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It hadn’t been long since the death of a certain man that Sherlock noticed something was off. The world had started blurring at the corners, life sweeping past him moment to moment.
The trip from Constantinople back to the manor had been muted. Sherlock spent most of his time staring out of the window of the train, his back pin straight against the chair he was sat on.
His mother tried to make conversation every now and then, James often the only one offering an answer to her inquiries. He could feel his eyes scanning him quite frequently, but he couldn’t find it in him to meet his gaze.
The air in the train car felt off. The first day on the train had passed mostly without a hitch, not that one could be sustained in such a tough crowd. The second day, however, brought shadows.
They weren’t there often, but he could see them, nonetheless. He’d be reading in the dining car only to see a dark figure approaching from the corner of his sight. Looking up, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
He closed his book, unsettled, and called for a topping up of his glass. He probably needed to clear his senses a little. James ended up joining him, the shadows clearly left behind in the name of conversing with his dearest friend.
Beatrice spent most of her time with their mother - he could see how close they were getting. Mycroft saw it too, judging by his content smirk.
He often found himself sat not too far away from the rest of his family and letting their discussion flow around him. He told himself it helped him think, even more so when James was nearby.
That’s how London found them, a family which had been taken apart and pieced back together only to be taken apart again. The manor brought more than Sherlock bargained for.
It was delightful to finally have his family back together, at least the family that mattered, but there was a dark cloud hanging over him. A feeling eating at him from the inside out.
He became twitchy, sleep disturbed by many a nightmare he wouldn’t admit to anyone. Not even James who noticed the occurrence with increasing frequency. Sherlock, though, couldn’t let him in.
How ever could he admit to his dearest friend that he had been dreaming of his father coming back, or in worse, of his passing. How could he tell him that he felt destroyed by the loss of his father, a man who had kidnapped his sister and taught her the ways of a dubious life? A man who had almost brought the world to normalise mass slaughter, and who had that same dear friend wrapped around his finger?
So, he waved him away whenever he asked, throat tightening up just a smidge. He could tell James was getting worried, but Sherlock was convinced he had to do this on his own.
He spent a lot of time with his siblings sharing stories of his many-a-criminal act. Mycroft didn’t seem much too impressed, but Beatrice seemed almost delighted at her brother’s shine for delinquency.
You can take the sister out of the murderous organisation, but not the murderous organisation out of the sister, he supposed.
It had been a meeting exactly like this when he had first seen him. They’d been sat by the river for old times' sake, drinking lemonade out of old, beat-up cups. Sherlock sat back, letting Mycroft tell the tale of how he got kicked out of a school two cities away when the hair on his neck raised as a feeling of being watched consumed his every thought.
He turned subtly every which way, not wanting to disturb his siblings just yet, when he spotted him.
The man who had been haunting his dreams and nightmares, the man who had ripped the floor from under his feet and let him plummet down.
There he was, Silas, his father, stood on the other side of the river smiling at him unnervingly. He didn’t speak; he just nodded knowingly at him before pulling out a dead butterfly out from under his coat, his attention fully enraptured in it.
He let it spin in between his fingers slowly, showing Sherlock every angle of it clearly, before he looked back up at Sherlock at an impossible speed.
He pinned Sherlock with his gaze the same way those butterflies had been. He didn’t see Mycroft notice his sudden derealization, and he certainly didn’t hear his call.
He could only see his father, every word he had said to him reverberating in his head in circles.
A concerned hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it and when he looked back, he saw that the peace which had once ruled over the meeting had now turned into worry.
Both Beatrice and Mycroft stared at him, faces at different levels of worry.
“Are you quite well, brother dear?” Mycroft asked slowly, unsure of how to approach him.
“Quite” Sherlock answered, a fake smile quickly plastered onto his face, desperately trying to cover the sheer panic at what he had seen.
He could see his siblings didn’t believe what he’d said, so he excused himself instead. Once he was out of their sight he ran. He ran as fast as he could, as tears he didn’t ask for clouded his vision. Wet grass squelched underneath his feet softly, wind carrying the noise further than usual, but all Sherlock could focus on was the severe lack of air his lungs contained. He ran inside, almost slipping on the smooth surface, his fall broken by a solid body catching him.
