crowle shared a look with her husband who just seemed confused but accepting of whatever his wife was trying to tell him.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Turning around, you found James standing at the top of the embankment as you kept your feet in the water.
“I came here for some peace and quiet.”
James carefully made his way down to you. You and a very conscious James had been staying in Sherlock’s home, together, without buffers, for almost a week. And every time you seemed to catch yourself in a room together, it felt like the Bathroom Incident all over again.
Only dialed up.
“Oh, there’s plenty of peace and quiet in that house. You came here to get away from me.”
“And yet, you still get closer.”
“I do.” James was standing barely three paces from you. “It is pretty peaceful, I have to say.”
“It’s even more peaceful when you’re not here to talk over the birds.”
“The birds will still be singing their songs tomorrow,” James told you. “For today, they might choose to listen to us.”
“Us? There is no us?”
“Us. A pronoun used to describe the speaker and one or more other persons. Well, the speaker – that’s me, right now. And you’re here, too. So, us.”
“Glad to see you did learn something at Oxford other than Shakespeare quotes,” you mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.
Which he did, since you heard his chuckle.
“Yes, I suppose the know-it-alls at Oxford do know a thing or two, after all.”
“Why are you here, James? Other than to disrupt my peace?”
“Like I said,” James said, lifting his trousers a little in order to sit down beside you. “To talk.”
“About what?”
“Ohh, I think you know.”
“Really? Haven’t the foggiest,” you answered, quickly, keeping your eyes on the moving water.
You could feel his eyes on the side of your face, waiting for you to break and turn to look at him. But he could also see your determination. To both not look at him, and also try your best to annoy him.
“Why don’t I start, then, hmm?” James braced his arms against his knees as he looked out to the other side of the water. “The bath. Before Mr Crowle knocked on the door. The study, before you practically threw your poetry book at me.”
“I didn’t throw it.”
“I’ve seen people pass hot potatoes slower.”
You grumbled, but he continued.
“The kitchen, before you made an excuse about forgetting to feed the horses. And…just this morning. Before Mrs Crowle knocked on the door with some fresh tea.”
You swallowed but still didn’t look at him.
“Something is changing, Y/n. And I know you’re not blind to it. And neither am I.”
He waited, and still, you didn’t say anything.
“Jesus, if I’d have known feelings would have gotten you to be quiet, I would have developed them a lot sooner. Say something. Please.”
Finally, you looked at him. “What do you want me to say, James? Seriously? Because I have a lot and none of it makes any sense! You and I! We hated each other! We spent more hours in the day than most trying to either avoid one another, or push the other one to their wits end. The only thing we had in common was Sherlock. The only thing. And yes, you got shot. And yes, I was worried. And yes, maybe there is a small part of me that didn’t want to lose you because I’d rather-” You gritted your teeth a little. “Fight with you then talk to some pompous git that doesn’t even know the concept of the written word but will still try and explain what a book is to me.”
You took a breath.
“James. We had practically nothing in common. And we still don’t. Other than being confined to the same house for the last week and me taking care of you whilst you were unconscious…forgive me, but I don’t exactly see the logic in all of this.”
James shrugged. “I suppose you have a point. Mind if I make a counter point?”
You let out a breath. “Would it stop you?”
“No, probably not.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Whilst you make some excellent points; yes, we didn’t exactly get along. And yes, you’ve taken care of me whilst we’ve been here, together, alone. But, let me ask you this – because I already know my answers. Did you trust me? Before now, before this last week, did you trust me?”
You calmed yourself a little. “Yes.”
“I trusted you, too. And I still do.”
“I still trust you, too,” you nodded.
“Okay. Well, I understand that you think we have nothing in common but; you like to read?”
“Yes.”
“I do, too. Nobody ever has to read the same things in order to get along in life. But, considering you understood who and what I was quoting, I’d say we have at least a little crossover somewhere along the line.”
James continued.
“My point is…maybe blatant logic doesn’t need to be the thing either of us rely on at this point. I don’t have to see the change to know my feelings have changed towards you, Y/n.”
“How do you not know this isn’t just some…soldier falls in love with a nurse…thing?”
