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Healing Wounds
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.”
Let the Games Begin
Pairing: James Moriarty x reader, Sherlock Holmes x reader
Summary: How you meet Sherlock and James.
Warnings: not an OC fic but there is use of a last name purely for story purposes, no use of y/n, cringe dialogue, violence, explosions, chases, cursing, drinking, yearning, love triangle??, let me know if i missed any
Word Count: 7.7k
a/n: (at the end)
(series masterlist)
There was a shift in the air when your boat from New York City first docked in England. It was subtle, but one you couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until you stepped out of your carriage at Oxford that you placed the feeling. The feeling was a precognition; an air of anticipation surrounded the institution. Still, with that feeling in place, you were unsure whether the outcome would be in your favor.
Growing up a fifth avenue elite alongside families such as the Vanderbilt family, the Hamiltons, the Rockefeller's, and others, you were accustomed to the haughty nature of those with much money and big shiny names. You yourself are a part of the Willborn family. Your family comes from a long line of riches, stretching as far back as King George I. Which attributes to why the name holds such weight in the world of those with power and money. Along with the fact that after a stroke of luck from your father's business days, your family’s wealth prospers due to the growing industrialized world. Your father had insisted that you attend Oxford as he had. And you, the ever-gracious daughter, had agreed, after your father agreed, to keep his hands out of your education while you were there.
That day of your arrival, you must have seemed troubled because that was the day you had met a scout named Sherlock Holmes. He had asked you what was causing you distress as he hauled one of your trunks up into his arms with little exertion. A conversation soon followed and continued all that afternoon as he helped bring your belongings up into your room. That evening, he had quelled your worry and left you feeling at peace with the future Oxford had in store for you.
After that day, you had only seen him in passing with friendly smiles and small exchanges of pleasantries. He was one of the only people at Oxford that you had met who didn’t act like they had a stick up their ass without good reason. He was incredibly smart and somehow also kind. It was a startling change from the arrogance of New York and the cruelty of your lectures. Even still, your interactions remained at a minimum.
All that said, the last thing you had expected to happen was to be accused of stealing the princess's scrolls alongside Sherlock Holmes and his Irish friend. The morning of the accusation, it had been explained that the three of you had been the last seen going into the Library before the scrolls disappeared.
——
The second real conversation you have with Sherlock Holmes happens in the library. Sherlock had summoned you with no particulars, just that you meet him there as quickly as possible. You, curious as ever, were standing outside before he himself got there.
“Sherlock!” You call out as you see him. He nods with a smile. He says your name in greeting and then stations himself next to you. His shoe taps against the ground of the hall. You note the anxious air to him, but don’t speak of it.
“Why am I here?” You ask, turning to face him. He smiles faintly as he takes a breath.
“Ah, yes. I suspected the information wouldn't have reached you yet.” Sherlock's smile turns into a thoughtful look when his brows furrow in thought.
“What information?” You muse, tilting your head at him. He meets your eyes with a serious look that sets you standing straight again.
“You were one of the last people seen in the library before the princesses' scrolls were stolen.” He explains, his hands moving to his hips. Stollen? You had just been in the library trying to get some quiet from Alice, the girl who sleeps in the room next to yours. There was always some commotion or another happening in that room.
“You think I stole the scrolls?” You inquire, a scoff hinting at the tip of your breath. Sherlock shakes his head profusely before answering.
“No, of course not. You hardly have the need for the money that selling them would get you.” Sherlock clarifies. “Besides, I have faith in you.” You smile at that. Somehow, it is reassuring in a way you didn’t think possible. You had only met Sherlock once, and already you felt oddly safe in his presence, like there had been some unspoken vow of protection cast over you by him.
“Well, I am glad I can be trusted,” You smile softly. “But how do you know all this, and I do not?” You question.
“I had a run-in with a constable,” Sherlock explains quickly. “And you were asleep when I got to your room, so it's no wonder you know nothing.” Sherlock shakes his head with a smile, mildly entertained with himself.
Just then, a man rounds the corner. The man is wearing a deep blue waistcoat with matching trousers and a mustache so sharp it looks like he just stepped in from shaving it in another room.
“But why are you here?” You continue, paying little mind to the astute man.
“A question I would also enjoy the answer to, brother dear.” The man says as he stops in front of the two of you. He looks unamused to say the least.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock greets. You remember now, Sherlock mentioning his brother the first time you’d met. He had been reluctant to say more than just that he existed and worked at the school. Now, seeing him in person, you somewhat understand.
“Your brother?” You query to Sherlock, an amused smile tugging at your lips at the clear distaste on both men’s faces.
