‘all love must leave; but search for it i will

The scars you have, the ones that won’t fade - the ones that aren’t noticeable - is real. 

The way your shirt sticks to you, drenched with sweat, the way your fingers claw at your sheets to grip ahold of something and calm yourself down, alone, in the dark, is real. 

The sob that escapes your throat is raw, gasping. It hurts when it escapes and claws at the insides of your throat. You free one of your shaky hands, long enough to clasp around your neck to allow the pads of your thumb and fingers to press and try to smooth out the hurt that’s still lodged inside. Your other hand remains tangled in the sheets, gripping the sheet until your knuckles turn a lighter shade. 

Your eyes are blurry, heavy with unshed tears as you glance around your room that’s been changed into a shrine. Rather than it being a place to relax, it’s become a grieving space that’s enclosed all the sounds of sadness that you’ve allowed yourself to let go of. 

Eddie’s band posters had been hastily rescued from the dumpster by your own hands, along with the other items you had gotten to before the cops had a chance to toss anything they didn’t deem as evidence. 

His flannel sheets are too big for your own bed, the top cover dragging across the floor of your room, yet you don’t mind a little piece of Eddie gracing a small part of your room. 

Your chest rises and falls with quick breaths as you slowly turn and lie yourself down, knees pulling close to your chest as a tear slips over the bridge of your nose and lands close to your temple. Your hand remains wrapped around your neck, still, and though you’re tired, you can’t find it in yourself to close your eyes and fall back asleep. 

The smell is still potent in your nose — blood, dirt, sweat. The way Dustin was hunched over Eddie’s body. The sight of lines in the dirt of where he must have been trying to push himself away. 

The way nothing had left your mouth until Steve had to drag you away. The way your hand immediately shot out and your feet dragged in the dirt, Dustin’s own sobs becoming louder from behind you. The way acid crawled up your throat and landed by the rickety steps of Eddie’s trailer. 

You had grown angry at Steve for dragging you away from Eddie, something you knew he had to do, something you knew you would eventually forgive him for. 

Some days, you remain laying in bed, curled up until your spine hurts and you have to find a different way to turn. Other days, you’d force yourself to lift from the comfort of the sheets that swallow your bed and look at all the things that he had left. 

Cassettes, shirts, sweatshirts since hoodies bothered him, little rubber bands, rings he’d traded in for the ones he had been wearing. The photos that had him frozen, that had begun fading a bit. 

It’s a mockery to you, almost. Even a still of him was fading away just as he did in Dustin’s arms. 

The days you forced yourself to stand and push yourself to be a real human for the time being, you’d bathe. Try and soak away the guilt you continued to feel that left a hollow feeling heavy in your chest. 

You’d watch the water slip down the drain, sitting in the tub as you shiver, yet the feeling never stops. It never went down the drain like you hoped it would. 

The unshed tears would begin to burn again as you stood up from the wet porcelain, reaching for the knobs once more and turning on the shower, letting the water pelt against your body. The steam would become suffocating, tightening around your throat as you work fast to wash your hair and body. 

After that task, you’d change into some pants and a faded shirt that still smelled of his aftershave and the cigarettes he’d sneak to smoke on the back porch. 

It’s pretty when you make it to the cemetery, as crazy as it seems. A musk beginning - purple and blue, foggy - the birds just starting their day as well. 

Eddie’s grave is under a weeping willow, the drooping branches grazing the ground that’s overgrown. 

And although his grave is new, words in red brand the cement. 

BURN IN HELL. 

You remember when you first visited him and saw those words. The anger had bubbled up in your blood as you had tried to clean it with hands that had started tingling from the force. 

Hopper was the one to pull you away and allowed you to cry in his chest as he held you. 

“I know, kid. I know.” 

You had stopped trying to clean the words when you realized they really would never come off - and a new gravestone would immediately be vandalized with the same harsh words. 

You situate yourself in front of the block of cement, with a slight quiver of your chin as your hands brush along the grass when you realize - again - that there is no body below the dirt. Just a gravestone with his name and a spot for when they do find him. 

Find his body. 

You always try to talk to him, but sometimes you can’t. 

You’d like to think he would understand. 

‘Cause then I'll know you're also there. 

'Cause proof is in the adversere.

You found me.’

Your chin drips towards your chest, a small tear finally releasing and trailing down your cheek. 

I need a sign. 

Any sign that you’re still here. 

Please. 

After a moment, your head lifts as you pick at the grass below your hand. Your eyes stare at the etched letters that shouldn’t be there. A soft cooing noise makes you blink quickly before your eyes land on a small red creature — a small black patch around its beak, a belly that slightly pokes out. 

A red cardinal. 

It stares at you for a moment once it’s landed on the ground. Its small wings flap, lifting itself from the ground before lowering itself onto the top of the block. 

Your heart flutters as you stare at it. 

The wind gently passes through, brushing along the long branches to make them dance in the air, the sun that begins to rise in the sky beams through, the soft warmth it offers feels like a small hug almost. 

Your eyes drift back towards the bird before a wavering smile pulls at your lips. 

I love you still. 

The bird coos softly, lingering there for a moment longer before flying away once again. Once it’s out of view, you turn back towards the gravestone, a hand reaching out and brushing along the top. 

‘Then the sun begins to rise.

 We made it through the darkest night. 

You’d been standing in the kitchen of the Holmes’ residence for just over three hours. Sherlock was on a case until six hours previous when you received word from his brother that Sherlock was, in fact, missing. 

Unable to do anything to find him, you turned to the one thing you knew always seemed to calm you when almost nothing else worked; you baked. 

Cakes, scones, cookies, bread; anything to help you with your frustration and fear. 

When you didn’t answer, James spoke again. 

“You’re beating the thing as if it owes you money.”

