Young Sherlock and Dónal Finn Appreciation.

She pushes herself up, face burning at this point because the memories are spinning around in her head, haunting her like a ghost. It’s like remembering things said and done while drunk and wondering, Who the hell was that? I was out of my damned mind. It feels as if she has opened her chest and let James see right through her. Will he think differently of her? Will he toss her aside like she told Mycroft he would?

“We should put a bell on you,” she says. The sheet is warm from her sleeping body but still, a shiver ripples through her, shoulders curling and nipples pressing against the fabric. She knows how he tastes, yet this is what feels strangely intimate: sitting naked before him, hair tousled, covered only by a sheet.

James tilts his head. He’s having fun and there’s a lightness to him, an ease that wasn’t ever there before. “Having a lovely dream?” His voice is a purr, his lips curling. He knows he has her.

“Yes,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “I was all alone.”

James beams. “You wound me.” He touches his chest like she shot him. “Would you like tea?”

“Yes, please. A dash—”

“Dash of milk and a pinch of sugar, aye,” he finishes for her, already disappearing into what is meant to be a kitchen.

Warmth floods through her as smooth and languid as honey. There is something terribly delightful about being known.

[Name] tucks the sheet against her chest as she leans practically entirely out of the bed, grabbing at the first article of clothing she finds, which happens to be one of James’s button-ups. As she pulls it on, she basks in his smell: masculine and perfumed with wood and neroli. Another strange intimacy that makes her almost giddy: her naked body against his clothing. It stirs something half-awake within her.

When James returns, cup in hand, his eyes seemingly twinkle upon sight of the shirt draped on her, but he says nothing. She sits on the edge of the bed, blushing and biting down a smile, legs dangling beneath his shirt. “Thank you,” she mumbles, suddenly nervous as she takes the cup from him. It tastes perfect and its heat settles in the pit of her belly. He’s silent still, smiling down at her. She wonders what the hell is happening in that head, wanting to gorge herself on every thought he has, then wonders if perhaps she is better off not knowing. She is all too aware of his heat and his nearness, how easy it would be to reach out and pull him to her and—

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

She peers up at him, squinting and confused. “I do?”

He fiddles with his earlobe. “Aye, heard you this morning. Something like, ‘Oh, James, so handsome and clever and—’”

She glares, cutting him off with, “Are you perhaps remembering your dream, James?”

“Or perhaps just remembering last night, darling.” His eyes wrinkle, nearly a wink and just as teasing. He always knows just how to undo her.

(Only you get to see me like this, mo chroí.)

“I can hardly remember,” she lies through her teeth, chin tilting high.

“I can jog your memory, if you’d like.” The smile that follows is devastating and only makes her blush more.

It feels good, talking to him like this. Like nothing has changed—except that everything has changed and she knows they won’t be the same ever again, and it scares her, this thought. James and Sherlock and Mycroft are her friends, the people she spends every day with. She didn’t realize just how much it all mattered to her until right now, worrying at the potential of ruining things.

“Y’know,” says James, and he crouches in front of her, his elbows resting on his thighs, holding his tea very gingerly as he looks up at her, “despite the…confession of utter adoration,” he continues, waving a dismissive hand and rolling his eyes at himself, “I want to make sure that all is…well.”

Her heart sits somewhere inside of her throat. “Well?”

“Like…” He tilts his head from side to side like a pendulum, weighing his next words. “That we’re on the same page. That last night was not…”

Not just some one-time thing? Something loosens in her chest, and she realizes it was her own unease. She has never not felt safe with James—quite the opposite, actually—but it’s mortifying to lay yourself bare—literally and figuratively—and wake up to navigate the consequences.

It’s funny to remember telling Mycroft that James would discard and forget her, that she would just be a prize for him to win. How could she have ever thought that when he stares at her this softly? She remembers his caresses the night before, face aflame, and knows that is not the touch of a selfish, uncaring man. 

“Last night meant a lot to me,” she says softly because if her voice gets any louder, she may burst into tears.

James smiles, and it seems he breathes more easily.

“It’s…strange, though, isn’t it?” she asks, brow pinching as she mirrors his smile, abashed and quiet.

“A wee bit,” he agrees, squinting with a pinched nose.