“Unfortunately,” Mycroft responds for Sherlock, who, in return, ignores him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft Holmes bows just slightly, you do as well, followed by your name and a polite greeting. “Well, shall we make our way inside?” He continues, but Sherlock shakes his head.
”We’re waiting for James.” Sherlock informs, now turning to you before you can ask what he suspects you will. “A friend of mine, James, we were also one of the last people reported to be seen going into the library.”
“So we’re all suspects, and we’re all going back to the place of the crime, for what exactly?” You ask, face riddled with confusion.
“Another answer I would like.” Mycroft scoffs, stepping closer to Sherlock.
“To prove our innocence.” Sherlock smiles, trying to sound reassuring but failing quite amazingly.
“I don’t know if this will help our case. May only hurt it.” You remark. Mycroft hums in agreement. You aren’t sure why you’re still standing here, or if following along with this, practically, strangers' ideas is even safe. But you somehow find yourself intrigued by the idea of solving a crime, of the thrill of a chase. So you say no more.
“Might I point out,” Sherlock starts, his eyes gleaming slightly, “that you don’t seem to be leaving. So maybe you know that it isn’t such a bad idea.” Sherlock states with a sort of smug look on his face. As if he can read your every thought running through your head just by watching your face. You tilt your head at him, quirk a brow, and bite back an amused smile, but say nothing.
“Hmm, as I suspected.” Sherlock bows his head with a smile.
“Enough with the flirting, Sherlock, we don’t have all day.” Mycroft distrusts the moment, stepping in front of Sherlock. “Where’s your friend?”
“I'm here!” A voice calls just as another man rounds the corner. You turn to put a name to a face. Just as you turn to see him, his eyes catch yours. You take him in curiously, the curls adorning his head, his thick dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes. He’s wearing a brown striped lounge suit, with a matching vest and a brown tie with gold accents. He looks irritable, though of course you understand. The school must not be taking this lightly. Not wanting to be caught staring, you glance at Sherlock.
“You must be James. Sherlock’s told us about you.” You clear your throat and look back at him. His expression shifts as you acknowledge him by name. He pulls his charm out of his back pocket and slabs it onto his expression. Making sure his next few words will swoon the pretty girl he just met.
“I am,” He smiles, “Though Sherlock hasn’t graced me with the pleasure of your name.” James’ head tilts downward as if to draw you in closer with just a look. Yet as attractive and enticing as it is, you know better than to fall for it. No man in the history of the human race has ever been so charming without having alternative motives.
Sherlock is quick to save you from him and tells James your name. “She is also a suspect. Now, if you please, go into the library; we have no time to waste.” Sherlock gestures to the tall burgundy door.
You don’t protest and follow as the three men walk into the library. Mycroft lingers by the door and lets the three of you walk on. “You got ten minutes. Don’t embarrass me again.” Mycroft calls as you all walk. Sherlock ignores him again, so you and James do too.
You glance around, not even sure what you're looking for. Sherlock and James walk quickly down the rows and shelves of books, only stopping a couple of times to get a better look at something before deciding it was nothing and moving on.
“You know what we’re looking for?” James asks, shifting his glance over the room.
“Not really, no.” Sherlock quickly answers.
“How wonderful.” You think aloud, sarcasm weighing your words down. James huffs out a laugh before looking over at you with amusement.
Sherlock abruptly stops at the edge of the row. You, not looking, nearly bump right into him. Sherlock's mind is clearly elsewhere because he moves down the row. You look up to where he and James have set their attention. A broken window.
“A hole in the window. Wonder what that’s for?” Sherlock says flatly. He is quick to begin climbing the shelf to get a closer look.
“You should be a detective,” James chimes in, just as dry, hand slipping into his pocket as he watches Sherlock from the edge of the aisle. Now, on the stone ledge of the window, Sherlock leans on his knees to analyze it more closely.
“Hard to escape my powers of observation.” Sherlock again replies sarcastically with little emotion, but you know he’s amused by where the conversation is going. So you continue it.
“And what might these powers of observation be telling you now?” You shift your weight to one foot and fold your arms over your chest. James and Sherlock’s heads both whip around to you, surprised that you had said anything at all to play along with them. Sherlock gives you a smile before turning back towards the broken window to formulate a response.
“There has been, wait for it, a break-in.” He glances over his shoulder to consider your reaction. How easy it is to amuse them, you think. They let you speak freely without feeling the need to mediate your words, as many others you meet have. You can’t count on the number of times a man at this institution has told you or another woman to stop speaking because you said something smarter or funnier than them, and they got embarrassed. But these two didn’t seem at all concerned.