“Why are you here?” You asked, without looking up.

Not that you had to, to know how he was standing. Leaning against the frame of the open door, one foot crossed over the other with his hands crossed in front of him. 

James paused for a slight second. “I was hungry and smelled a fresh loaf in the oven. Came to see if there was any available.”

You sighed. “By the counter.”

He nodded his head, pushing himself from the doorframe. “Thanking you kindly.”

You were that tense and wired, you couldn’t feel his eyes fixed on you as he walked across the kitchen. Nor could you see the way he was studying you – analysing you. The way you stood, the way you moved, the fact you weren’t yelling at him was his biggest worry. 

Instead, you just kept kneading the bread over, and over, and over again. 

Crossing the room once more, James stood beside you and laid a hand on your arm. You hesitated, but you stopped working the bread for a moment. 

And a moment was all he needed. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“How?” You asked, not tearing your eyes from the wooden counter top. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I know him.” 

You sighed, closing your eyes. 

“Knowing Sherlock,” James said. “He’s probably halfway to the docks to ask some poor, unsuspecting stranger a random question. Without context. And get him caught in a two hour lecture about…bees.”

That got a chuckle out of you, but rather than it being coarse and dry – like the usual sound of your laughter when you ‘laughed’ at something he said. Your laugh was…wet. Held together by the tears you were too stubborn to shred. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“You should be out looking for him.” You said, your voice unarmed for the first time in his presence. “What if he’s hurt?”

“There’s nothing I haven’t taught him, that I already know. He’s prepared.” James nodded, before adding. “I just hope he listened.”

You nodded, trying to believe it yourself. But from the way you’d gone from pummelling the unbaked bread, to using whatever energy you had left to try and kneed, told James more than he needed to know. 

For a second, he hesitated. “I-I’m gonna do something, now, but I need your word that you won’t try and stab with your bread knife.”

Swiping your hand across your cheek, quickly, you tried to steady your voice. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to hug you.” 

Looking at James, the memory of your first meeting flipped through your mind as quickly as it took a few seconds to pass. 

It had been around the time when Sherlock had thought of the bright idea to help his mother escape her asylum. Although you didn’t like her being in there in the first place, you would have thought he might have written to you to tell you before he came barreling into his home, sounding alarm bells in your head. 

As Sherlock and James had searched a couple of the rooms, James had entered the one you were standing in. Rather than announce himself, however, he opted to lay a hand on your shoulder and proceeded to get flipped over you, his arm twisted and a bruise in his shoulder that was an identical match to the bottom of your heel. 

Rather than flip him in the kitchen, you accepted the hug. 

And when Sherlock came strolling in through the back door, the next afternoon, and found you and James Moriarty not only alone together in a room, but that room was also standing; it was safe to say he was more than shocked. 

“Sherlock!”

Laying the hot try down on the counter, you ran over and hugged him as tight as you could. 

“I see you’re alive,” James said, taking in the muddy image of his best friend. 

“I can see you are, too.” Sherlock replied. “You bake?”

“My mother taught me,” James smiled, leaning on a tea towel and crossing one boot over the other. “Not to say Y/n hasn’t taught me a thing or two in the last day or so.”

Standing back from the hug, you hit Sherlock as hard as you could in the arm. “Where the hell were you?! What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”

He rubbed his arm, a little offended that it hurt him so much. “Ow!”

“I’d answer her if I were you, Sherlock.” James chimed in. 

In the last twenty four hours alone, Sherlock had been kidnapped, made friends with his kidnappers, helped them solve their case, cash in on their favour for him, solved the majority of his current case and picked up a new one. 

And out of it all, seeing you and James be…friendly? Was that really the best term? It was the strangest thing to happen to him. 

“Forgive me,” Sherlock said, leaning across the table hours after his explanation of his day. “But…are you two friends? I go missing for several hours and you two decide to-”

“Decide to…move on quite quickly and find a new best friend?” James asked before nodding proudly. “Yes, I believe so.”

Then you hit his shoulder, hard. 

“Ow.” Mostly, he laughed. 

“We’re civil,” you corrected, before laying a tray of biscuits in front of Sherlock. “Eat up. There’s plenty more.”

Looking across the kitchen, Sherlock made a mental tally of the baked goods. More than likely, you’d be wrapping them up and handing them out to the people in the village. 

“I’m sorry I worried you so much,” Sherlock said, sincerely. He wasn’t always the best at apologies, but looking around, he had no choice but to give you one. 

You nodded. “Next time, send a telegram. Better yet, take James with you.”

Sherlock and James looked at each other with slightly knowing smiles. “I’ll be sure to do that,” Sherlock said just as James said, “He can survive without me.”

You didn’t notice, but a look crossed between the boys as you turned away. Sherlock knew what it meant and James wasn’t one bit embarrassed to be caught in his crush. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Tell me something,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice quiet. 

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa just over an hour into the whiskey filled conversation between the boys. James was sitting beside you, letting your feet rest against his thigh, whilst his hand absentmindedly fell to your ankle and traced against the soft skin. 

“Do you like her because she’s the first woman to not flirt back? Or because you actually…like her?”

James looked at his friend, a tired smile on his face. “Can’t be giving away all my secrets, now.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t change. “She’s my friend, James. I won’t see her get hurt.”

“I think she can take care of herself, don’t you?”

“The sentiment still stands.” 

James watched Sherlock for a quiet moment, but Sherlock was unwavering as usual. 

“A bit of both,” James answered, honestly. “She’s beautiful, and smart. She can keep me on my toes, that’s for sure. I suppose she intrigued me…when she didn’t flirt back.”

“You mean when she told you to fuck off?”

James chuckled. “Yeah. That.”