She laughs a little, barely a breath, but her eyes lower, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head in order to catch her eye, which only makes her smile widen. They’re like two schoolchildren blushing on the playground.

James says, “We can take our time. How does that sound? We’ll be the first folks to go from crime partners to engaged to…whatever this is.”

“Crime-solving partners,” she corrects. “We aren’t committing crime together.”

He makes a doubtful little sound, his mouth turning downward. “Debatable.” A touch of sincerity smooths his face, the weight of his stare heavy. “So, what do you say? We can figure this out as we go.”

“It’s a deal, Moriarty.”

She offers her hand, which makes James laugh, those little lines by his eyes crinkling, and when they shake on it, James yanks her forward. She squeals, nearly falling out of the bed as James brushes his nose alongside hers, his breath warm and flowery from the tea. It’s hard to think straight when he’s so near to her, his presence overwhelming and impure. 

It’s even harder to think when he kisses her, his lips feather-light but possessive, literally making her melt into him until she almost falls out of the bed again. His hand clasps her neck, holding her still. When he pulls away, her lips follow him without thinking, chasing for more. Slowly, her eyes open, greeted by his soft smile.

The deep rumble of his voice makes her thighs squeeze as he whispers, “Can’t get you out of my fuckin’ head. You—”

There’s a very hard, very abrupt knock on the door, so loud that she jumps. Even James seems surprised, pulling away to peer across the room.

Then there’s a voice, dreadfully familiar: “James, answer the bloody door! I know you’re in there!”

Sherlock.

“What should—”

James silences her with a single look. “Perhaps you should hide.”

“Hide?”

Sherlock pounds harder on the door. “I’ll just keep waking your neighbors if you don’t open up!”

“He’s on the warpath after we ditched him,” says James, bouncing his brows as his mouth presses into a line. He rises, staring down at her. “I’ll take the bullet. Here,” he adds, grabbing her clothing from where it lays thrown over the table. Her dress, her corset, her undergarments. “Dress in the washroom. I’ll handle our dear friend.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice. She would hate to be caught in a state of considerable undress in James’s apartment, especially with how things were left last night. And Sherlock will get far too much enjoyment out of teasing her, she imagines.

These damn boys, her mind hisses as she runs off to the washroom, locking herself in right as James opens the apartment door. She can practically see him leaning against the frame, calm as still waters as he asks, muffled through the wall, “How are you on this fine morn, Mr. Holmes?”

“How am I? How am I?” Sherlock must’ve shoved past him because suddenly he’s in the apartment, the floors creaking as he paces. “You abandoned me at Whitby! They were wondering why I was locked inside of a room with an unconscious man.”

“Aye, I did, didn’t I?” James has the decency to sound sheepish, probably rubbing the back of his head, but even Sherlock must be able to hear the falsity in it. James is practically grinning through his words. “See, I was wondering if you could—”

“Mycroft had to explain that I was looking for Moreau and happened to find him unconscious. I spun some story about how he must’ve slipped and hit his head while he was checking on his artwork,” Sherlock says, ignoring James. “Fortunately we still had our carriage to ride back in—which Mycroft spent the time accosting me for my carelessness, thank you very much—but you and [Name]? Vanished!”

“About that—”

“Yes. About that,” says Sherlock. She can hear the arms crossing, the patronizing look he must be giving James. “Would you care to explain?”

[Name] is slowly and carefully dressing as they bicker back and forth, and she’s sliding her red dress on, twisting her hips, when Sherlock says this, and she freezes in the silence that follows. She waits, holding her breath, to see how James can get out of this one.

“She was sick,” says James flatly.

“Sick? Of you, perhaps?”

“You should really be on a stage with that wit of yours, Sherlock,” says James, and the floor creaks as he separates from Sherlock, maybe even shaking his head a little. She knows her boys so well that she can see it all playing out in her mind’s eye: Sherlock glaring, James taunting. Maybe a little finger wag, too. “It’s a talent that truly shouldn’t go to waste—”

Sherlock overtakes, his voice louder and cutting like a blade with its gravity: “You promised to leave her be. Then I get to Whitby and what do I see?”

James is quiet, so quiet that she knows he is suddenly very mindful that she is just on the other side of the wall hearing every word. Her own breath quickens, trapped in her chest like a bird in a cage. 