“Astounding.” You shake your head.
“How did you develop these skills of penetrating deduction?” James is back to his flat tone, but now his eyes also fall toward you.
“We’ve been gifted a couple of paw prints,” Sherlock notes, standing straight and backing from the window.
“There's a hook there, who’s missing his guest,” James notes, pointing to the hook on the wall where a clock should be but isn’t.
“Think I’ve clocked the guest,” Sherlock jokes with a close-lipped smile, but before you can add anything, Mycroft calls you all back to the entrance of the library. Reluctantly, you all slowly make your way back, but not before making a few more clock jokes.
It’s when you return to Mycroft that you see the source of his anxious posture. Sir Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, Constable Lestrade, and Princess Shou’an. Hodge looks far from pleased, and you can’t help but get nervous yourself. He glares daggers at all four of you.
“Mycroft, would you mind telling me why your brother, the prime suspect, is standing at the scene of the crime?” Hodge asks, as you predicted would happen.
For the next couple of minutes, both groups go back and forth. The Princess and Sherlock have a conversation in Mandarin, and it seems, with the princess at the very least, to have solved some issues. You stand beside James as the conversation goes on, and you glance over to him as if to ask what’s happening. And he simply shrugs, smiling, but you can feel sadness from him. Dejectedness after Hodges' assistant said she did not know him. Somehow, you knew she did. You could feel it in the way James stood, less tall, less sure of himself. Yet you notice that there is no surprise. He’s not shocked at the blatant cruelty of her words. He’s used to it.
“I can help you find your father’s scrolls,” Sherlock says to the Princess.
“We.” You correct him. Everyone turns to you, as if they are only now realizing you exist. You shift uncomfortably under their gazes. “We can help.”
“There’s a very good reason why you can help find them. One of you stole them.” Hodge seethes, voice flaring with anger.
You regret only for a moment speaking up. Though soon your regret quells when the Princess convinces him. But only after she practically threatens him and his assistant politely suggests they leave. Constable Lestraude, Hodge, and his assistant all take their leave, but the Princess stays behind. Mycroft also leaves, having more pressing business to attend to.
“I’m coming with you.” You state firmly, after Mycroft leaves.
“Now, you don’t have to.” Sherlock clarifies, thoughtful as ever. “I only called you down here to inform you of the situation at hand.”
“I’m coming.” You stand firm in your decision. This time, James steps forward, hands in his pockets.
“Really,” He says your name, and it sounds so nice, so careful.
“I want to.” You say again, annoyance creeping in.
“There’s no shame in staying back.” You assume James only means it to be reassuring, but it simply makes you irritated. He says it like you're breakable.
“What would be a shame is me kicking you in the balls. But I'm not opposed to being shameful.” A silence falls over the four of you as the words leave your mouth. You're unamused. The annoyance of being questioned one too many times is clear on your face and in your posture.
James stands there, somewhat stunned, his eyes frozen wide open and mouth slightly ajar, no witty response in sight. Sherlock, on the other hand, is biting back his laugh; his closed fist presses to his mouth to cover his shit-eating grin. The Princess chuckles and starts for the exit of the library.
Without looking back, she says, “You heard her, off we go.”
——
“According to Lestrade, the thief scaled down the side of the building and into a boat. Lestade told me there’s a river in the woods where the thief towed from Candlin College. Then they disappeared.” The princess informs.
Princess Shou’an has taken the four of you to a riverside, one quite a ways from the school. There is an abandoned boat sitting on the damp sand that looks like it was hastily abandoned by whoever had been there before you. The boat's oars are haphazardly thrown into the boat's keel.
Thoughtfully, you hum as you step around the boat, looking for anything that may help the search. But you hardly feel useful; there’s not much to really look at after all. All you see is a boat, some rocks and sand, ropes, and water. You spin around on your heel to see if Sherlock or James got any farther in their investigations.
“Footprints?” James points towards Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock turns to get a look.
“There’s only one set of tracks, only one thief.” Sherlock smiles just slightly as his eyes meet yours from his position leaning over the sand.
“Headed off this way,” James adds almost absentmindedly as he quickly darts up a small trail leading away from the riverside. Sherlock is right on his tail, following him up mossy rocks and onto the grassy ground. Such boys, the two of them. You roll your eyes at the thought before following after. The trail from the river leads past a stone wall and wooden gate to a dirt road. The footprints that James was following disappeared at the edge of a pair of carriage tracks. The impressions of the carriage’s wheels continue down the muddy road. One of the prints left by the wheel is askew, having left a crooked mark in the dirt.