During your first meeting, after asking who he was, he’d tried flirting with you a little just before Sherlock walked in and properly introduced you both. With his arm still twisted, you’d rolled your eyes at the fact the guy you were physically standing on still had the gall to try and flirt. 

That had been when you’d told him to fuck off. 

“But, truthfully, I can’t deny that having her argue with me…well,” James smiled. “It’s certainly a highlight of my day.”

Sherlock smiled, briefly, too. But watched as James’ eyes fell onto your sleeping frame. His friend didn’t have to ask his question out loud. 

Sitting forward in his chair and laying down his empty glass, Sherlock let out a small breath. “It’ll take time. But- and this is only if you’re serious about your feelings for her. I suspect that somewhere behind all those walls that I’ve seen her build…she’s willing to lower them. For the right person.”

Sherlock bid his friend goodnight before leaving you in James’ hands, which became the physical embodiment of the truth. 

After downing the rest of this drink, James stood and gently pulled the blanket from your frame. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”

It took him a try or two, to try and get his arms around and under you without jostling you too much and waking you up. But he succeeded and lifted you from the sofa, before carrying you up the main staircase and towards the general servants area of the house. 

Mostly, it was out-of-date guest bedrooms that Cordelia had told you to stay in when she returned with Sherlock since she didn’t like the idea of the cold and dreary room you’d been sleeping in since she’d hired your parents to work in the kitchens and on the grounds. 

“Sleep tight,” James told you, though he suspected you couldn’t hear him since you were lost in a dream. 

Either way, once he’d closed your door with a soft click, he couldn’t help but hope that his friend was right. Would you be willing to lower your emotional barricades? Would you be willing to lower them for him?

It took six months, eight days and fourteen hours for James Moriarty to get his answer. 

All because some stuffy, upper class gentleman who had been a long-time friend of the family’s decided to stick his nose into business where he wasn’t wanted. 

He’d arrived one afternoon with Mycroft. 

Considering he had nothing else to do that afternoon, a simple carriage ride out with his friend to see the people he cared for sounded like a lovely idea. 

“Michael,” you had smiled, almost friendly, before accepting his hug. 

“Oh, him you’ll hug,” James said, quietly, as you stood back again and stood just in front of him a little. 

“Shush.”

As Mycroft introduced James to Michael, he got an uneasy feeling. Though he couldn’t be too sure it wasn’t because you’d hugged him, rather than flipped him and nearly broken his arm. 

“Mrs Holmes,” Michael smiled, gracing the lady of the house. 

She blushed, just a little. “Michael, darling. How are you? When Mycroft told me you were coming I was almost certain it was a practical joke! I thought you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Oh, I couldn’t forget about you Mrs Holmes.”

“Cordelia, please.”

He nodded, politely. “Cordelia.”

Raising your chin just a little, you cleared your throat. “Tea, Mrs Holmes?”

“That sounds delightful,” she smiled, warmly at you, before she took Michael by the arm. 

“You will be joining us, won’t you, Y/n?” Michael asked. 

Cordelia jumped in quickly, nodding her head. “Oh, yes, darling do!”

You smiled and nodded your head. “I’ll be right out.”

“Fantastic.”

Meanwhile, as you went to fetch the tea tray, Michael was led outside by Cordelia. But, rather than follow them, James followed you. 

“Oh, Michael,” he said, mimicking your accent. “Michael, how much I have missed you.”

“Shut up,” you told him, hitting him in his diaphragm. 

James just laughed. “Is he seriously the kind you’re mooning over? I thought you didn’t like the guy?”

You didn’t look at him. “What gave you that impression?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” James pretended to think. “The tight lipped smile you gave Cordelia when she told you he was coming, the way you stand back in the hallway rather than beside Sherlock like usual. Or how about-”

“Yes,” you said, clipped. “James. I think I get it.”

“So?” James asked, leaning against the counter in front of you. 

“So…what?”

“Is it that sort you like?”

You looked at him longer than you usually did before tearing your gaze away and picking up the tray. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

James watched you as you walked away and for the first time…something didn’t make sense to him. 

Outside in the garden, Sherlock could practically feel the heat radiating from his friend as he sat down beside him. And it all made sense once he started listening to the rather boring conversation that was taking place between his brother, mother, friend and Michael. 

It was the most words, in a calm tone, that either Sherlock or James had heard you utter. And then came the inevitable question of romantic relationships. 

Cordelia pressed Michael, against Mycroft’s wishes. Apparently he was yet to find a suitable woman whom he could love. But he was certainly on the market. 

James watched as, within a split second, all the attention around the garden table turned to you. 

And you hated it. 

Surprisingly, you managed to sit incredibly still. James (and even Sherlock) were expecting you to at least fidget with your hands as you spoke. Well, rambled. 

“Well, I–” 

That was the second surprising thing. You were lost for words. 

The third and final surprising thing was where you looked. Rather, who you looked at. 

It was just a split second. Nothing more than that. But James saw the look in your eyes. And Sherlock saw the exchange. 

“Darling, I was just speaking to your mother,” Cordelia smiled. “She was saying you’d only just spoken to her about this?”

If your eyebrows could have hit the sunshade above you, they would have. Awkwardly, you barked out a laugh. “Oh, um, well, yes!”

God, you wanted to die.

“You’re looking for a husband?” Michael asked, leaning forward in his chair. 

Sherlock and James looked at one another rather quickly. They both knew how you felt about getting married so young. 

“I’m not against it.”

“You’re just not for it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Is it marrying me? Is that the idea you’re not fond of?”

You groaned. “For the last time, we’re not getting married! And–” You groaned. “Neither of you would understand what being married actually means! It means giving up the very little part of me that isn’t owned by anyone else! Marriage, for centuries, has been nothing more than a business contract between families. Men have the ability to do as they see fit, even in marriage. But not women.”