“Well, considering both our bedside manners when I woke up…I’d say we’re safe from that territory.”
“Are we?”
“What are you so scared of?”
“What?”
James barely reacted. “What is it that makes you so afraid to tell me the truth? You didn’t have a problem before now. What are you so scared of?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m not scared,” you grounded out.
Rather than walk away, James simply sat back with a content smile on his face. “Fine. Don’t tell me. We can sit here and soak in the sun, and not say a word to one another.”
This time, it was your turn to watch him.
Although, you were a little more defiant and turned with him, looking out across the water to the other side of the bank.
But the longer the silence stretched, the louder it became.
“You really are an arse, you know that.”
James clicked his tongue. “I believe you’ve told me once or twice before.”
Sighing, you felt yourself giving in. Fuck.
“I can’t tell you why I’m scared because…because I’m not sure I know myself. All I do know is…that I don’t work well with feelings. Or people, most of the time.”
“We’ve worked well, so far.”
“Because we haven’t liked each other, James. There was a mutual understanding and it was working just fine.” You told him. “But with feelings come…expectations. Expectations to soften or to…change. And I don’t think I can. And please. Please do not tell me you think you can change that, or that it will change. Because it’s more than just an insecurity.”
Taking a breath, you tried to find the words to best describe what you meant.
“I don’t think I’m capable of being soft. Maybe I was, once. And maybe, one day, I will be again. But I doubt it will be through something like this. I was on my own for a long time before you and Sherlock found me. Independence, barriers, survival instincts – they don’t just disappear, James.”
James nodded. “I know. More than you’d think.”
Neither you or James ever spoke of your histories – with anyone. Sherlock could only guess as to how James had found himself with a scholarship to Oxford. But other than that, he knew nothing of his friend’s past.
He’d asked. But it was rare for James to honestly answer.
And the same went for you.
“And I wouldn’t ask, or even expect you to give up those parts of yourself. I’m asking, and only if you’re willing, to…take a step with me. We’ll take it slow and figure out what exactly it is that has changed?”
“You’ll get bored.”
“You’ve managed to keep me on my toes, so far.” James nudged your shoulder a little. “And, besides,” he stretched his legs back out. “If we can both sit through Sherlock’s three hour lecture about the difference between fertilizer and soil, I think we’ll both be grand.”
It took a while. A long time, really.
But James was the one who turned out to be right.
Despite the fear, insecurities and worries about the change and what it all meant; yourself and James worked out well, in the end.
For most of your life, you’d found the only times you could truly work through something without thinking about it, was when it was in an extreme. Someone was shot, or hurt, or bleeding; you could deal with it, and solve every other minor problem with it.
But left to your own devices, with nothing but time to think, the fear nearly drowned you.
Until James did more than just toss you a rope; he held out his hand.
And you trusted him enough to take it.
Sure, you both pressed each other's buttons from time to time – but it was never in malice. And, sometimes, it even came in handy.
“The brown is gonna make it look too dark.”
“Oh, the brown is too dark, but the orange is an acceptable colour?”
James sighed. “It was just a suggestion. Besides, what’s better; orange or yellow fever?”
In front of you, the witness who thought it was better to run than stop and answer two simple questions, was still kneeling on the ground. “What are you going to do to me?”
Both yourself and James looked at him confused. “Nothing? Why are you kneeling?”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
You looked from the witness, to James and back to the witness. “I’m more likely to kill him if he paints our living room orange.”
James sighed. “It was just a suggestion!”
“So you’re not gonna kill me?”
“No!”
“Oh, thank god.”
“But we do want you to answer a couple of questions.”
“A muted blue or green is what I’ve found best to be. Especially if the room is south facing.”
Both you and James looked at each other. Then shrugged. “He has a point.”
“We’ll think about it, thank you. But those aren’t the questions we’re talking about.”
“Oh.”
After answering your questions, sending both yourself and James on the hunt once more to track down somebody else, it wasn’t long before you were back home.
“Please tell me you’ve decided on a colour?”
James chuckled, “Oh, no, no, no. That decision I am leaving to you.”
You groaned. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
With a slight sigh, you turned a little to look at him. “No, I don’t.”