“Look—” says James, but his voice is so soft that Sherlock has no trouble interrupting with, “I see the way you look at her, James. I know you’ve told me it’s not just…concupiscence—”

“What an interesting choice of word,” mutters James.

“—but I…”

A silence follows, thick enough to cut through. A breath comes in deeply through a nose and out of a mouth, and she knows it’s James.

“Am I so bad, Sherlock?” It’s meant to be something of a joke, but it’s betrayed by the flatness of James’s voice.

“No,” says the other, so quickly that it must be the truth. “You’re my friend, James. But to me she…she’s like a sister. That’s what worries me.” The last words deflate in his mouth, like he hears himself and feels vulnerable, bare.

Sherlock has lost one sister; he is fearful of losing another.

“She’s a big girl, Sherlock. She can take care of herself against the big bad wolf.”

“That is not what I meant,” says Sherlock in a voice that brooks no argument. “About her or about you.” He pauses, then softly adds, “I know she is…fond of you, too.”

Blood rushes through [Name]’s ears. Has she always been so obvious? Has everyone always been able to see what even she couldn’t?

“Scared I’ll turn her against you?” James asks.

This time the pause is broken by a short laugh from Sherlock. “Now that I could see.”

The tension shatters like glass. James chuckles, too, and [Name] feels she can breathe a little more easily. She would hate to see them fighting, especially about her. She has half a mind to burst from the washroom and throw herself into James’s arms just to prove a point, but she stays put. James can handle himself. She rests her forehead against the door, hovering in her unlaced dress.

“We have Bernard to track down, still,” says James, an attempt at redirection. Nothing can steal Sherlock’s attention better than a mystery.

It works. The two discuss the case as [Name] steps away and attempts to lace up her dress, her arms twisted around to her back. A huff escapes her, feeling a little claustrophobic and trapped—in the room and in the dress. How in hell did she wear this all of last night?

From the footsteps, James must be leading Sherlock towards the door. He’s telling him about how he’ll find her and the three of them can decide their next move. The two of them are adamant about finding her first, wanting to make sure she is well before they continue on, which she would be appreciating more if she weren’t beading with sweat as she hops up and down, trying in vain to get the laces right—and then she stumbles.

She doesn’t entirely fall, but she accidentally kicks a wastebasket and sends it onto its side with a dreadful clatter, and the boys fall silent.

“What was—”

“I have mice,” says James. “Look, I’ll go deal with…that…and we can meet at the university library at, say, noon. Sounds good?”

His voice has quickened, rushing Sherlock out the door.

“Sure. I may have to bring Mycroft—”

“Whatever you need, sure. Alright, then. Good—” The door swings shut. “—bye,” finishes James with a relieved sigh. He waits a moment before calling out, “Now, how much did the little mouse hear?” as his steps come closer to the washroom.

The door swings open.

Her hair is tousled about her face, her breasts hiked up to her chin, the dress half-done as she holds the laces out on either side of her, and it’s all quite silly, but the look she gives James through the strands of hair is pure consternation. “What did you promise?”

James sighs deeply, holding the door open. “Sherlock asked me not to try anything with you. It wasn’t so much a promise as a…suggestion…early into our friendship.”

She has a few questions—more than a few, really—but they seem to dissolve in her mouth before she can say them. 

“Seems I’m so obvious with my feelings for you that I may as well be wearing a sign,” he says.

“To everyone but myself,” she agrees, softly.

James’s lips press into a line, humble and sympathetic. Never did she think humble would ever describe James Moriarty, but it’s not the first surprise she’s had this morning. She’s quickly learning that anything is possible when it comes to James.

“Can you help me with this bloody dress?”

James’s head hangs as he smiles. He twirls his finger and she spins around, holding her hair out of the way as he jerks her laces tight, a yelp escaping her. “Are you angry with Sherlock?” he asks as his deft fingers work.

“I’m not mad,” she says, holding her stomach, and it’s only in saying the words that she realizes the truth in them.

He may be an idiotic man, but at some point that is to be expected. She will have to give him a frank talking-to about her capabilities and independence, but in the meantime, she is flattered to know he thinks so highly of her. That he wishes for her safety and happiness. There are much worse things to learn about a friend behind your back.