“But I’m not asking you to give that up.” Sherlock clarified. “I’m just asking you to pose as a couple getting married. You don’t actually have to go through with it.”

The context of the conversation was something different, but even after Sherlock's case of The Missing Wedding Dresses, he’d asked you to expand on your views on marriage. 

“Uh, well-”

“Well, I’m certain you are,” Michael announced. “Isn’t it what every young lady dreams of?”

“Not always, Michael,” Cordelia jumped in. “But it can be a rather big adventure. With the right person.”

With the right person. 

As James cleared his throat, rubbing his temple and you stood up quickly. “How about some fresh tea?”

“That sounds delightful,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, Y/n.”

James watched your every movement. The lack of eye contact, the speed at which you cleared away the cups and saucers. 

And the slight tremble in your hand as you did so. 

Plastering on a fake smile, you excused yourself and started making your way back over towards the house. 

Finally able to place the tray down and start a fresh pot of tea, James came carefully bounding through the backdoor. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop them when-”

You looked at him for the slightest moment, before looking away again. “You didn’t have to.”

“I should have. We both know you hate the spotlight being on you.”

“It’s fine, James.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Slamming down the teapot in the sink, you closed your eyes. “Please just-” You took a breath. “I’m fine. You should get back out there.”

Only, he didn’t. 

Instead, he remained fixed in place between the table and the door, his gaze doing nothing but analysing you. 

“Would you stop that?” You asked, noticing him. “What? What is it?”

“Women have confused me…for a long time,” he said. “But you…you are…”

“I am what?”

You continued moving around the kitchen. Pulling biscuits out of the oven, boiling the water, setting the tray back up – all of it done within a fraction of the time it normally took you. 

“Utterly confounding.”

“Why, thank you,” you replied, dryly. 

“I can’t tell if you like the fella, or if you want to see him dead.” James said. “All I know is that you’re holding something back. And since you didn’t know your mother spoke with Cordelia…there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” 

James nodded, moving around the kitchen towards you. “Fair point, you don’t. But I can read you.”

For the first time, you stopped moving and turned to look at him, placing one fist on your hip as you gripped the tea towel in your hand. 

“You can read me?” You almost rolled your eyes. “Now I know you’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock.”

James nodded. “Probably, but it’s true. And I’m trying to work out if that’s because I’ve known you longer than I expected to. Longer than you expected to, I imagine.”

You nodded without feeling guilty. 

“Or if it’s because…”

“Because of what?”

James, again, studied you before standing tall and keeping his hands in his pockets. “Or because you want me to. See, I’ve known you for, what? Almost a year? And in all of that time, you haven’t shown anything to anyone you haven’t wanted to. You don’t talk about things, and you’re hyper-aware of your actions.”

You nodded, just a little. “Well, I grew up with Sherlock. He could be quite the taddle-tale, if you weren’t careful with your secrets.”

“How come I know yours then?”

For a brief moment, you paused. You could admit the truth that had been growing inside of you – developing over the last few months you’d gotten to know James Moriarty. But you still weren’t convinced your answer to that question was correct. 

Not yet at least. 

So, rather than tell him (and probably satisfy his ego), you shook your head just a little. 

“I don’t know.”

From the look in your eyes, James saw your truth; it wasn’t ready yet. You were still working it out. But something was clear. 

You didn’t know. Not really. 

“Darling, it’s starting to rain,” Cordelia said as she entered, followed by Mycroft who was carrying the sunshade. “So we’re going to take tea in the living room. Is there anything I can bring in to help?”

Before you could answer and tell her you had it handled, James turned around with his cheeky but charismatic smile. “It’s alright, Mrs Holmes. She’s already ordering me about.”

On instinct, you hit the back of your hand into James’ diaphragm. But he surprised you and caught it. And once the others had left and passed through the kitchen to the other door, he turned to you. 

Lifting your hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to your palm. 

“When you figure it out,” he said. “Tell me.”

You had a feeling by the time you figured it out, he’d already know. 

Another few months passed and before you knew it, Sherlock was raising a toast to the year anniversary he and James had met and become friends. 

Meanwhile, you were helping Cordelia set up a charity centre that would help children in and around Oxford and London an education, the ability to find apprenticeships easier, and hone their crafts. 

“Knock, knock.” You heard the Irish tone say before the English followed. 

“We’ve come to make sure you haven’t died.”

“I am very much alive,” you called out with a tired smile before seeing the pair open the door and walk inside. “I was just going over your mother’s diary. She’s got a busy week ahead of her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Sherlock nodded before he took a tour around your office. “Mycroft told me you had been granted your own office.”

“Your point?”

“He wants to know how his brother knew before he did.”

“Ah,” you nodded, peeling your eyes from James to Sherlock. “Well, if you’d answered the telegraph your mother had sent you, you would have seen whose office it came from.”

Sherlock turned to you. “You know I never check my mail.”

“You should at least check it from your mother, Sherlock.” James told him. 

He just hummed, continuing to pace and take in every inch of your new office. Meanwhile, James took a seat on your desk and started rifling through your notes. 

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking.”

“What?”

James hummed. “Secret love notes, cipher keys to your beloved. The usual.”

“Ah, and who would this beloved be?”

“Well, I was hoping it would be me.”

You hummed, narrowing your gaze at him playfully, letting him continue. “But since I hear you’re such an independent woman these days– ah ha!”

“Ah ha?” Sherlock asked. 

“There is a lover!”

Despite wanting to throttle the pair of them for prying, you couldn’t help but laugh as James took a turn around the room, reading out the supposed love letter. 

James feigned a gasp. “Y/n, this is practically a scandal sheet! Oh- he wants to do what?”

“Who is this man? I must defend your honour!” Sherlock played along. 

James turned around, laying a hand on his chest and shaking his head. “Not with your fighting skills, dear.”

