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‘And you’re losing your mind, but I forgive you because that clearly runs in your blood!’
Sherlock freezes.
The words linger heavily between them, and James seems to regret his words the moment they come out, but it is too late back off now.
Sherlock finds it hard to believe that James would hit him so low.
‘Oh’ Sherlock says finally.
‘You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘Didn’t you?’
It is not the possibility that James might think he is going mad that makes him tense, but the fact that Sherlock is terrified that he might be right. He is well aware of the fact that healthy people don’t see ghosts on a regular basis, and they don’t have urges to beat their father to death just to hear the truth, or to dig their dead sister’s grave, or to chase the danger as if it is a breath of a fresh air after almost drowning.
And Sherlock feels like he is drowning.
All the damn time.
The thinking process is crystal clear in his head. If he is mad, it means his father didn’t put his mother in the asylum and didn’t kill, or hide, or replace his sister in her grave; if he is mad, his world will stay the same.
Wouldn’t that be a fair price to pay?
Sherlock doesn’t realise he is shaking until he feels a gentle touch of James’s hand on his shoulder. He raises his gaze up to him with a mixture of overwhelming fear and despair, looking for support, as he feels another hallucination creeping in.
He knows that if he looks behind James’s back, he will see her again. Asking, and asking, and asking to come and find her; and he tries, he tries so hard. His whole life is breaking apart because of it.
‘Just look at me, Sherlock,’ James speaks as if he knows what he is feeling, placing his hand behind the back of Sherlock’s head. Their faces are too close. Sherlock feels his breath on his lips. ‘We'll figure this out. I promise you, Sherlock, you are not alone in this.’
It feels as if James knows exactly what to say to hit a nerve.
‘But what if—'
Being so close to James, Sherlock finds it surprisingly difficult to speak. But he doesn’t want to move; in fact, it is almost like he can’t move. He nervously licks his lips, and notices how James’s gaze follows his movement.
Oh.
Sherlock saw James’s flirt with tens of different people—for god’s sake, even with his own mother—but never until this moment did he realise the actual affect he had on them. He was like fire: alluring and mesmerising but burning with pain if you came to close.
Yet, Sherlock wanted to come close.
He wanted to choose this pain over any other that might have been waiting him outside of James’s arms.
‘But what if you what, Sherlock?’ James asks softly.
‘But what if I am actually losing my mind?’ Sherlock’s question is so silent, it’s almost impossible to hear it, but by the they James’s grip tightens, Sherlock knows that he heard it.
‘Then we’ll be mad together.’
A quiet chuckle slips out of Sherlock—probably, the first genuine one for a long time.
Out of corner of his eye, Sherlock notices Beatrice’s shadow moving one step closer to them. James’s hand feels like the only thing that is keeping him sane; the room feels too dark, too cold, too inescapable. One step after another, the shadow approaches them and now looms behind James.
Sherlock almost hears what she wants to say.
Find me. Find me. Find me.
A soft kiss brings him back to reality, as Sherlock freezes for a moment, unsure if that's part of his imagination too.
James’s lips press against his, his hands pulls him closer, and the warmth of his skin saves Sherlock from the cold abyss of his mind.
He kisses James back: hesitantly, testing. His touch sends shivers down his spine.
Now, this feels so right.
James presses him against the wall, deepens their kiss, slides his fingers from his cheek to neck, and lightly strokes his hair; Sherlock feels his hands everywhere on his body, and gets lost in them, reacting to each touch.
If they stop, the shadows will return.
So, they don’t.
When James’s hand squeezes his groin, Sherlock lets out a surprised sigh and leans in, craving his touch.
He can swear that he hears a satisfied chuckle in this moment.
Sherlock feels a warmth gathering low in his abdomen with every move. He breaks off their kiss, pressing the back of his head on to the wall, and quietly moans.
‘Aren’t you the work of art,’ James looks at Sherlock with a darkened expression in his eyes before unbuttoning his trousers and touching his bare skin where it needed the most.
He starts jerking him off, catching his every reaction. Oh, to see Sherlock like this—blushing, hiding from the shadows under his touch and forgetting himself, biting his lips in a vain attempt to stifle his sighs—it is something. James kisses and slightly bites his neck, plays with his hair, using his spare hand, and enjoys the touch of Sherlock’s fingers on the back of his.
‘James, I—’ Sherlock’s breath catches.
‘Say that again.’
‘What?’
‘My name.’
Sherlock flinches, as James’s touch starts to feel too intense. He breaths out, leans toward his movement, and a sense of sudden pleasure runs through his body, when he finishes in his hand, whispering his name.
For a few seconds, they stand in silence; Sherlock catching his breath, and James, looking quite amused by this whole situation. Out of corner of his eye, Sherlock notices his boner, and blushes even more, which doesn’t go unnoticed.
‘No matter how much I’d love to continue,’ there’s a familiar tease in James’s voice. ‘I have a better plan.'
'Which is?'
'Proving me right. Your father's a fucking psychopath.'