“As tricky as this has suddenly become,” says James, and just from the purr in his voice she knows she’s in trouble, especially when his mouth finds the shell of her ear and whispers, “it’s a little thrilling, aye? We might have to hide this from him. Since we’re not allowed.”

“Is that so?” she says a little breathlessly, still holding her hair up and out of the way.

James tucks his nose against her bare neck. His breath is ticklish, enticing. “Puts us in a tough spot, doesn’t it?”

Trust James to find a way to make anything sound so alluring. And it’s hard to argue with him when he’s pressed against her back, his soft lips brushing against the nape of her neck as he ties up her corset. He knows just what thread to pull to make her unwind.

Her eyes flutter shut. He will make this as difficult as possible, she knows.

Once again, here they are: the game is afoot.

————————

When [Name] gets home, slipping out of the dress feels a bit like how a snake must when it sheds its skin. It truly is a beautiful, rich garment, but she can’t wait to feel a bit more like herself after so much pretending. Not to mention the looks she drew when walking home; perhaps the eye-popping evening dress was a poor choice for her morning stroll home, but now she knows.

Bruises trail along her arms, the inside of her thighs. Her fingers brush over them, fascinated by the memory they leave with them. Proof that what happened the night before isn’t all in her head.

[Name] opens a window for some fresh air.

It isn’t until she has dressed again—attired in her normal affair: a brown pinstripe dress that she often wears around Oxford—that she discovers she is missing something: her engagement ring.

Well, her fake engagement ring.

When did she last see it? She has no memory of taking it off. She offers the room a cursory glance, even kneeling and looking beneath her bed in case it happened to slip off and roll away, but it is nowhere in sight.

It was worth a pretty penny, surely. That will have to be a problem for later, though.

She smooths out her dress and leaves her place almost as soon as she arrives and takes a carriage to the school. She arrives at the Oxford library about twenty minutes before planned, so she sits on a bench and waits, pulling a book from her bag to pass the time.

Mycroft finds her first a handful of minutes later, ever the punctual. “Miss [Name].” Just from the way her name rolls across his tongue, she knows she’s in a spot of trouble with him. Perhaps being abandoned at a party in a stranger’s home alongside an unconscious man isn’t the most ideal circumstance. She’ll have to remember for next time.

“Mycroft,” she says kindly, rising and offering a hug—a meager attempt at placating his iciness. She does hate to be in trouble with him.

It seems to work, judging by the pink in Mycroft’s cheeks. He clears his throat and adjusts his tie after they separate. “You had us rather worried last night,” he says. “We had no clue where you and Moriarty had run off to.”

“A bit too much to drink for me, unfortunately,” she says. “James was ever the gentleman and helped me home.”

Mycroft hums, more like reluctant acquiescence than complete agreement. His eyes venture about, seemingly looking for their companions. “I hear that you may have need of me again?” He doesn’t hide the nervous skepticism, his brow tilting as he looks back at her.

“I know nothing of the sort,” she admits, hands behind her back, “but it’s always a delight to have you around, Mycroft.”

Mycroft falls into another fit of clearing his throat when James and Sherlock arrive together. When she meets James’s eye, something in her feels like she has come home. He’s wearing a rich brown, crosshatch-patterned suit, and cutting a rather imposing figure, his legs looking a mile long, his shoulders broad. The smile they share is soft, meant only for them, and then he winks.

The game is afoot.

“We need to discuss our next move,” says Sherlock, all business.

“How about over drinks?” proposes James, the image of ease with a hand in his pocket.

But just then Sherlock seems to really see [Name], eyes alighting, and he asks, leaning in, “Are you feeling well?”

“Much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You did look a little peaked at the party,” says Mycroft unhelpfully, gesturing towards his cheek.

Her head tilts to accommodate Mycroft, her mouth pressing flat. “Thank you for that, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen. “You looked lovely. I–I only meant—”

“Drinks, for the love of God?” asks James again. Unamused. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was jealous.

————————

The pub is unusually raucous, especially for the middle of the day. The foursome somehow find a table in the corner, fortunately. The chaos of the pub is perfectly suited to the secrecy of what they’re planning, the sound so loud that there is no way for anyone to possibly overhear what is being said. [Name] sits across from James, the Holmes brothers on either side of her like a human wall. Every time James catches her eye, a firework seemingly bursts in her chest. 