“Footprints end here,” James utters as he tilts his head toward the long road ahead. You move to stand next to him and lean to peer around his body.
“So the thief got into a carriage?” Your head tilts while watching the road. Sensing you next to him, James turns to look down at you over his shoulder. James bites back his grin, and Sherlock, seeing it, rushes over to your other side, quickly grabbing your attention.
“Now there’s no need to deprecate. Next time, say it, don't ask.” Sherlock advises with a smile on his face. James sighs out his annoyance and turns back to the road.
“The thief got in a carriage." You try again, this time not questioning it.
“That’s the spirit!” Sherlock smiles now, fixing his eyes on the road as well.
“Aye aye. Looks like one of them wheels was a little drunk.” James notes as he points to the crooked wheel track.
“And a drunk wheel would need to sober up,” Sherlock adds, beginning down the road. The princess follows close behind him.
The trek ahead seems to go on forever. You attribute it to the fact that Sherlock and the Princess are up ahead of you and James chatting away in Mandarin while you and James shuffle after in relative silence, aside from passing comments about the scenery. You wonder now, walking beside him, if his concern before was sincere or if he really thought you incapable. You wonder if the charm he put on before you insulted him was for show. Either way, on both fronts, you haven’t known him for long enough to rule out either.
It doesn’t take long for the quiet to be inevitably broken by him. He clears his throat, and you turn your gaze to him expectantly. When his eyes meet yours, he smiles. But not like all the smiles before. This one is less showy, more real. You think it might be the most of him you’ve seen all day.
“You’re pretty quick,” James says, officially breaking any peace that was previously established.
“Is this going to be another one of your compliment-painted insults?” You question, only sparing him a fleeting glance before securing your vision ahead.
“No, no, nothing like that.” James dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“Oh? Then what is this?”
“It’s a truce.” It takes a second for him to settle on something to say. “I wanna recruit ya’”
“Alright, for what?” You laugh. A smile grows on his face as the sound fills the air. A weird feeling of warmth fills your chest as he smiles at you.
“You're fast, smart, we’d have fun with someone like you.” It catches you off guard how easily he says it. Like it hadn’t been something he thought hard about because it was simply a fact, something he could look at you and notice over and over again.
“We?” You say before you can let that thought go on any longer.
“Sherlock and I. He may be smart, but Sherlock hasn’t even half the wit you’ve got. He could use the teacher, and I could use the accomplice." James’ walk slows to a stop. He shifts to face you, wanting your undivided attention. It startles you, the way he’s looking at you. It's a welcome, and almost its own initiation ritual. You aren’t sure if you should be intimidated or impressed. And you aren’t sure what to say.
“Sherlock's got wit. He has to, otherwise I wouldn’t have spoken to him.” You find a loophole out of this uncomfortable corner James backed you into. And it seems to work.
“Okay, so maybe I’ve exaggerated to sway you,” James smirks playfully, this signature look you are now recognizing as such plastered on his face.
“Oh, alright, I see.” You nod back, your own fondness protruding on your expression.
“Well, have I? Swayed ya?” James eyes trail over your face, waiting for your response. You feel exposed, vulnerable to his prying eyes. Yet sitting at the center of his gaze, you feel a strange security. As though, now that you're in his radius of awareness, you’ll always be there, and he’ll be there always.
“Hurry up, you two! We haven’t got all day.” The princess calls from up ahead, where he and Sherlock have stopped to glare back at you and James. Sherlock's calls after you both before you get the chance to respond. You and James are quick to hurry along after them.
After what feels like an hour of walking, you see a house in the distance. It looks like an Inn just a ways down the dirt road. It’s a bit run-down, but it looks quaint; it’s surely a nice change of pace from Oxford's old money dining halls and lecture rooms. It vaguely reminds you of the houses you’d pass in uptown Manhattan on your way to Connecticut for long weekend vacations.
“Oh, hello. A coaching inn.” Sherlock confirms, slowing his pace to your left.
“Where one might get a wheel fixed,” James adds, moving to stand to your right.
“I wanted to ask.” The Princess begins, her attention moving to Sherlock as she walks beside him. “Were you trying to impress me?” Your interest piques, and you glance at James to see that he has too. You share a smirk of curiosity before pretending you're only half listening.
“Impress you?” The sheer confusion lacing Sherlock's voice is enough to force you to suppress a laugh.
“At the maths lecture.” She continues, “When you corrected Professor Thompson.” You can feel the amusement radiating from James.
“The professor 's calculations were incorrect. That was all.” Sherlock states, as if the mere concept of that interaction being anything more is absurd.