For a brief moment, James’ lips met with yours.
“But I do hate having to pick colours.”
James sighed with you as you both dropped deeper into the sofa. “Do you think Mrs Holmes might be up for helping?”
You thought about it for a moment. “Maybe. We could always ask.”
James nodded. “Then it’s sorted. We’ll ask her tomorrow.”
“What if she says no?”
“I doubt she will.”
“But she could?”
James gave you a coy smile. “Who could say ‘no’ to me?”
You rolled your eyes a little, laying back down with him on the sofa. “You know, sometimes you’re too smug for your own good, James Moriarty.”
“But you love me anyway?”
You sighed, snuggling closer to him. “Yes. That I do.”
Warnings: no use of y/n yearning, crying, bad relationship with father, let me know if I missed any.
Word Count: 1.5k
a/n: (at the end)
(Series masterlist)
James Moriarty's love is something one expects to be explosive. Yet it is anything but. It is subtle and overwhelming but also absurdly intoxicating. It is something you only truly notice when it gets quiet. Because to have his love be known was something that truly terrified James. Nothing good ever came from having your secrets laid out for everyone to see.
And James feels it happen; The switch in his behaviors, the drift of his attention, the second you walked into a room. And of course, because his love is so unsuspecting, it's only fitting that it makes itself known at such a vulnerable moment.
You’ve been irritable all day. That’s how James knew something was going on. Sherlock had made a joke, and you didn’t laugh. That was odd. James made a snide remark, wanting simply to make you smile. But instead, you blow up in his face and storm off to your dormitory.
James hasn’t known you long, but thus far he has never seen you so aggravated for seemingly no observable reason. Of course, you had called him a cock sucker before, but it had been with an eye roll or a smile you attempted to hide, but he still saw. Never had you been so serious or cruel with your intentions when you said it before. If it weren’t for the way you stormed off after you’d said it, James would have taken earnest offense. But as you ran, he thought he saw tears welling up in your eyes, and instantly all hostilities were dropped before they began. Sherlock hadn’t noticed, too busy giving all his attention to some inconsistencies he found in what Mycroft had told him earlier.
James is quick to follow after you, leaving Sherlock with some made-up excuse he'd be too preoccupied to question. He follows after you through halls and down corridors, calling out your name. You just keep on until you finally make it to your room, where you shut the door in James' face.
With a huff, he calls your name through the door. "Come on. I did not mean what I said. You know I didn't mean it." James his head against your door, catching his breath.
"Please just go, James." His breath catches as you speak.
"Not until this is settled," James says definitively, trying the doorknob. It's locked.
"I forgive you. There it is settled." You utter through the wood. But James can hear the sniffle you let out, so he presses on.
"If you forgive me, why is it that you still sound upset?" He tries, leaning into the door as if that will somehow get him closer to you. "Was it really me? Or did someone else do something?"
"James—"
"Because, as you know, I am not above getting my hands dirty."
"James, stop." You announce, cutting through his words. There is a stillness where neither of you speak; all that can be heard is shuffling from your side of the door. The sound of a key sliding into a keyhole pulls James to step away from the door.
The door is pulled open tentatively. When you finally come into view, you look somewhat disheveled. It pulls at James' heartstrings uncomfortably. Your eyes are red and puffy. Clearly, you've been crying more than he initially saw. James' nonchalant persona cracks just slightly under the weight of the sight.
"It has nothing to do with you." Your voice quietly. Like every syllable claws at your throat as it comes out.
"Then what is it?" James dips his head down to meet your gaze. You shift your weight from foot to foot in hesitant contemplation. James holds his gaze steady.
Reluctantly, you step aside to let James in. He steps through the threshold of your room and gazes around. Lying across your desk, which sits near the door, he sees letters scattering the surface. Some are unfinished letters, a couple are crumpled up, but in the center of your desk is a letter clearly not in your distinct penmanship. On this letter are creased wrinkles left in shapes only tears could make.
"Tell me what’s wrong." James tears his eyes away before you notice. He faces you now, concealing his anguish behind furrowed brows of curiosity.
