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James wanted Sherlock. He just couldn’t figure out in what way.
The boy was undeniably a skilled young gentleman. To be able to lift watches from Professor Hodge while the dining hall buzzed with students was a feat of true artistry. Initially, James viewed him as a worthy associate.That was what he had reasoned before Sherlock appeared in that mathematics lecture.
James had brought him to that student party to impress him, yet it felt like an excessive amount of trouble for a mere "associate." Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he wanted Sherlock as a friend.
And yet, he had loathed Sherlock for staying the night with Xiao Wai, even though James himself had been the one to leave them alone. That is what a decent friend would do, he had told himself, all while spending every waking minute of that night hating every second spent by Xiao Wai’s side.
However, it was one thing to gatecrash a student party and quite another to break a man out of prison. Previously, James had limited himself to harmless deceptions, but flouting the rules of society so openly felt revitalizing. It was then he realized Sherlock wasn’t just a new parameter in his life; Sherlock was a new mathematical operator, one that refactored the very equations of James's existence.
James became determined to master the mechanics of this strange relationship. He had always secured what he wanted, especially when the world around him was falling apart. That determination led him directly into the heart of a French massacre, following the trail of his friend’s family.
So, here he was, deploying his charms on a prostitute to gather information about Sherlock’s father. All the while, a slimy man was touching Sherlock in a way no man should touch another, making his friend visibly uncomfortable. Watching them, James felt a question take root: how would it feel to spit on society in that way? Would Sherlock even consider a relationship like that?
The problem was that the man’s approach was all wrong. James was certain Sherlock would prefer light, teasing touches over a blunt embrace. It would be better to start by taking a piece of Sherlock’s clothing—turning the act into a game. James caught himself in these reflections, but he was no coward when it came to his own desires. He simply needed time to distinguish this specific want from the other dark, illicit impulses he harbored.
Then came the clandestine demonstration of a weapon of mass destruction. James saw a path laid out before him—a way out of poverty and toward power. Sherlock was struck by a bullet. And then, James killed a man.
What a day.
He had insisted on staying with Sherlock in the hospital room, which smelled of copper and old blood. He couldn't bring himself to leave his companion.
"You didn’t have to stay, James." The shadow of Sherlock’s head shifted slightly against the pillow so they could lock eyes. It was dark, the only light coming from a single flickering candle near James’s chair.
"But I did stay," James replied softly. "I couldn't leave you alone with all these 'cute' nurses. Friends have to share, you see." He couldn't bring himself to speak the truth.
“You can have them all to yourself, my dear friend. They aren't my cup of tea.”
“Nurses?” James smiled out of habit, though he wasn't prepared for this conversation.
“That kind of relationship. There was no appeal for me in that cabaret.”
“They just weren't your type.”
“Do you think I have a type?” Sherlock asked.
“I would imagine so. And if you would stop throwing yourself in front of bullets, you might actually have a chance to figure out what it is.”
Outside the hospital, the gunfire never stopped. The screams filling the hallways echoed incessantly, yet inside their small circle of candlelight, the world was still.
“Don’t go to the nurses,” Sherlock whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Of course not, Sherlock.”
James stood and approached the bed. He tucked the blanket around Sherlock – a flimsy excuse to get closer to his friend's face. Sherlock looked back, and James could have sworn their minds were perfectly synchronized in that moment.
“I killed a man today,” James whispered. “What should I feel?”
“The law dictates that you should feel remorse,” Sherlock’s voice drifted back. “What did you feel?”
“Nothing.”
“Interesting.” Sherlock settled deeper into the blankets. “Don’t go, James.”
And with that, Sherlock fell asleep.
They devised a plan to track down Sherlock's father. Yet, in the cold light of the aftermath, the scheme had proven needlessly over-engineered — and perhaps a touch naive.
Constantinople overwhelmed James. The world loomed immense, and he felt utterly small—a mere dropout student drifting through a city of giants. Sherlock’s father was climbing toward the heights of power; Sherlock’s siblings held sway in society through their work for the government or their more illicit connections. Sherlock himself was an heir to a legacy James could barely fathom.
When all of this has ended, where will James Moriarty be? Will Sherlock even have a need for him then? Will James ever be truly sufficient to stand as his equal?
To quiet these thoughts, James did what he did best. He sought out the vulnerabilities in the heart of Sherlock’s sister, exploiting them to extract the information he needed. It made him feel powerful for a few hours in the morning before the worries returned to wipe the feeling away.
The day following the death of Sherlock’s father, they sat together in a café. In his pocket, Sherlock carried a key—a convenient enough excuse for James to linger by his side. Do I even require an excuse anymore? James wondered. In his own pocket, he held a different kind of key: a chance to reach the very top.
"Would you like to play a game?" James asked after a sip of whisky.