When did she fall for James? When did she know she was in trouble?

The moment she first met him: his outstretched hand, that handsome face, the sonorous Irish lilt. When she helped them crack a clue with their first case and his eyes had nearly twinkled when he looked at her and said, Well done, darling. Just those three words made her flush with the joy of pleasing him, which didn’t usually happen to her. She has no interest in pleasing men—but James has always been different. He can make her laugh like no one else, and he is endlessly surprising. She has always liked puzzles, and James was just made for her.

Or maybe it was the first time laying in bed after a night spent solving crime with James, and her hand had slipped between her legs as she remembered his smile, his hair, his voice. 

Sherlock sputters, his drink nearly spewing from his mouth. “James, you’ve just kicked me.”

James looks at [Name]. “Apologies, lad.”

She rests her elbow on the table, hiding her laugh behind her hand. No doubt that foot was meant for her. Scoundrel, she thinks with adoration.

“What do we do about this?” asks Sherlock, and he slaps the business card onto the table. Mycroft takes it up and tilts it at every angle beneath the bulb that hangs over their table. “We have an address, but I discovered last night that it leads to a shop, not a home.”

“Did you truly think it would be that easy?” asks James. He takes up an English accent, presumably in imitation of Sherlock, and knocks thrice on the table. “‘Oi, sir can I get a spot o’ tea? Also, have ya murdah’d anyone?’”

She sighs through her nose. “Perhaps if you had let me get to know Moreau a bit better—”

“No,” barks James. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Mycroft as he tosses the card back onto the table, “but I’m in agreement with Moriarty.” He sits back in his chair, legs crossed. He levels his gaze with [Name] and says, “That Moreau seemed like a proper rogue.”

“More than these two?” she asks, tossing a thumb towards James and Sherlock.

Mycroft considers this. For a bit too long, seemingly, because James snaps, “Alright, then. We have a way to contact Bernard—but now what? The man is still elusive as all hell. Unless we try planning a meeting with him to buy some shite antique vase.”

“What shop is this address, Sherlock?” asks [Name], tapping the card.

“Some high-end dress shop. I wonder if that’s how he finds his victims.” He poses this last bit to James, who merely shrugs.

The moment the first few words leave Sherlock’s mouth, something must shift in her face because James looks at her with a deep suspicion. With eyes only for her, he asks, “Do I dare ask what is happening in that pretty head of yours?”

“Probably not.”

Something sunny rises in his eyes. “Should we reprise our roles, darling?”

“I had someone else in mind,” she says, relishing in the thunder that suddenly rolls into James’s eyes. Then she turns to her right. “What do you think, Mycroft?”

————————

The foursome stand across the street from the dress shop. Business seems to be bustling, couples coming and going as they keep an eye on the front door. Through the window, [Name] sees women in beautiful dresses twisting and turning for a mirror, looking absolutely delighted.

That’s when a thought occurs to her, one she should’ve had much sooner.

She holds her palm out for James.

“Am I meant to pay you?” he asks, brows raised.

“I do require a ring," she says, leering.

James’s mouth curls into a devious little smirk. He digs into his pocket and produces her fake engagement ring, just as she suspected, and drops it into her open palm. Her fingers close around the ring, warming the metal instantly.

“Were you afraid I would pawn it off and run with the money?” she asks.

James ducks his mouth to her ear. “I needed to give you a reason to come back.”

Damn him, she thinks, face hot—especially when James steps away to reveal Sherlock looking between them, his brows low as he inspects them like a case to be solved. [Name] steps back even further, desperate to keep distance between them because God knows what will happen if they get too close. Can Sherlock—the great detective—see everywhere James has touched her?

She knows her body will betray her. Now that she knows James in such a unique way, it is harder to deny the familiarity. And she feels like anyone, not just Sherlock, can read her like a book.

She stares daggers at James—How dare you—and says in a much-too-sharp voice, “Mycroft. Let us go, shall we?”

“What’s your angle?” asks Sherlock, teetering. He wants to keep her there. He wants to get a better look at the pink in her cheeks and figure out what the hell happened last night.

