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“I was the one who lugged her trunk up to her room a week ago. Shou’an couldn’t have arrived in Oxford two weeks ago, James,” Sherlock said as they emerged from Fletcher Arnold’s shop. His pace was brisk, almost clipped, weaving them both away from the premises before the shopkeeper’s mounting suspicion over ‘Wilberforce’ true identity could curdle into something more active—like a shout for the constable.
James kept stride easily, though his brow furrowed, “How can the Princess be in two places at once? One on a ship sailing from China to England, and the other at Fletcher Arnold’s, being fitted for a glove?”
“Precisely.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with the beginnings of a spark. “We cannot have two princesses arriving here, and Princess Shou’an has no twin. Unless there is a fake, carbon copy of her.”
“Or,” Sherlock continued, “something’s suspicious about her arrival times.”
James grinned, “Well done, Sherlock. And now, where’s the destination to prove your deductions?”
Ideas cascaded through Sherlock’s great mind, each tumbling over the last until one caught—sharp and certain. He slowed just enough to pull the gloves from his coat pocket. The glove that had slipped from Shou’an’s hands the moment she pushed Professor Enright from the bell tower.
“Let’s send this package to Mycroft.”
—————
No matter how much they might have wished to prolong their reunion with Mycroft, the man was not in his house.
He could be anywhere, or worse, in his office—places they could not yet visit, not unless they wanted Sherlock left dangling at the end of Scotland Yard’s leash.
Even now, Scotland Yard patrolled London after Professor Enright’s death with a vigilance that bordered on suffocating. They dared not push their luck; another recognition would mean another chase, and another chase might mean the end of Sherlock’s fragile freedom.
So as the sun began to set, painting the street in hues of amber and bruised violet, they settled into the shadows of a dark narrow space beside Mycroft’s townhouse.
James leaned against the damp brick, arms crossed. “Your brother didn’t give you a key to his house?”
Sherlock glanced at James, “I believe that ranks rather high on his list of priorities, ensuring I never enter his home without him present. Not after what happened when I was five.”
James grinned, the expression flickering even in the gloom. “What'd you do, then?”
“I wanted to show him the insects I had gathered from the forest near our childhood home. He wasn’t in his room when I went looking. Since I’m too tired to search for him, I waited on his bed—mind you, I came to his room directly after I’d deemed my collection satisfactory.” He paused, a boyish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Somehow, the insects managed to escape from the jar I put them in. I woke to the sounds of the books slipping from Mycroft’s hands and hitting the floor.”
“Oh, he didn’t appreciate the gift you gave.”
“Absolutely not.” Sherlock’s smile lingered, fond and unrepentant. “He declared that he would appreciate it if I never entered his room again without his consent. Or, should he ever possess a house of his own without his explicit consent.”
“So that’s why you haven’t even tried to pick his lock with those skillful hands of yours?”
“Yes. He wouldn’t listen to a single word from either of us if he caught us waiting inside his foyer like uninvited spiders.”
James tilted his head toward the darkening street. “So we wait?”
Sherlock gave a single, decisive nod.
—————
At first, waiting was tolerable.
Then boredom set in like a fever.
Sherlock began to pace back and forth with his boots striking the cobblestones with a restless, almost frantic energy. James circled the house in careful, silent arcs. He kept himself pressed close to the brickwork, staying flat against walls and hedges to avoid drawing the attention of any nosy neighbor peering through curtains. He examined the windows (secured), the roof (accessible but noisy), the cellar grate (promising but rusted shut)—not out of any real plan to break in, but simply to give his restless mind something to chew on.
Eventually, he drifted back to Sherlock's side.
“We should have waited in a pub,” James exhaled, tilting his head to Sherlock, who stood motionless now, staring at the stars—or what little of them could be seen through London's bruised, smoke-choked heavens. Nothing like the skies James had grown up under.
“Why?” Sherlock glanced at him.
“We could have a fine drink. A nice lady, at least.” James waved a hand at the air. “Instead of being eaten alive by these fecking mosquitoes.”
“And has someone recognized me then reported me to a nearby constable so he could pay for their next round of drinks? I'll pass.”
“Oh, come on.” James's voice dropped into something lower, teasing tone. “Have you forgotten my skill with disguise? We've been washladies in a prison. We've stood as police officers right under the noses of Scotland Yard's finest detective. What's the difficulty in getting you into a pub?”
Sherlock said nothing, just giving James a look.
“We can start with your hair,” James murmured, stepping closer. “To do the tricks.”
Before Sherlock could protest, James raised his hand and sank his fingers into that neatly combed hair—ruffling, tousling, working the strands loose from their usual array.
Soft.
Where did that come from?
He wasn't supposed to notice. Wasn't supposed to want to keep his fingers there, to slow down, to—
The thought slipped out before he could stop it. Sherlock's hair was unfairly soft—the kind of soft hair that made a man's fingers want to linger, to card through slowly instead of this hurried, practical messing.