"Intriguing," Sherlock replied. He never grew tired of the challenge. "What are the rules?"
“We both carry things with us,” James began, his voice low. “Some are vital, others are mere trifles. These gloves, for instance.”
He pulled the leather gloves from his pocket and let them dangle for a moment before dropping them onto the table. “I’ll offer these as your first prize. The rules are simple: I recount an action of mine—something you witnessed with your own eyes—and you must deduce my motive. The more twisted and complicated the reason, the more valuable the prize I’ll put on the line.”
“I accept”
"One more rule," James smiled. "If you fail, you must give me something of equal value from your own person."
"I'm in."
James tossed the gloves onto the table. "Why did I start the game with these specific gloves?"
Sherlock studied them. "It would make sense to start with something less valuable. However, these gloves are suited for London’s weather, not Constantinople’s. You wouldn't have brought them if not for this exact purpose. You planned this game before we even left your hotel room."
"Why didn't I start with a handkerchief, then?"
Sherlock smiled. "Because in the event of my failure, you wanted something of equal value from me. I don’t have gloves, and my handkerchief is worthless in comparison. You would prefer to have taken something more substantial."
"Correct. They’re yours. Another round?" James removed his jacket, pointedly laying it over the empty chair. "Why did I bring you to that student party when we first met?"
Sherlock frowned, falling silent for several minutes. "To have fun? To see the reaction of those pompous students to a porter at their party?"
James gave a mock look of disappointment. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I’ll have to ask for your jacket. That wasn’t it. If I only wanted to see their reaction, I would have preferred not to be so closely involved."
Sherlock stripped off his jacket and threw it on top of James’s. "Why then?"
"I wanted to make friends with you, and quickly. I needed a bonding experience. Knowing your relationship with the rules, I guessed that showing myself to be a troublemaker would do the trick. It worked, didn't it?"
"It did," Sherlock smiled. "Let’s have another round. But I suspect we’ll attract unwanted attention if we continue here."
"To the hotel, then. I’ll give you another one on the way."
James took both jackets, Sherlock took the gloves, and they set off toward the hotel.
"I'll wager any part of my attire on this one: Why did I flirt with your mother?”
"So you confirm that you did," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
"You can admit defeat without trying, if you'd like."
"Certainly not."
They walked to the hotel in silence. It was only when they were inside James’s room, Sherlock finally spoke.
“You use women for information,” Sherlock said, his voice cold and steady. “You wanted something from my mother, so you used the most effective method you know.”
James looked at him. He wanted to strip away all of Sherlock's layers, but the game was still in play.
"Correct. What do you want from me?" James loosened his tie. At that moment, he saw it—Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on him. James froze.
He has beautiful eyes, James thought. Stubborn eyes that see every detail. And now, they were seeing only him.
"Shoes. I’ll take your shoes." Sherlock sat abruptly in a chair facing the bed. "May I suggest a question for the next round?"
"Be my guest," James smiled.
"Why did you stay with me in the hospital that night? Any piece of clothing as a wager is fair game, correct?"
"Sure. Make your deduction."
"You said it was for the 'cute nurses.' I’ll take your word on that."
James realized he was being played. He liked it. "Wrong answer."
Sherlock unbuttoned the top of his shirt. "What do you want?"
James stared. Anything? Everything? He decided to play it modest. "I could use a good tie."
Sherlock smiled and removed his tie slowly. "Would you like to switch roles? I have a case for you." He pulled a key from his pocket and set it on the side table. "Why did I show this to you?"
"I believe an equal toll would be these." James produced two sheets of paper covered in equations. "Let me see if I can find the reason."
Could Sherlock be teasing him just for fun? No. To gloat that his formula was only one piece of the puzzle and James couldn't finish it? No. To offer him a new adventure? To give him another secret to unlock?
James remembered that night in the hospital. “Don’t go, James.”
Was it just to keep him close? James knew he was Sherlock's first friend. But who would go so far just to keep a friend nearby? Perhaps Sherlock didn't have friends, after all. James was something else. Something more intense.
James leaned in, hovering over Sherlock, far closer than friends should ever be. He saw Sherlock’s pupils blow wide.
"You wanted me to stay. You wanted to keep me close."
Sherlock reached up, his hands hot and strong against James’s neck. He pulled him down and kissed him. It was the kiss of a young boy—simple, lips pressing against lips. That wouldn't do. Sherlock would need to learn.
James kissed him back, deep and slow, exactly the way he liked it. He moved his mouth to Sherlock’s neck—it had been a smart move to remove the tie earlier. Eventually, he forced himself to pull back to look at Sherlock’s face.
"Is it good?" he asked. Sherlock’s gaze was unfocused. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock blinked, finding his focus for a second. "Would you shut up and continue, James? I am quite alright." James didn't have the breath to complain about Englishmen.
They would have to learn, together, this new way of breaking the law.