And she wants to run away. She grabs the sleeve of Mycroft’s stately navy blue coat and drags him away from the two scoundrels, stepping off of the curb and onto the cobblestones, ready to dash at a moment’s notice. Mycroft, all the while, seems dreadfully flustered but ready to go along with whatever is happening.

“Well, we—” Her voice catches, mouth agape as she tries to elaborate, but she knows the boys have her: she has no clue what she is doing, and only one of them knows why she is desperate to run off.

“How about me and Sherlock join you two lovebirds?” James proposes, a clever little grin dancing across his face. He buries his hands in his pockets, standing tall beside Sherlock. The two boys inspect her with a scrutiny she doesn’t appreciate: Sherlock with the mind of a detective, doubtless lost somewhere in his overactive imagination, while James basks in keeping her on her toes, always three steps ahead at any given time.

“Yes,” says Sherlock in such a way that she knows he has an ulterior motive.

Good Lord.

“In what regard?” she asks, tilting her chin up.

“A brother and friend of the groom,” says James. He seems much too pleased with himself. “You two can distract the shopkeep while Sherlock and I get a good look around the place.”

Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense. “Fine.”

James shoots her a wink.

Two can play at this game, it seems to mean.

Amazingly, it is Mycroft who makes the first move: he holds his arm out for her. Smiling like a villain, she takes Mycroft’s arm, smiling up at James on the sidewalk all the while. His own smile sharpens with venom, and she knows she will pay for this later. Terribly, she feels immense delight at the very thought.

“Come,” says Mycroft. “Let’s get this over with.” He leads her from the curb and across the road, dodging a carriage as they go.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she mutters under her breath.

Once they step inside the dress shop with a tinkling of the bell hanging over the door, there is an endless flurry of movement and fabric. It is abruptly overwhelming and calls to mind the party at Whitby the night before: a cacophony of voices, the pressing of bodies. The storefront is deceptively small, but the inside is long, stretching back farther than she can immediately see. Racks of utterly divine dresses line the walls. Patrons stand before mirrors wearing some of these dresses, twisting and turning this way and that. There are workers crouched beside them with tape measures, others assessing with a finger to the lips. 

She finds herself tucking closer against Mycroft, intimidated by the busyness.

“Hello,” chimes an employee, a man with a mustache to rival Mycroft’s. “What a fine couple you are. How could I be of service?”

[Name] jumps in before Mycroft can even think to draw breath. With a big smile, she says, “My dear fiancé thought it a good idea to bring me to get my measurements for our wedding."

“My congratulations,” says the man as Mycroft peers at her from the corner of his eye, stifling a cough. “May I…oh, my,” he says, holding a hand out to inspect her own, her engagement ring glinting in the daylight. “Such a handsome ring for a beautiful woman.” He leans closer, wiggling his glasses to see the jewel better.

“I’m quite pleased,” she gushes. Her teeth may rot out of her head if she keeps piling on the sweetness.

Mycroft says nothing, seeming utterly baffled by the entire performance. She would never tell the man himself, but a part of her misses having James for a scene partner.

Perhaps more than just a part of her.

“Well, let us get you to a station—”

The man leads the two of them away, his attention stolen as James and Sherlock stroll about the place, inspecting dresses as if they have a personal interest, blending in with the chaos and going utterly unseen as Mycroft falls into a chair and [Name] stands on a pedestal before a mirror. The man falls to a crouch as he measures seemingly every corner of her: her ankles, her hips, the swell of her arms. He mutters numbers under his breath like a gifted mathematician, working at a swift pace that utterly baffles her. He could give James and Sherlock a run for their money.

She holds her arms out at her sides as he measures her waist and she turns her head just enough to catch James and Sherlock deeper in the shop, swept up in conversation with another worker. James has a big smile, which can only mean they are attempting charm to learn more about the shop. She’s desperate to be in the thick of the investigation, but she needs to keep the man preoccupied.

“Now, precisely how many shades of white do you do?”

The man’s eyes glint like he has been waiting to be asked this question all his life. “Well—”

Mycroft pulls back his sleeve to peer at his watch. He drums his fingers on the sides of the chair, his chest rising with a deep breath.

The bell over the door chimes just then. [Name] hardly hears through all of the noise, but something makes her turn. And standing there, donning a hat and a pristine suit, is Algernon Moreau. 