“Ah, I suppose you're right. How about you, then?”

James shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

You chuckled. “Are you two quite finished?”

“We must make a plan.”

“Yes, a plan!”

Groaning a little, but hiding your laughter, you held your head in your hands but continued to watch the Shakespeare worthy performance in front of you. 

As the pair discussed their ‘plan’ to send a fake letter to your lover, then move under the cover of darkness- 

“How well does he know the court yard?”

“At the university?”

They both nodded. 

“Like the back of his hand.”

“Drats.”

“Change of plan?”

“Perhaps we can blindfold him.”

When they’d finally finished their plan, you had tidied up your desk, put your coat on (with James’ help as he continued to plan with Sherlock), managed to get both of the boys out of the building and locked the building up behind you all. 

“There’s just one solution left,” Sherlock said. 

“We must take you away.”

“Away?”

They both nodded, letting you loop your arms around theirs as you walked between them both. “Somewhere far away. Far enough to help you and this Barnabus character forget all about each other.”

“Barnabus?” 

Sherlock nodded. “We’ve renamed him.”

“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

“If you think so,” you chuckled. 

The story continued all the way back to Cordelia’s London home where it was recounted to Mrs Holmes in full detail over a warm meal and some tea. 

“Come on, sleepyhead. I’m practically falling asleep watching you,” James said before he scooped you up in his arms. 

You called his name but he barely flinched. 

“Put me down! Where the hell are you taking me?”

He paused in the doorway, still holding you in a bridal carry. “To bed.”

From the grin on his face, his words landed exactly how he wanted them to. So, rolling your eyes, you hit his shoulder. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“Only for you, dear.” Then he started walking again. 

“I can walk by myself, you know.”

“And let you twist your ankle on the stairs? Or fall from being unable to lift your weary limbs.”

By the time he was finished listing the amount of unlikely accidents to happen, he dropped you down on your bed and bid you goodnight in a less gentle manner than he had done the first time he’d carried you to bed. 

“Well, here we are.” Then he hummed. “I suppose you're right.”

“That’s a first, coming from you.”

And, despite the laughter from behind the door that had you rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel the faint burn against your palm. 

A sensation that only seemed to happen when you were around James Moriarty. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Do you ever plan on staying still?!”

Through the darkness of the discontinued factory, you looked at James as he finally joined you behind one of the barrels. 

“They were shooting at us! What the hell did you want me to do?”

“Sherlock told me to look after you!”

“I don’t need looking after!”

Another bang from a gun sounded somewhere behind you both before a forgotten barrel on a shelf exploded. 

“At least they’re a shit shot.”

“Doesn’t matter how bad they are if they’re close enough!”

Running again, James groaned and ran after you. No doubt Sherlock would scold him if he didn’t – not that he planned on leaving you behind. If he was being honest, he was rather hurt Sherlock thought he had to remind him. 

Until he told him the reason why. 

You both ran as quickly as your legs could carry you, through the building and out of the back, narrowly missing the flying bullets. But, aside from your lives remaining intact, all that mattered was that you were holding the evidence to prove a boss’ misdeeds against his employees who, no doubt, were probably in the same pickle with Sherlock. 

They were just in the town square rather than by the docks. 

Taking as many back streets as you both could, eventually you both made it to a street with a carriage. Hailing it down, you handed over the address and made sure the curtains were closed as the horses began trotting in the same direction you’d both ran from. 

The men with the guns ran past the carriage, none the wiser. 

Meanwhile, inside the carriage, you were still trying to catch your breath. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m…I’m-”

“You can’t breathe.”

“I just need a minute.”

In that moment, James fully understood what Sherlock had meant when he said it scared him. 

In recent weeks, you’d begun to suffer with breathing difficulties. Mostly, they stemmed from anxiety or panic attacks. 

Only, rather than fall down and back yourself into a corner, you worked through them. Rather, rammed through them. It was bad enough not having your own body know what it was going through; but the thought to have to sit with that feeling? 

It churned your stomach. 

“C’mere.”

A little panicked at where James was reaching, you stopped him. “What are you-”

“You need to breathe. That corset can’t be helping any.”

You were still struggling to catch your breath and, although you knew he was right, something in the back of your mind was panicking for a whole other reason. 

You trusted him. You didn’t think he’d take advantage of you, or use your vulnerable moment against you. 

But it was still a vulnerable moment. 

“Turn around,” he told you, his voice calm. 

You found yourself complying whilst he fiddled with the hooks on the back of your skirt, pulled up your blouse from the back and started pulling at the strings holding your corset together. 

“Always thought these things were like torture chambers.”

You hummed. “They’re usually not so bad.”

“Better?”

For the first time, you managed to let out a full breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

You could feel his hand gently pressing against your back. “Just try and take some deep breaths, yeah?”

You nodded, bracing your hands against the frame of the carriage as it rattled over the potholes in the street. Meanwhile, you tried to focus on James’ calming voice as he focused on keeping your breathing. 

“How long have you been like this?”

“A while,” you admitted as you finally caught your breath and he helped tie everything back up again, though not as tight. “I don’t know what started them.”

“Stress of the job?”

You shook your head. “It’s the only time I can feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what they are. They just…come out of nowhere.”

“Have you consulted a doctor?”

You laughed. “What? Just so they can tell me I’m being hysterical?”

“Fair point. Maybe you are.”

You hit him in his diaphragm. 

“Joking. Joking. I’m just messing with you.”

“Better be.”

James nodded before continuing to hypothesise what could be causing your sudden inability to breathe at random moments. Though neither of you had much longer to talk since the carriage was coming to a stop. 

“Not a word about this to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

And, to his credit, he didn’t. He didn’t tell anyone…who didn’t already know. 