If he’d been even slightly more aware of the world around him, he’d notice that he’d run into James, but he was too busy falling to the ground slowly as his breath tried leaving him in a form more akin to a knot than a puff of air.
The body slid down to the floor with him, supporting him as he heaved, head spinning akin to a tightly wound coil.
He could feel his presence again, closer this time. The only guard he had was the body sustaining him as sobs wrecked his body. He was positively sure he was dying. His body followed his desperate breaths, contorting after them, trying to make place for more air.
A hand tangled into his hair pulling him up until he saw a face talking to him. It wasn’t his father, but one very assuring man. He couldn’t recognise him in his current state, but he could deduce that he was trying to help him. His mouth was clearly moving, maybe telling him to breathe – he was attempting to, kind sir.
The hand pulled a hysteric Sherlock, so they were leaned forehead to forehead, continuing to talk to him even if the sound reached deaf ears.
Sherlock could still feel Silas’ presence in the room, watching his every move. He desperately begged his lungs to accept the air he was heaving in to not seem so weak in front of his father’s gaze. He finally felt his lungs accept fresh air as the hand at the back of his neck squeezed softly and he heard James’ whispers telling him to breathe.
He slowly sagged down onto the other man, energy gone running away after his... moment. James embraced him quickly as he continued his never-ending stream of reassurances.
Sherlock didn’t notice, but between James’ words and hand on him the feeling of being watched slowly dissipated to nothingness. He stayed focused on the body grounding him even as tears continued to make their presence known on his now sticky face.
James continued holding him through it no matter if his tears soaked through his blazer and shirt.
-
They’d talked about it briefly the night after it happened. Sherlock sat numb on his bed and James sat next to him holding his hand and caressing it as he tried to figure out what got Sherlock to such a state.
Sherlock blamed his recent, not unordinary, lack of sleep as of late – not that James believed that it was the sole reason for such a reaction. He too had experienced many a sleepless night, but all that accumulated to was falling asleep in an alley behind a couple of crates, not this.
Sherlock continued staring at the vast nothingness in front of him. Nothingness being a cupboard.
“I am losing my mind, James” Sherlock whispered finally. It seemed as though time itself stopped, leaving a breathless Sherlock and Moriarty sat in the room.
Sherlock felt as though his being had been carved out and finely prepared on a platter for James to ogle at.
His feelings, however raw and ugly, were laid out for him to judge.
James squeezed his hand and brought it up to kiss softly. Sherlock didn’t know what it meant. He realised somewhere deep inside him that he should feel ashamed and disgusted by this act, but he only felt- at peace, almost.
James didn’t let go of his hand, even as Sherlock tearfully whispered what he’d seen. Even as he admitted his grief for his father. Even as he leaned into James’ embrace, staying hidden in the crook of his neck for much longer than strictly friendly.
-
The next day brought a startling sense of normalcy back. Sherlock pointedly ignored James’ stares until he finally stopped by mid-morning.
The rest of the Holmes didn’t know about what had transpired the day before, Sherlock hadn’t felt the need to tell them. In his professional opinion, they didn’t need to know. James knowing was already too much.
They’d decided on a weekly afternoon tea with the family to get to know each other again, and there they were four days after Sherlock’s slight (in his words) meltdown.
They were sat around a lovely marble table bought by Silas from a merchant in Venice. They were currently enjoying Mycroft’s dramatic retelling of one of the cases he’d been on the year prior.
His soft tone added to the absurdity so much so that even Sherlock was snickering into his cup. Beatrice seemed the most free he’d ever seen her, and even his mum seemed relatively relaxed. She was clearly enjoying her time outside in the unusually sunny weather.
James sat next to him splayed out on his chair with his arms resting comfortably on his chest.
Once Sherlock’s laughter died down, he noticed another figure had joined them - Silas.
He wasn’t stupid, much to his old teacher’s surprise, so after a quick shock he made sure to school his face into one of silent contentment.