“—cream is a popular choice in recent years, although ivory is a personal favorite of mine—”

[Name] whips back to the mirror. In her own eyes, she sees the panic, like a mouse caught in a trap. Does he know they are here, or is this some terrible coincidence? What is most likely is that he woke from his unfortunate punch, searched his own person—aided by the vague memory of leading a woman to a room full of artwork—and discovered his card for Lucas Bernard missing. Of course, his first step would be to come to the address on said card.

Perhaps to find a familiar face…

“Oi!”

James—unaware of the man’s entrance—whips around at the voice that is, unfortunately, meant for him. Silence falls like a cloak over the shop. Also unfortunately for James, his handsome face is much too memorable for a man like Moreau to have forgotten, even if he had only seen it for a split-second the night before.

And it is made worse when, like a magnet, Moreau’s eye is drawn to the pedestal where [Name] stands, and as soon as he sees her, all else is lost. 

There is no escape.

“Thieves! Crooks!” Moreau shouts.

All heads in the shop spin towards [Name] and Mycroft, even as Moreau points at James, who is coming slowly closer with Sherlock at his side.

Mycroft rises from the chair, rebuttoning his jacket with one hand, and asks, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

Moreau is red in the face, his stylish hair falling out of place and in disarray around his face as he sputters, “The—She—She stole from me! That woman!” He spins towards James. “And him! The two of them!”

“There must be some mistake,” starts James, his Irish lilt cool and unassuming.

“What was stolen from you, sir?” asks the employee working with [Name].

“They took—They—” He is indignant and losing his last traces of control.

Then he reaches under his jacket.

All within a single second, several things happen: Sherlock shouts, “Gun!” which causes an outburst of screeching amongst the patrons of the shop; Mycroft stumbles back and knocks over his chair, which goes clattering to the ground; and hands slip around [Name]’s middle and pull her behind a solid, familiarly warm body. Wood and neroli meet her nose, and for some reason that is all she can think about when the gun goes off.

More screaming. The sound is deafening and echoes in her ears with great pain, but then people are running and the body that shields her—James, it’s James—takes her hand and he runs to the back of the store with her. She has no problem keeping up. Everything narrows like she is inside of a tunnel and all she can see is what is right ahead of her. She looks back and finds Mycroft and Sherlock following—they aren’t hurt, thank God—the smoke from the gun drifting to the ceiling, but Moreau is right there. 

He’s coming.

James slams his shoulder into a door at the back of the shop and it bursts open as if a bull hit it. They skitter, a slight stutter-step, and with a hand on her waist, James pushes her in front of him and then they’re running again, the clop of their shoes filling the dirty, gray alleyway they race down, splashing in puddles as they go. Another gunshot rings out, and James and her instinctively duck their heads, a yelp involuntarily slipping out of her. Never has she felt more like her heart might just burst straight out of her chest.

They come to the end of the alley and James shouts to the people standing confused in the street, “Gun! There’s a man with a gun!” right as another shot goes off, chipping the stone beside James’s head. The mere sight makes [Name] the one to grab his hand this time, leading him down the road right as Mycroft and Sherlock reach the street, too. 

It is utter chaos in the street now. James’s warning not only alerted them, but it caused a scene, making it harder for Moreau to find them in the throng. 

James whips around. “Sherlock!”

“Hide!” calls Sherlock, and he and his brother slip into the closest building right as Moreau spills out of the alley.

“Fuckin’ hell—” breathes James, stunned, right as Moreau raises the gun, staring down the barrel through the running mob. 

“More running,” she instructs sternly, grabbing James around the forearm and yanking him away. She is so mixed around and has no clue where in Oxford they have spilled out from, but her feet do all of the thinking for her. The panic within her is choking her, fingers trapped around her throat and her chest, constricting and unthinking until she is merely a thing that runs. How a hare must feel against a fox.

Two more shots follow them out of sight. She can only hope that nobody has been hurt.

James’s palm is slick against her own. They shove through people inside of a department store, unaware folks that yell at them to slow down, show some decorum. Somehow, even with everything blurring past, she spots a cleaning closet. [Name] pulls James there and, mercifully, the door is unlocked. They slip inside and slam the door shut.