“Disappointing.” Is all she says in response. You aren’t sure if she’s gotten the hint, but you guess she will in due time.
“Well, frankly, I don’t know what you see in him.” James, ever the hero, swoops in and saves the impending awkward silence. “I mean, yes, he is handsome in a sort of obvious, clumsy kind of way.” You laugh, and it spurs him on. Sherlock, on the other hand, his head whips around and glares daggers into James’ head. “But if anyone here were ever looking for something a bit more niche. A bit more bespoke, more mysterious, well—”
“Where might someone find a man like that?” Sherlock interjects, hands moving to adjust his cap, before his pride is completely ripped out from under him.
“As stimulating as this is, chaps, I need to return to my carriage.” The princess stops any further teasing, as she comes to a halt just short of the gate to the inn.
”Why? We were just beginning to have some fun.” You smile, turning to face her. You really didn’t want the only other woman to leave you this far into the journey.
“The gala opening. Hodges new science building. I promised him I would be there.” You meet her eyes and nod in understanding. “Thank you for your help. All of you.”
She turns to walk back the way you all came from before any formal goodbyes can commence. But Sherlock takes that as a sign to keep going. James bows sarcastically in her wake; you don’t catch what he says, just that it’s unserious nonsense, maybe a way to shield the disappointment at the princess's clear lack of interest in him. You move to catch up with Sherlock.
“A welcome oasis in the parched deserts of this rural wasteland,” Sherlock notes to you as you jog to his side.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” You smile.
A plaque of wood above the entrance of the Inn reads The Hare & Hounds. Sherlock walks in first, you’re quick to follow after, James steps in last, and closes the door. As you walk in, you notice a gentleman with a graying beard playing the fiddle at the far end of the room. He’s wearing a black hat and dusty gray coat, one that looks like it has seen a lot of hard days of work. Beside him is an open door to a back room.
To the left of the room is a bar, with stools lining the countertop. Behind the bar stands a lady, a bottle of liquor in hand. “What can I do for you lot?’ She inquires, attention shifting between pouring a drink and you three.
“Three whiskeys, my good lady, and whatever you’d like for your fine self.” James leans against the counter with a charming smile.
“Ever the gentleman.” You roll your eyes. “And only two whiskeys for us.” You smile at her.
“Sure, love.” The lady nods before turning to James and thanking him. Sherlock begins to dig in his pockets for change.
“Aye now, I’m getting this. Your money's no good here.” James is quick to slide his money over to the lady.
“I’ll get the drinks, you get the tip,” Sherlock says, flicking a coin, catching it, and pushing it in front of James’ money with a sly look. “Sure, you don’t want anything?” Sherlock asks over his shoulder, and you nod.
“‘And out of his pocket he pulled the sovereign bright…’” James begins, quoting someone you are sure you’ve never heard of before. As you go to question it, Sherlock steps in and finishes the line.
“‘And the landlady’s eyes open wide with delight.” Sherlock's smile is subtle but there as he leans against the bar top.
“What was all that about needing me earlier? You two seem like you’ve got everything under control all on your own.” You smirk brazenly.
”Oh, I don’t know about that; a couple of quotes don’t mean anything.” James chuckles, his arm resting so casually against the bar. He knows exactly what he’s doing, but you aren’t that easy, and you figure now is as good a time as any for him to learn. Sherlock lifts the glass of whiskey to his nose with a smile as he watches you scoff.
Unfazed, James turns his attention back to the lady. “Excuse me. Our carriage is in need of a bit of repair. You see, we’ve been traveling for a couple of days now. My brother-in-law, my wife—”
“His sister.” You correct, before James can finish his sentence. You take hold of Sherlock's arm without thinking twice and lean against him with a big phony smile. “We’re on the way to our parents' home,”
A flush takes over Sherlock's face as his body is pulled up against yours. He’s not angry, just caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting you to be such a quick and easy liar. He also wasn’t expecting your lies to piss off James this much. James is standing there with his jaw drawn up tight. His lips are pulled into a thin line as he watches you paint this story that was supposed to be his. You think about stopping it there, but you can’t help the amusement you are getting from that look on James’ face, or the feeling of Sherlock beginning to play along as he wraps an arm around your waist.
“My mother’s been wanting to see us ever—well, the baby.” You whisper coyly, drawing out this narrative just to see the irritation in James’ expression grow with each passing second. You put on this persona so easily that it impresses Sherlock.
“She’s been going on and on about it in her letters. So you understand the urgency.” You say. Now completely immersed in the story, Sherlock adds something of his own.