He has soft hair.
“Stop it.” Sherlock's voice was low and somehow restrained.
But James didn't stop.
Sherlock tried once again, “I told you to stop.” Now Sherlock's hands came up to catch James's wrists. His fingers wrapped around them. But James might have been going mad, because even as Sherlock told him to stop, he didn't feel Sherlock really meant it.
Sherlock's eyes daringly locked onto James's. Then James's fingers brushed against his scalp with just a little more pressure—a slow, dragging slide through those dark blond strands at the back of his head, dangerously near his neck and something in Sherlock broke.
His eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched sharply with an involuntary sound he clearly hadn't meant to make.
James caught himself off guard.
Wonderful, he thought. The word bloomed as a heat rose in his chest.
They were nearly the same height—an inch here, a breath there. Close enough that James could count every one of Sherlock's eyelashes if he wanted to even in the dim light. Those dark lashes are absurdly long. Sherlock's mouth had parted slightly, just a fraction, and beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone, James caught the faintest wash of blush.
His hands froze mid-motion. But Sherlock hadn't pushed his hands away.
So James didn’t pull back.
The narrow space went utterly still. No distant carriage wheels or footfalls on the pavement. Just the two of them, chests rising and falling with the slow, devastating realization that neither wanted to be the first to break.
James's pulse thrummed beneath Sherlock's palms, still wrapped around his wrists, holding him. He could feel it, quick and strong, and he wondered if Sherlock could feel his in return.
"Shouldn't you let me go?" James said quietly. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
"I should." Sherlock's voice was barely a murmur.
But neither moved.
James's hands were still half-buried in Sherlock's now-ruined hair, fingers tangled in those dark blond, impossibly soft strands. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock's scalp beneath his fingertips.
"You started this," Sherlock murmured, his voice lower than James had ever heard it.
"I know."
"Are you going to finish it?"
James's mouth went dry. Now Sherlock was looking at him with those dark, intense eyes. James realized he was waiting.
God or any divine above, help me, this man is gonna be the end of me.
He moved slowly—giving Sherlock every chance to shove him away, to twist free, to end this before it began. But Sherlock held his grip on his wrists, steady and sure, as James leaned in.
Their foreheads touched first. Sherlock's cold skin against James's warmer one. They breathed the same air now, hot and close and trembling. James could smell him—clean linen and that subtle scent that was unmistakably Sherlock. He could see the way Sherlock's lashes cast tiny shadows on his cheeks. He could see the faint flush spreading, just a little, toward his ears.
"James," Sherlock whispered.
James's hands slid from Sherlock's hair to cup the sides of his face instead. His thumbs traced the sharp ridges of Sherlock's cheekbones, those beautiful, infuriating cheekbones, and he felt Sherlock lean into the touch like a man starved for it.
"Tell me to stop," James breathed against his lips. "Right now. Tell me, and I will."
Sherlock's eyes opened.
They were dark. So dark—pupils blown wide, the blue-grey almost swallowed whole. He looked at James like James was the last puzzle he'd ever need to solve.
"Don't," Sherlock said.
And James closed the distance.
The kiss was not gentle. It was hungry and desperate and a little bit clumsy, Sherlock's teeth caught James’s lip, and James felt Sherlock’s nose bumping his cheek. But neither of them really cared about it.
Sherlock made a sound against James's mouth—low and startled, swallowed before it could fully form—and his hands finally let go of James's wrists. But only so they could fist in the front of James's coat, hauling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between them at all.
He's pulling me in, James realized, dizzy with it. He's pulling me in and he's not letting go.
The brick wall met Sherlock's back at some point—James wasn't sure who had moved whom—and James pressed into Sherlock. His fingers slid from Sherlock's jaw into his hair again, tangling in those dark blond strands, and Sherlock shuddered.
That small sound. That tremor.
James wanted to hear it again and again. Wanted to memorize the exact pitch of it, the way Sherlock's breath hitched when James tugged gently at the roots. He wanted to pull more of those sounds out of him, here in this dark space where no one could see, where no one would ever know that Sherlock Holmes could be reduced to this: trembling and flushed and kissing James like he was drowning.
Sherlock's mouth was warm and insistent. He kissed with the same fierce focus he gave everything—like James was a problem to be solved, a code to be cracked. His teeth grazed James's lower lip, just shy of too sharp, and James groaned before he could stop himself.
"God," James breathed against his mouth.
Sherlock answered by kissing him harder.
James's hands slid down—from Sherlock's hair to his shoulders, from his shoulders to his side, fingers pressing into the fabric of his coat as if he could pull Sherlock inside his own ribs. Sherlock made another sound at that, softer this time, almost a whimper, and James felt it everywhere.