He kept his smile soft even as Silas leaned onto the table staring straight at him. He could feel his calculating gaze piercing his head pinning him to his seat.
He did his best to keep his panic at bay as he decided which exit would worry his family the least. As long as he could slip away he could control this and demand his father answer him his many a question.
His gaze drifted to his tea cup, still halfway full, and made up his mind.
He moved his hand down to reach for it and with a quick flick of his wrist spilled all what was left on his blouse. He got up, mind blocking out everything which wasn’t his father and ran into the house.
What he didn’t notice was that James immediately got up behind him, clearly having seen right through him, or his brother having taken notice of James’ impeccable ability to read Sherlock like a book.
-
If he didn’t know any better, he’d think James and his brother were otherwise involved.
Mycroft stared after the two and sighed. He didn’t know what was wrong with his brother, but he could only hope that the man who knew him best could help him.
-
“Sherlock!” Yelled a voice from behind him.
He turned around only to see his dear companion James - he had followed him all throughout the garden into the manor. Great.
Sherlock sighed, he was getting increasingly irritated at constantly getting stopped from solving his own problems himself.
“What is it?” He inquired, turning around to face his friend.
“Oh nothing, just wondering if you saw yer pap again, seeing as you ran like you’d seen a ghost” James stated softly, a triumphant grin making its way onto his face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about there, James” Sherlock swiftly turned around to make his way up, only to quickly hear he was being followed once more.
“Have you told the others yet?” Asked James from under him.
“Whatever for?” Sherlock did not want to deal with their grief and sorrow - he’d seen what they all acted like with his mother.
He sped up and practically ran into his room, closing the door behind him to get if only a second of alone time.
He tried his best to compose himself right as James burst into the room, questioning gaze and all.
Sherlock just shrugged and turned to his bookshelf to pick out a novel. Not that there was one he hadn’t read, but it was the thought that mattered, no?
He could hear angry mumbling from behind him, but paid it no mind as he picked out a book about architecture in the Middle East and sat down by his table.
“Sherlock, you need to tell someone” James said finally.
“Now why would I do that if I already have you, which I assure you is more than enough” Sherlock muttered into his book. He hoped his interest in the book looked at least semi-convincing.
When he looked up at James, however, he didn’t see him. Instead he saw his father’s face staring right back at him.
He couldn’t help flinching this time.
His father didn’t disappear when he looked away, if anything he was closer than he was moments prior.
Sherlock startled again, scrambling up and behind his chair, his eyes never leaving his father’s. It felt as though his heart had stopped momentarily and was now running to catch up.
His hand shot up at his table to grab at anything to protect himself from the man in front of him. A part of his mind, one that was hidden away very deep inside of him, knew that it wasn’t and couldn’t be his father. That it was James’ face he was looking so terrified at.
The one that was at the surface however, could only see Silas’ face sneering at him, approaching him slowly. He could hear his steps echoing in his skull, each thud feeling like a strike with a dagger from inside his head.
His hand finally stumbled upon an item, a candle holder with a corpse of a candle long burned. He held it in front of him, trying his best to look as confident as he possibly could.
It didn’t appear to deter his father, if anything he got even closer with much more eagerness than before. It was almost as if he could smell the fear off of him.
He raised his hand as if to hit him and Sherlock could only do what he did best - try to hit back.
He struck his father and-
Except that it wasn’t his father at all - he’d just hit his closest and only friend over the head with a candlestick.
He dropped the offending item and reached for the other man, who slowly recoiled away from him.
“James, I-“ he whispered, the words getting stuck in his throat. He watched as blood slowly started seeping out of the cut he’d caused.
He snapped his hand away from James and stood up abruptly. He didn’t let James get one word in before he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, dashing out into the afternoon glow.
He took a deep breath and strained his ears to check if he was being followed once more. He wasn’t.
And he didn’t want to this fact about why it hurt so deeply. Maybe he had still hoped that even though he’d hurt James, he’d still chase after him.
Never mind that.
And so, he made his way out of the manor and towards the city, trying to leave behind the bitter feelings of having ruined something beautiful.
-
Mycroft really didn’t understand what was happening between James and Sherlock.