“How was she?” Sherlock asked as you headed to bed on Sherlock’s orders. 

“Exactly as you said,” James replied. “Breathless. Constricted.”

“Constricted? I never said constricted.” 

Rather than panic, he remained calm. 

“What do you mean constricted?”

James let out a controlled breath. “She needed help. I helped her.”

“I’m aware you care for her, James. But you really need to be careful-”

“Sherlock, nothing untoward happened. You have my word on that.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” James nodded, his voice firm. “Have I really given you a reason to doubt me now?”

Sherlock studied him for a long time. “No. I suppose not.”

James nodded with a little thanks. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

“No, let her be.”

“Why?”

“She needs rest.” Sherlock said. “She’s been swept off her feet since coming to London. I highly doubt she’s had the same rest to balance it out.”

James sighed, pausing by the door. And, for the first time, Sherlock truly saw his friend in a vulnerable state. “I’m worried about her.”

“I know,” Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “So am I. But she’ll only get agitated if we hover.”

James knew his friend was right. He didn’t like that he was right. But he was right nonetheless. 

Though it didn’t stop him from worrying about you. 

Or checking on you when he woke up in need of a glass of water. 

Your bedroom door was wide open, but you weren’t inside. 

James found you sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, and far away in your own head. 

“Are you alri-”

You nearly jumped out of your own skin. “James.”

He held up his hands as he stood by the door. “Sorry. How long have you been awake?”

“Oh,” your gaze narrowed on the mantle clock. “I don’t actually know.”

James looked around. “Want some company?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

Walking inside and taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, he shook his head. 

“Too much excitement from the day.”

You let out a small chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”

For a while, James and yourself talked. He tried to keep the conversation away from the case or anything that would get your brain fully tuning in and working. 

And, after a solid hour, it worked. 

“Rest now,” he said, softly, running his hand through your hair as you laid your head down against his thigh. 

And somewhere between the feeling of his hands running through your hair and the soft hum of his voice, you fell into the first deep sleep you’d had in weeks. 

James woke up to a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. “James, darling.”

“Mrs Holmes,” he said, a little shocked. “Is everything-”

“Oh, yes, yes. Everything’s fine. A telegram has come for you, from Sherlock.” Cordelia held it out to him, keeping his voice in a hushed whisper. “It seems rather important.”

“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”

“Would you like me to wake her?”

James almost forgot what she was talking about until he looked down and saw you still fast asleep, his hand on your arm. 

“Oh,” he shook his head. “No. Let her sleep.”

Cordelia smiled. “I thought that would be the answer. I just wanted to make sure. You go ahead. I’ll stay with her.”

James nodded, carefully moving you without waking you. And, just as Cordelia took his place, she turned to him as he stood at the door. 

“James, dear.”

“Yes, Mrs Holmes?”

“Thank you for helping her sleep,” she said, her tone soft. “I knew she hadn't been resting as much, so this was a delightful sight to see.”

Laying a hand over his heart, he bowed a little. “It was my pleasure.”

You woke up a little over an hour later. At first, you were a little embarrassed. And then worried. But the reassuring smile and hug from Cordelia calmed you. 

Your job wasn’t in jeopardy, and neither was your standing within her home. 

By the time the boys returned, with Mycroft in tow, they were bleeding. 

“Jesus,” you breathed, standing quickly from your place at the kitchen dining table. “What happened?”

“Sherlock! Oh, my- James!” Cordelia called out as she took in the sight of them both. 

Mycroft was the only one unharmed. 

As you were gathering spare, clean rags and some warm water, Mycroft and his mother helped the boys into their seats. 

Apparently one of their suspects didn’t like the idea of getting followed. But, at the very least, they knew they were on the right track. 

“Look at me,” you instructed as you turned James’ head to look at you. Not that you needed to force him all that much. 

“You look well rested,” he told you. 

You nodded, quickly. “And you look like you’ve just lost your first fight.”

“I’ll have you know, I won this one, actually.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to escape his brother’s attempts at cleaning his wounds. “He actually did. Saved my bacon, too.”

“Thank you, James.” Cordelia said, reaching over and squeezing his hand, briefly. 

“At least someone has thanked me.”

“I had it under control.”

From the back of his head, Sherlock felt you hit him. 

“Ow.”

“Thank him. God only knows you’re terrible at fighting.”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I do owe you thanks, James. So…thank you.”

“That’ll do.”

Holding Sherlock still, you placed a separate cloth against his wounds before handing him back to his brother. Meanwhile, you returned to James. 

And you tried to ignore the way he was gently holding his hand against your thigh.

“And you should know,” James told you. “I lost my first fight ages ago.”

You hummed. “Really? When?”

“Against you.” He smiled. “Don’t you remember?”

“I just remember you being an arse.”

“Seems the only time I’ve actually lost a fight has been against you. Sadly, multiple times.”

“You don’t sound so beat up over that,” you said, because he didn’t. 

He seemed happy. Amused, even. 

Then you finally looked him in his eyes, and not at his wounds. And he was practically beaming. 

“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”

Thankfully, Mycroft broke the tension that was growing quicker than usual between both yourself and James Moriarty. 

“Would you stay still?”

With a heavy sigh, you rounded behind James and shoved Sherlock back into his seat. 

“It hurts!”

“James?” You asked, looking at him. 

He just nodded, placing both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring him into his seat. “Stay still.”

 “I regret ever going missing now,” Sherlock announced. “If I hadn’t, you two wouldn’t have become friends.”

“Don’t feel too bad, Sherlock. I’m sure I’d still be holding you down to help her if we weren’t friends.”

“Did anyone ever tell you- Ow!”

You smiled, briefly, holding up the shard of glass that had lodged itself in Sherlock’s arm. “It’s out.”

“Now I’m bleeding.”