This is insane, he thought. We're insane. We're standing in the darkness beside Mycroft Holmes's house, waiting for the man to come home, and I'm kissing his younger brother senseless.
The thought should have stopped him.
It didn't.
Sherlock broke the kiss first, just enough to breathe. His forehead pressed against James's, both of them panting, the air between them hot and shared.
"James," Sherlock whispered again. His voice was wrecked. Ruined. James had never heard anything better.
“Sherlock." James's thumb traced the curve of Sherlock's cheekbone, the faint blush still there under his skin. "We should—"
"Don't." Sherlock's eyes opened, dark and fierce. "Don't say we should stop."
"I wasn't going to."
Then Sherlock kissed James again. Slower this time, but no less desperate. His hands released James's coat only to slide upward, fingers threading into James's hair, holding him in place like he was afraid James might disappear.
James shifted his feet, sliding one of his legs between Sherlock's thighs, pressing his hips forward into that spot that made Sherlock whimper—a broken, breathless sound that went straight to James's groin.
"M-more," Sherlock whispered against his mouth.
James nearly lost all of his sanity.
The only thing anchoring him was the cold breeze behind his back and the distant, nagging awareness of where they were.
He pulled back just enough to speak.
"Promise me," James breathed, "not to get louder."
Sherlock nodded, quick and eager, his eyes already half-closed.
James's hand slid lower—from Sherlock's jaw to his neck, fingers wrapping around the column of his throat. He gave a soft squeeze, feeling Sherlock's pulse jump beneath his fingers, and he felt the reaction firsthand—Sherlock's mouth opened against his own, a silent gasp swallowed by the kiss.
His hand moved lower again. Loosening Sherlock's tie first, the silk sliding free beneath his fingers. Then the first button and next the second.
James broke the kiss this time.
He trailed his lips along Sherlock's jaw at a slow, torturous tempo and feather-light pressure. A light bite there, just enough to make Sherlock shiver. Then his tongue out to brushed farther down, along the corded tension of Sherlock's neck, tasting salt and warmth and something distinctly him.
He licked. Planted a kiss. Then sucked—lightly at first, just a brush of lips and tongue.
Sherlock's head fell back against the brick with a soft thud. His composure cracked wide open. His eyes squeezed shut, mouth following a moment later, but the sounds still escaped—low whimpers, breathy and desperate, slipping past his lips like secrets he couldn't keep.
His hands clawed at James's back, pulling him closer, grinding against him in search of more friction. Desperate. Needy. Ruined.
James sucked harder on Sherlock's base neck as a warning to keep shut his mouth. He knew it would bruise. He knew Sherlock would have to hide it behind his collar tomorrow. The thought sent a thrill down his spine.
So he plant more.
One hand slid back up into Sherlock's hair, gripping tight, tilting his head further to expose more of that pale throat. The other hand traveled south—down Sherlock's spine, past the small of his back, until his palm found the curve of Sherlock's arse and squeezed.
Sherlock made a sound James had never heard before. Something between a moan and a sob. Tears started to collect in the corner of his eyes.
His nails dug into James's back through his coat, raking hard. If they weren't wearing clothes, James was certain there would be crescent-shaped marks on his skin for days. He didn't mind it.
He wanted them next time.
"James," Sherlock gasped. He shut his mouth instantly. But he repeated it in his mind, again and again like a chant, a prayer or a plea. But some still managed to slip out from his lips. Sherlock's grow more desperate against James.
James felt himself slipping. Drowning. He was so close to feeling nothing else but Sherlock—Sherlock's heat, Sherlock's sounds, Sherlock's hands pulling him closer and closer and closer—
The carriage wheels broke through.
Rumbling. Approaching. Close.
They both froze.
The sound grew louder—hooves on cobblestone, the creak of wooden spokes, a driver shouting somewhere in the distance.
Then James looked back at Sherlock.
Sherlock looked at him.
Dilated eyes stared into James's own. And James knew he must look the same. Hungry. Feral. Ruined.
Damn it, James thought.
Sherlock's lips were swollen. His hair was beyond saving. His tie hung loose and his collar gaped open, revealing the fresh bruise already blooming on his neck. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths.
And those eyes—those eyes—were pleading with James, inviting him to ignore the carriage. To keep going. To abandon everything else and stay right here, pinned between brick and want.
James wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
Instead, he leaned in and pressed one last, lingering kiss to Sherlock's cheek. Soft, almost tender, a sharp contrast to everything that had come before.
"As much as I want to continue this," James murmured against his skin, "that'll have to wait."
Sherlock blinked. Once. Twice. Then something shifted behind his eyes. The fog cleared, the world rushed back in.
"Yes," he said, voice hoarse. He reached up with trembling hands to straighten his collar, to button what James had undone. His fingers fumbled.
"Mycroft. Mycroft is here."