“And my dear brother-in-law has a horrible sickness in rocky carriages, his stomach is so very weak—”
“That’s enough.” James cuts him off before he can say anything more. “It’s the wheelwright around, and might we have a word with him?” The withheld anger in his tone forms a laugh in your lungs, and you have to suppress it by turning your face toward Sherlock and into his side. There, you bite down on your lip to stifle your explosive giggles. Sherlock, also near laughter, clears his throat to stop himself.
“He’s done at the village, but he’ll be back shortly.” The lady, clearly confused at the whole situation, says with a sigh and then turns to get back to whatever work she was previously doing.
“We’ll wait then,” James grumbles out, taking his whiskey and stomping off to a table at the opposite wall.
You pull away from Sherlock with a smile. “Is he mad?” You ask, still biting back a smile.
“Oh, extremely," Sherlock smirks down at you before he begins moving too to the table. He sets his drink down and takes a seat next to a still unimpressed James. You sit to James’ left, across from Sherlock, around the small table.
James finishes his shot of whiskey and leans back in quiet annoyance. You, feeling the tension, lean towards him with a smile as a peaceful gesture.
“You wanted fun.” You say. “Here’s my fun.” There’s a moment of contemplation before James lets out a big sigh,
“Fun.” He shakes his head, a grin growing on his lips. “You’re something else, I’ll tell you that, Ms—”
“Willborn.” Sherlock finishes with lifted brows.
“Ms Willborn.” James nods, testing the name out on his tongue. It sounds illegally good coming out of his mouth. “Here comes the fun.”
Just then, the fiddle-holding man sets down his instrument and scurries away through the back door. You hum in interest, and Sherlock and James share a look. Oh, this will be fun.
“Let the games begin,” Sherlock adds, now downing his own drink.
——
What followed was nothing short of preposterous. Never in your wildest imagination could you have predicted even relatively accurately. Yet, it had thrilled you in a way you couldn’t explain. Not that you would ever want a day like today to ever happen again, you can’t rule out that it wasn’t magnificently eye-opening.
The man with the fiddle had turned out, as suspected, to know about the missing scrolls. He had, in fact, had a scroll holster fastened over his shoulder. Sherlock followed him out of the back of the Inn and was attacked by the fiddle player and left with a blood-dripping nose. On some odd instinct of James’, he’d pulled you out of the establishment and around to the back in search of Sherlock. There, you had found him on the ground with the fiddler over him, ready to strike. Before you could cry out, James was on the fiddler, shoving him away from Sherlock. Once he was off, he fled away from the inn down the road.
After some trouble in running after him, you pulled off your healed shoes, had to tell the boys to run ahead, and that you would catch up—the three of you corner him in a barn house just off the main road. Following James's knocking the fiddler unconscious, the holster was found to be empty.
There was, after that, a brief period of reassessment. Sherlock deduced that it had been a decoy to lure you away from the school. He explained to you, after he and James used their so-called overactive imagination, that the scrolls had never left the school. You had then all gone back to the school and into the library, where you had discovered that the break-in was fabricated and that the scrolls were hidden in a pedestal displaying a marble statue of a man's head.
The cabinet that the scrolls had been sitting atop had vanished since you were last in the library, and the three of you were quick to follow the trail of inconsistency. No one could have taken it out of the room since that morning due to the police guarding the entrances. The only way the cabinet could have been moved was through the walls of the old medieval banquet-hall-turned-library. Through a slab of wood paneling on the wall, James was able to remove the paneling to reveal one of the old banquet corridors. Down the corridor halls, you find the cabinet with a bomb ticking inside it.
It had all been because of the gala. Hodges gala for the new science building that was opening. The gala was taking place just on the other side of the chimney, which was in the room where the cabinet sat. With but 90 seconds to spare, the three of you smash through the chimney and successfully warn everyone at the gala about the bomb. Though, of course, not without getting caught on the edges of the bomb’s radius.
Sherlock had gotten the brunt of it. He had pushed you forward, making sure you got out before him, but ended up with a gash on his left temple. And he, along with James and you, had been thrown to the ground by the impact of the blast and enveloped head to toe in ash. James had been quick to help you up off the soot-covered floors as you stumbled in your heels. Sherlock made swift work of getting the three of you out of the building and to a medical professional. The ringing in your head only stopped after the sun had set two hours later.
——
After being held for examination for what felt like days, Sherlock, James, and you are let go. It’s dark by the time you get out, and on autopilot, you follow James and Sherlock back to Sherlock's room. You end up on his bed, sitting against the headboard as the men take off their jackets. You want to take your corset off and finally breathe and relax, but you know better.