James leaned down. “You were already bleeding.”

“But, now, I’m bleeding more.”

“Stop complaining,” you told him. 

James smiled. “Listen to the woman, Sherlock.”

“Are you well, James?”

“I’m less beat up than you – I’d say so. Why?”

Sherlock lifted his head to look at his friend. “Because you never agree with Y/n.”

You didn’t look at either of them as you cleaned out the bleeding wound. “He’s open to learning, unlike some people I know.”

“If you mean me, I am open to learning.”

James leaned down, again. “Ah, but do you listen? You might find you learn more, that way.”

“If us being friends bothers you so much, Sherlock,” you sighed. “Maybe you should have sent a wire to tell us where you were.”

“You still haven’t forgiven me about that?”

James stood tall, crossing one boot over the other. “Didn’t you know her grudges have an excellent shelf-life?”

“All done,” you announced.

James smiled, lifting his hands from his friends shoulders. “See! It wasn't so bad.”

“Ah, I believe it’s your turn, James.”

Sherlock stood, with a proud smile. Though James didn’t need any help being held down to stay still. He was rather pleased that, despite the pain, he got to stay within your vicinity – even if you did take to scolding him every once in a while. 

“Don’t they give you a headache, mother?” Mycroft asked, leaning over. 

“No more than you boys did growing up,” Cordelia smiled. “Besides, it reminds me of being at home. There’s never a quiet moment. I can’t stand the quiet anymore.”

Mycroft gave her a reassuring smile, taking her hand in his. 

In the meantime, Sherlock ran over everything that had happened whilst working the case and you cleaned the cuts across James’ face, arms and hands. 

That case was cleared up within the week. 

Though it wasn’t long before Sherlock was sticking his nose in somebody else's business and dragging James with him. And, by proxy, yourself and eventually Mycroft. 

*~*~*~*~*

“I’m home, dear!”

Without looking up, you continued writing out your letters that would be sent to every wealthy friend who couldn’t say ‘no’ to Cordelia Holmes. 

“Is there a reason you’re bothering me in the middle of the day?”

“I thought I might check in on you,” James said, looking around your office, though his eyesight always landed back on you without fail. “Make sure you aren't overworking yourself.”

“As you can see I am perfectly fine,” you smiled, still not looking up. “But still rather busy.”

“Do you ever actually leave your office?”

“Yes,” you told him. “In fact, I’m due to meet Mrs Holmes at the Charity House. We have another shipment of sheets and general medical equipment coming in.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “A baker, a maid, a secretary and now…a nurse?”

You chuckled. “Sherlock and yourself aren’t my only patients.”

“Don’t you have to be medically trained to help?”

“That’s why Mrs Holmes has hired a resident doctor,” you said. “We all help out where we can. Anything major gets an appointment at the hospital. You might think about volunteering at some point.”

“Oh, I might?”

You nodded, looking at him. “You might. It would keep you and Sherlock out of trouble.”

“Do you really think you can keep me and Sherlock out of trouble?” He asked, leaning forward against your desk. 

You hummed. “Probably not. I figure by now it’s soaked into your bones.”

James hummed, too. “Souls, you might say.”

“That would figure you were born into it, would it not?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You kept your gaze fixed on his. And whilst his eyes searched yours, a smirk started to develop on his face. 

His voice dropped a little lower. “D’you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you like me,” James said, rather confidently, though quietly. “And I also think you want to see more of me.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“So…going ahead with your theory…if I asked you to come with me to the House and help out…what would you say?”

He smiled, his eyes landing on the small vase of flowers by your desk. A small vase of cornflowers and baby’s breath. 

Hope in Love. Purity and Innocence. 

“I’d say…” James leaned over, plucking a single stem of baby’s breath and a simple bloom of cornflower, before leaning closer to you and tucking the small bunch behind your ear. “Anything for you, my dear.”

In the two afternoons a week he spent volunteering at the Charity House with you, helping entertain the children with stories, and helping hold patients steady as the doctor helped clean their wounds; you got to see his vulnerable moments. 

And he got to see yours. 

Whilst he simply collected visual evidence of something he already knew, you caught passing glimpses of his softer side. 

“You’re good at this,” you smiled as yourself and James walked down the street and towards the carriage. 

“Good at what?” He asked. 

“Entertaining,” you clarified. “Teaching. Keeping people calm.”

“Ah,” he chuckled, lowering his gaze to his feet. “The art of distraction.”

“Call it what you want,” you said. “It works. Do you have siblings? I’ve never heard you mention any but the way you are with the kids…you’ve got a natural talent.”

James scratched the back of his head. “Just a brother. But my ma tended to a couple of the local families in the village. Believe me, I’ve cleaned more scraped knees and stopped fights than you could count.”

“And I suppose, taught them how to properly defend themselves, too?”

James chuckled. “I suppose. But if my mother ever asks, you don’t know that.”

You nodded. “Duly noted.”

Helping you into the carriage, quickly followed by Cordelia who had finally said goodnight to the doctor, James sat beside you. 

And when the carriage shook from the pothole in the road, and James held out his arm to steady you, you weren’t quick to throw him away from your reach. 

*~*~*~*~*

Later that evening, as Sherlock balanced the needle of the gramophone to his mother’s favourite song collection, James held his hand out to Mrs Holmes before leading her to the make-shift dance floor in the middle of the living room. 

Somewhere between the laughter and slightly out of time dancing, as Sherlock tried his best to avoid stepping on your toes, Mrs Holmes whispered something to her own dance partner. 

“I believe someone’s feet are in need of saving.”

It didn’t take much for James to catch on to what Cordelia was telling him. Stepping across, Cordelia pulled her son away and into her arms, laughing about how he used to dance as a boy. 