One minute they were joined at the hip, brains practically combined into one as they bounced ideas back and forth.
The next James tumbled down the stairs with a bruise adorned with a cut in the middle.
Mycroft took one look at James and the door, which was currently wide open, and turned around to fetch supplies to clean his face up - and possibly ask some questions.
It took about a minute of Mycroft’s tense cleaning before he cracked.
“Are you going to tell me what happened willingly, or must I force it out of you one scratch at a time?” He asked, dabbing the disinfectant on the wound.
“If you must know, your brother has taken a liking to hitting ghosts with candlesticks” James muttered angrily, picking away at the wax still stuck in his hair.
Mycroft moved away and took a stabilising breath - if this meant what he thought it did, he’d rather not have known at all. He probably would’ve, but reality hurt the same.
“Do you mean- has he been seeing things?” Asked Mycroft slowly, hand coming back up to finish dressing the cut.
Moriarty just nodded slowly
“He’s been seeing Silas” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Mycroft put his face in his hands and waited.
“Where’s he gone?” Asked Mycroft finally.
“‘Don’t know, he just ran his little feet out the door and vanished” James recalled, voice still as numb as before.
“Has it been happening long?”
James made a face akin to being strangled - or wanting to be strangled to death.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him in retort.
“Not really, it’s just been quite… intense” James was clearly picking his words, possibly trying to save Sherlock from further scrutiny.
“And neither of you thought to tell anyone?” Mycroft was starting to think less of James than he had; how could he ever have thought that keeping this a secret would benefit anyone in the equation?
“Listen, it wasn’t my place to tell, no matter what I thought”
“If you’re going to care for my brother as much as you do, you better do it right” Mycroft stated, mentally adding a reminder to inquire his brother further about this peculiarity.
James shot him a startled stare, clearly having taken what was implied.
“What do you mean by that”
“What do you think i meant by that?” Mycroft asked sternly “Continuing on, I’d say you’re nice and patched up, run along now”
He wiped his hands on his trousers and put the ointments and cleaning supplies away, ignoring whatever undignified sounds James was making.
-
James was waiting for him when he’d come back. He was stood by the window watching the sun set, the sun making his chiseled side profile stand out more than usual.
Sherlock stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. James wasn’t moving, continuing on with his sunset watching.
He moved to stand next to him, unable to bear the quiet for much longer.
“Wonderful sunset we’re having today, aren’t we James?” Sherlock started cautiously. He could see his companion smirk from beside him.
“Is that how you Holmes’ apologise to people you’ve whacked over the head with a candlestick?” James tsked “An interesting family custom, I must admit” he added lightheartedly.
Sherlock raised the disinfectant he suddenly remembered he brought with him as a peace offering.
“Would this help?” Sherlock asked, entirely sure of himself and how it would make James forgive him immediately.
Until said man turned his face to him and he saw that he’d already been patched up.
“Ah, no need for that, Sherlock” James showed the scratch off with a cock of his head. He puffed his cheek out a couple times with a grin to really let it catch the light.
“Your brother’s done a proper job of it, don’t you think?” The man asked.
Sherlock staid quiet, unsure once more of how to proceed.
He raised his hand, mirroring how he’d done so when he’d first struck him. His fingers ghosted over the wound and he saw James’ face fall into mute surprise.
“I had to tell him” whispered James into the quiet. Sherlock only closed his eyes shut to block the rest out.
“Are they coming to lock me up, then?” He asked, hand slowly dropping from the other’s face.
It got caught by the other man before it could move far.
“Sherlock I promise you, I would never let them take you away from me” James breathed angrily “not if you threatened me at gunpoint, not if you thought me some evil scum, and most definitely not if you hit me with a candle stick” his voice raised as he drove his point further, his hand squeezing Sherlock’s with increasing intensity.
And what was Sherlock supposed to answer with other than to kiss him?
He pulled the other in, grasping at the back of his neck with his free hand and kissed him like a starving man.
James quickly go with the programme and kissed him back, if almost twice as hard. He even grinned into the kiss the cheeky bastard.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock’s mind was quiet and at peace.