By the time you get comfortable against the headboard, Sherlock has hung his coat next to James’ on the rack by the door and is in only his white undershirt. You have to peel your eyes away from him when he first turns in your direction to sit at his desk. In no world would you be caught staring at him. You try to move your attention to James, hoping for some reprieve, but instead you find James in his obnoxiously tight-fitting vest. Now you really wish your corset were off, or at least looser.
“So drinks?” You hear James call out, but keep your eyes on your lap, not wanting to know what seeing him from the back in this state will do to you. The contents of your lap are uninteresting, but you find a few specks of debris to keep yourself occupied. You pick them off the fabric of your skirt and rub the debris between your fingers. You actually do get lost in watching it roll unsymmetrically against your skin. That is, until James calls out your name.
“Do you want any?” James asks. And you have to take a breath before looking up to meet his eyes and shake your head.
“Water’s fine.” Is all you get out. Your eyes flicker to Sherlock, and you have to try to act like this isn’t the first man you’ve seen without full clothing on. But he certainly, one hundred percent, is. A good first thought, you think.
“Well, alright, more for us, eh, Sherlock?” Sherlock just hums in agreement absently as he watches the dim light filter in through the window above his desk. A flicker of something crosses James’ face, but he says nothing and turns to the small wooden table housing the liquor.
James hums a song as he prepares the two drinks. Unable to place it, you want to call out to him and ask. But the tune sounds almost personal, with a folk twang you’ve only truly heard in Irish lullabies mothers in New York sang to their kids when they scraped their knees playing in the streets. You decide to ask about it another time.
“So what exactly are we celebrating? We haven't solved anything. We don’t know who planted the bomb. Or why?” Sherlock voices just as James hands him his glass and makes his way over to you. James smiles as he outstretches the glass to you. Heat invades your senses as your fingers graze him. God, that blast must have done something to your head. You’re not normally this reactive.
“And that is not our concern.” James moves now to take a seat on a cushioned chair by the liquor table; he reclines with a glass in his hand and an easy look on his face.
“That's not our concern?” Sherlock exasperates, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“We set out to find the scrolls. We found them. I'm not losing my scholarship, and you’re not going to prison.” James starts, rubbing his head as if to scrub the annoyance from his mood. Sherlock, in turn, sighs before turning to look out of the window again. “So I think that’s worth raising a glass to.” James raises his glass, you halfheartedly raise yours, your attention still a little stolen by your lap, and reluctantly Sherlock does as well. But he doesn’t take a sip, only sets the glass down at his desk.
“Why aren’t you drinking?” James questions, annoyance too far to settle now. You can hear it in his voice, and your attention is pulled. You begin to speak, attempting to quell his frustration.
“James. Sherlock. It’s been a long day for all of us. Please, both of you, stop arguing. I thought the ringing was gone, but you’ve somehow brought it back.” You complain. Sherlock goes to open his mouth and argue, but James beats him to it.
“She’s right,” James concludes, now standing in his anger. “As much as I would love for you to be wrong.” His eyes meet yours with a dash of sympathy. “All of us are a bit scrambled. I think it would be best if I got going. We could all use a good night's sleep.” James begins to make his way to the door.
“Wait—that is not what I meant—” You try, now sitting up to start towards him.
“No, it’s quite all right,” James takes hold of his coat and slowly begins to dress himself. “I know my limits, I believe I'm in need of some hard alcohol and a full 8 hours.” Jame’s smile is as radiant as ever, even in anger. Your brows furrow as you watch him slip his arms through his sleeves, and Sherlock notices the weariness in your expression. Now realizing the effect James disparate is having on you, Sherlock backtracks.
“James—let’s—” He’s hesitant with the next part, not really wanting to do what he’s offering, but he knows you’ll be happier. “At least finish our drinks,” Sherlock’s tone is unenthusiastic, so much so that it almost makes James laugh at him and call him out.
”That’s alright, Sherlock. Another time, goodnight.” James bows just slightly to you as he backs away towards the door. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I should say goodnight.” He nods to Sherlock and then to you before opening the door and stepping out. “Now, fair Romeo, don’t keep our young Juliet up too late.” There’s one sly smile before he shuts the door.
Following the clicking of the door, Sherlock downs his glass. You slump back onto the headboard and let out an exasperated sigh. You could hardly respond to James’ name-calling without embarrassing yourself. Your eyes now land on Sherlock, who's hunched over himself on his desk chair. Consumed by thought, he barely glances over when you shift to set your glass down on his nightstand. By this point, you have pushed past the initial embarrassment of seeing Sherlock in nothing but his undershirt.