Meanwhile, James held out his hand and, despite the pull you felt in your gut – that awkward, yet excited feeling that usually would have had you pulling your hand away and politely saying no – you went with it. 

Taking his hand in yours, over the next thirty seconds, you came to realise just how much James Moriarty had been keeping from you. 

Because he was rather an excellent dancer, despite the context. He didn’t step on your feet, led you rather than you leading him; all whilst being light on his own feet. 

And you had never known. 

But it was a relatively nice surprise. 

“I shall bid you goodnight, my darlings,” Cordelia's soft voice smiled before she kissed each of you on the top of your heads. 

The dancing had long been put to rest, but the conversation had followed far into the evening.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she told you. “And do try to stay out of trouble.”

“Of course, mother.”

Sherlock soon followed his mother, James saying he wouldn’t be long behind him. But, finally being left in silence together, yourself and James cleared away the glasses and half empty decanters. 

“I have a question I’d like to ask you.” James said, breaking the silence. 

“Should I be worried?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to him, finding him already looking at you. 

“Maybe,” he answered with a grin. “Probably.”

“Then I await your question in trepidation.”

James chuckled, feeling the warmth of the dying fire. “There’s actually a few questions I’d like to ask you, but I’ll stick to one for now.”

You looked at him, and nodded. “Okay then.”

“Have you been sleeping? Well, I mean.”

Taking the short stroll from the window to the mantel, you nodded again, placing your hands behind you. “I have, if you must know.”

“Good.”

“I believe the reason for that is…down to you.”

“Down to me?”

You nodded. Again, you felt that pull inside of you. But rather than excusing yourself and locking yourself in your room for the rest of the evening, you decided to follow it. 

“Whenever I can’t sleep…I think of you.”

“Oh…right.”

“Not in that way.”

James chuckled, a little nervous. “Right. No, I suppose not.”

“But certainly the memory of you,” you told him. “That night…in here…it was the first time I felt…” You took a breath, unable to break your gaze away from his. “Safe. At ease.”

James took a small step closer towards you. “That’s a lot…coming from you.”

“I suppose so.”

“What was it that you called me, when we first met?” James looked away and down at your waist before looking back to your eyes once more. 

“A half-wit?”

“No.”

“A reckless one?”

“Closer.” 

James took another small step towards you. 

Then it hit you. “Ah, a reckless idiot?”

James nodded. “Actually, I think your specific words were ‘reckless, untrustworthy, idiot’. Have to say – you were pretty spot on with that insult.”

You bobbed your head. “Well, you did think the best course of action was to sneak up on a woman.”

“Well, I did learn my lesson.”

You chuckled. “You did.”

“What…what I’m trying to ask you…” Never in his life had he been this nervous to talk to a woman. 

“Do you still believe that?”

“That you’re reckless? Or untrustworthy? Or an idiot?” You asked, quickly, with a confident tilt of your head. “Because I have a different answer for each.”

The feeling of James’ heart sinking in his chest when you asked him the specifics of his question, came to a grounding halt when you finished your sentence. 

This time, you took a step closer towards him. Instinctively, his hand came to your waist, trying not to hold onto you for dear life but also trying to keep you tethered to him so he had at least one memory of holding you close; in case everything blew up in his face. 

“I do think that you’re still reckless,” you told him. “But only when you have to be. I still do worry about you and Sherlock from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if one morning I’ll find your names printed in bold in the paper.”

Your hands pressed gently against his waistcoat and the sleeve of his shirt. 

“In terms of you being an idiot, well, for as long as I live both you and Sherlock will both be idiots to me. Stupid? No. Well, unless we’re counting the time you two thought it was wise to pose as policemen to break into a jail.”

James chuckled a little. “Even I have to admit, it wasn’t exactly our brightest moment.”

You smiled gently, before making sure he looked you in the eye for what you were about to tell him. 

“But if you’re asking if I think you’re untrustworthy?” You took a breath and shook your head. “No. I don’t think you’re untrustworthy. Not anymore. I’ve seen you with your friends, and with the people closest to you. I’ve seen how you’ve treated strangers in their lowest moments, and in their highest.”

Gently resting your palm against his cheek, you continued talking. 

“But most of all…I have seen how you’ve treated the moments I’ve shared with you. I don’t trust easily, James. But rather than judge me for that…you listened. And you learned. And you…you made a safe space for me to be…me. Without judgement and without fear.”

“There have been plenty of times where you could have used something against me,” you continued. “Sadly, I’ve known people who would have. But you didn’t.”

“I’d never. Not for anyone I care for. Especially you.”

With his hands anchored at your hips, he pulled you closer to him before he lowered his head against yours. 

“I know,” you smiled. “I know. And that is why I trust you, James.”

Closing his eyes, James breathed you in, solidifying a memory of you both that in his darkest moments, he would use as a lantern to guide him home. 

You could feel his straining resistance as he tried not to ruin the moment. One of his hands anchored themselves at the base of your skull, under your hair; either to pull you in and kiss you, or to keep you away from him in case the reality of kissing you was more than his existence could handle. 

But you trusted him. 

Gently, you swiped your thumb back and forth against his cheek. 

“I trust you, James,” you said, your voice soft and calm. “I trust you.”

Looking at you, his gaze flickered over yours, searching for a physical answer. So, you nodded a little and repeated yourself. 

“I trust you.”

Finally, he kissed you. 

He kissed you like it was the last thing he would ever be able to do in life. As if he was begging with God Almighty to let him live just a moment longer, just so he could kiss you. 

Your hand circled to the back of his neck, in order to pull him down closer to you. 

By the time morning rolled around, neither of you spoke about what had occurred the night before. You knew you would, eventually, when the room was safe from prying eyes and ears. 

Ultimately, when the time did come for people to find out, the only one who didn’t seem surprised was Cordelia.