It takes you a minute to gather the courage to tell the truth. You trust James, but you also know that behind his facade of charm and quips, he holds so much weight. He doesn't need yours. But his stance is unwavering. He holds his ground as he waits for you, ever the gentleman.
“It’s my father.” You divulge. You say it as though if you say it too loudly, your father himself will hear you from across the Atlantic.
"Ah," James voices solemnly. That must be what the letters have been about. He takes a moment to mull over his words.
“You’ve never mentioned him before,” James decides. No connotations as to not upset you more. He is not sure of your own opinions on him yet.
“I don’t like even thinking about him.” You let out a self deprecating noise that leaves James with a familiar understanding and distaste. One thing he feels often when thinking about his own father.
Your mind runs a million miles a minute, trying to compose itself. The mere thought of him brought feelings that, if you could, you would have killed and buried and never spoken of again.
“Why’s that?” James' eyes don't leave you for even a second. His gentleness is so exposing, so stripped down and bare, it makes you curl in on yourself. You’ve never been one to get much attention unless you explicitly put yourself in the spotlight. No one had ever looked at you without you predetermining it and deciding it would happen. That is, until you met Sherlock and James. They both look at you without you having to grab their attention with some big gesture or loud character trait. They see you even when you don't want them to. And even worse, James can read you even when you wish he couldn't.
James knows you in some impossible way. In the short time he has known you, he has learned almost everything about you. Your tells, the way you cower ever so slightly when someone makes you upset, how you fight tooth and nail to be tolerated even though you are so easily loved. He knows that just about everything you do is calculated to push you higher and get you further. He knows you as if he has known you his whole life, and you see it. And it excites you, it terrifies you.
"He's like an insect," You being. "He crawls into the weakest parts of you and terrorizes and taunts and calls it love." You don't elaborate, but it seems to you that James understands. He always does. As grateful as you are, a part of you aches for him. You would never wish your pain onto him, but he seems to always already possess it.
“I seem to always be doing something wrong. I can never make him happy." You continue. James's presence is a welcome anchor that seems to be calming the waters of your mind.
"The only reason I’m here is that I thought that if I agreed to go to Oxford, he would finally let me be. But I was sorely mistaken." More tears well up in your eyes as you take a seat at the foot of your bed. James takes a step closer.
"Is the letter from him?" James cautiously asks, but it only seems to bring more tears and a grave nod.
"If I do not improve my marks, all familial ties will be cut." A sob leaves your throat as you sink into the mattress. "I will be estranged and left destitute to fend for myself in a country that I do not belong to. I may never see my mother again." James sits with you now, warmth and comfort radiating from him.
"No. I will not let that happen," James affirms, jaw set tight. You struggle to control your uneven breathing.
"I promise you this," He says, your name as though it is a vow never to be broken, and takes your hand in his. "He will not hurt you again." Your breath hitches at the stubborn crease of his brow.
"Even if you fail out of Oxford, you will see your mother again." His words are resolute. He says them as if they are fact rather than simple hopes. "His threats are empty. You have me, you have Sherlock. You will never be on your own again."
The damn collapses, and you slam into James' sturdy frame. You cry freely now, no longer able to hold back your fears. James is startled only for a moment before he sinks into the feeling of you in his hold. He holds you securely and lets you set the weight of them down. He lets you come apart with the knowledge that he will be there to help build you up again.
And that's when he feels it. Sitting in your bed on an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon, he feels it. That ache deep in his chest, the pulsing in his veins, the confirmation in his heart. He loves you. And because he loves you, he will never let you go.
a/n: All the comments on the first part of this series is seriously motivating so thank you!! Hope you enjoyed I have nothing else to say. Good day.
just rewatched the final ep of young sherlock and the amount of time moriarty holds sherlock’s stare before going “what????” is so funny . like Oh you’re here on business my bad i thought we were just eyefucking
i love that as a fandom (and a brand new one at that) we’ve all collectively decided that moriarty is a man whore. like absolute fuck boy. sometimes sleazy. can and does charm the pants off anyone he wants do. for fun. for manipulation purposes. constantly in the mood — i saw someone say james “bedroom eyes” moriarty like thats the best position description of him
oh and also obviously hes an evil morally gray genius and a hothead