“Do you think he’s right?” Sherlock asks suddenly. When you look, his eyes are already on you, his body facing you.
“Right about what?” You ask quietly, making sure your eyes don’t travel from his.
“Would you call this a victory? Even when we are nowhere close to the answers to anything.” The look in Sherlock's eyes melts something in your exterior. The room feels stripped bare of all the playfulness that once disguised the truth. It’s as if Sherlock ripped all the wallpaper off the walls and left you both standing in a barren room.
“Im—.” There is hesitancy in your response, not out of fear but out of your lack of answers. “I don’t think you have it in you to stop searching here. And I don’t think James’ conscience has any reason to keep searching.”
”But what do you think?” Sherlock urges you, his brows furrowed.
“Are you trying to get me to take a side?” You ask carefully, eyes still locked with him.
“I'm trying to get you to say what you think.”
“But you hope what I think aligns with what you think.” You note, stepping closer to where he’s sat.
“Well, of course I do.” Sherlock sighs, eyes breaking from yours and settling on the wood of the desk. “Do they?”
“I don’t think I agree with either of you. All the way at least.” You say, watching his face for his reaction. You aren’t sure what you want to happen. All you know is you don’t want this to be a reason you argue. “I do want to know the truth, but I don't know if I have the ability to fight for it as you can. I wish I did, but I think there is only one you.”
Sherlock says nothing in response, only leaving the cold, naked air between you. You think for a moment that you should go. Maybe this night is not the ideal night to stay for longer than necessary. Slowly, you begin to stand from the bed, you fix your dress as if you moved too quickly or with too much force, it would rip.
When you pass by where he sits, you comfortingly rest your hand on his shoulder. You brush your finger over the fabric of it. You, ten minutes ago, would never have imagined getting this close to an underdressed Sherlock, but now you find the proximity reassuring. And as you move forward, Sherlock’s hand darts up and captures yours on his shoulder.
“Don’t go.” It’s quick and low. So much so, you almost are not sure if you simply imagined it. You stand like a statue, taking in the feeling of his warm hand against yours. You want so badly to stay. Especially if staying means that the warm feeling in your chest would stay even for a moment longer.
“Well, I—“
“However, you are free to return to your dormitory.” Sherlock retracts his hand all too soon.
“Sherlock.” You interject with a scold. “I do enjoy the company.”
“As do I.” Sherlock is quick to add. You sigh at the interruption but continue.
“But are you sure you want me to stay this late? I should be getting back to my rooms.” You say and glance at the clock sitting on his mantel. “It’s already a quarter past eleven.”
“Oh wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Sherlock tries halfheartedly to match the enthusiasm James had earlier, but he only succeeds in sounding like a child attempting to reenact his father. A look of fondness passes over your face.
“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” You speak the next line of the play and are surprised at how suggestive it comes out. You hold your ground even as the mild embarrassment springs again into your stomach. Sherlocks cocks his head to the side with a grin of amusement.
You see the contemplation in his eyes, whether or not to say Romeo's following line. You aren’t sure if you want him to say it or not. Unsure if it will serve to increase the dizzying tension or break it into something that can not be put back together. ‘The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.’ It’s not a line that should have any lasting impact, but somehow, as you stand here, it seems a life-or-death decision.
It never comes. Instead, Sherlock's face softens as he gazes up at you from his seat. Your own resolve fades as you look into his mesmerizing green eyes. Eyes that seem as if you look long enough, you will discover all the secrets of the world. Sherlock Holmes is truly a puzzling character. You hardly know him, yet you feel this indescribable force pulling your mind and soul to him in every way possible.
“So will you stay?” It's a quiet plea that makes everything else in the world stop. Your breath hitches.
“Of course”
——
That day had caused a chain reaction of events that unraveled your life completely. Soon, you were being dragged into all and every situation the two idiots found themselves in. Murder accusations, police chases, going undercover, break-ins, mystery solving, and, on occasion, lazing about the public spaces of the institution, laughing about one thing or another. Mycroft quite liked you and was in full support of the good influence you had on them.
Over the course of a couple of weeks, the three of you had become practically inseparable. You’d become very fond of the two dimwits who had slivered their way into your life. Though you weren’t mad at their constant presence. It made you feel that even though you were across the ocean from everything you’d ever known, at least you weren’t alone.
a/n: This took me way to long. Anyways there will be more parts so strap in and enjoy. Comments feed my motivation!
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
if the crown fits ???
bruh this looked way better on my laptop than on my phone but whatever it's fine. kicks a rock.
Happy St. Patrick's Day to all, and especially to James Moriarty.
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
I love this guy I hope he doesn't turn evil