The small, dark space fills with their heavy breathing, the smell of their fear. Hands come up to her cheeks and she waits, expecting James to say something, but instead, his forehead tips to hers and they stand there like that, coming down from the adrenaline in each other’s arms, just grateful to see the other still alive. 

Voices rise, some confused and then turning to panic, but no more shots ring out. Either the man is out of bullets or he, too, is sapped of energy.

She swears she hears Moreau yell, asking some question or another. Hopefully no one points him to their hiding place.

But everything sounds so far away, like it all doesn’t even exist. For a moment, it doesn’t. This strange, smelly closet is their own little world. 

James holds her close still, like he can’t bear to be separated from her. “Are you alright?” he whispers, and his voice in the darkness is all she knows. Like she is engulfed by him.

Their foreheads still together, she nods. “Are you?” she asks, even softer.

“A little fuckin’ panicked,” he says, “but I’m in one piece.”

“Good. That’s how I prefer you.”

A sigh escapes him, but it is one of immense relief and a bit of madness. He grasps her face more tightly, their noses brushing as he tips her face up. In the darkness, where not even God can see them, they can be themselves. No performance, no game. Just them. Just like in the garden at Whitby: the only two people on the planet.

Then James kisses her forehead, a lingering, sweet kiss, before he wraps his arms around her waist with a firm but careful reverence and her own slip around his neck. Perhaps this is all nothing but a dream. That strange place before waking up, buried in the darkness of sleep with her greatest joy. The way her heart calms when she is near to him. Like magic. 

A swell of adoration fills her when she remembers James putting himself between her and the gun. It astonishes her. So simple, yet it means everything. 

She hugs him tighter. Words won’t come close, but she still whispers, “Thank you.”

“For pissing off a madman with a gun? You’re welcome, I suppose.”

In the darkness, she smiles, just to herself. Her eyes shut, strangely content in this fetid closet. 

————————

A second day in a row of abandoning the Holmes brothers at a moment of great peril doesn’t sound very appealing, so when it is safe to, James and [Name] emerge from the closet. With their heads on a swivel, Moreau is nowhere to be found, but one can never be too safe. They make their way—slowly and cautiously—to where they last saw Sherlock and Mycroft. On their way, they find only the aftermath of the chase: chipped stone and bullet holes, but nobody is hurt. The relief nearly makes her burst into song.

The brothers are nowhere to be seen, but there has always been a rule that if they are ever separated, you return to the last decided meeting place.

The library.

Minutes later, there are Sherlock and Mycroft, a little wild-eyed and disheveled—although Mycroft was quick to put himself back together as best as he could, she notes—and when the brothers spot the couple coming toward them, they don’t even question why James and [Name] are holding hands. Sherlock closes the distance and sweeps her into a hug, hounding her with questions about if she got hurt, if she is alright. This, finally, is what makes a tear slip down her cheek.

“Let the poor woman down,” says James, chuckling to himself. 

Sherlock sets [Name] back to earth. He looks into her face and she can see the pain leashed within him, that constant fear of something going wrong yet again and him unable to stop it. So she gives him a little smile of reassurance, one that transcends words. Her and Sherlock don’t need them: I’m safe. So are you.

Sherlock nods once. He steps away, letting her breathe.

“What on God’s green earth is wrong with you three?” shouts Mycroft, practically stomping a foot.

The trio stand together, having the decency to look sheepish.

“Now, Mycroft—” says Sherlock.

But Mycroft has only just begun. “You three have to be the most puerile and hazardous group of people I have ever had the misfortune to know. Running straight into danger like it is calling your name! Is there not an ounce of sense in any of you? You play with your lives like—like—” His hands wave around, grasping for the right word.

“You’re causing a scene, mate,” says James, goading the poor man with a devilish smile. 

“As much of a scene as a bloody gunfight?” insists a steadily-reddening Mycroft. Her brows rise; Mycroft must truly be mad if he’s cursing. “I would say that you are the problem,” he says, stabbing a finger at James, “but Sherlock has always been an absolute animal to control. He has dragged you two down with him! His damned cleverness has doomed you!”

“That’s rather kind of you, brother.”

“It is not a compliment!”

[Name] would say something, but there’s no arguing with Mycroft when he gets this way. He’ll scold them for all they’re worth, but the next time he catches wind of whatever shenanigans they’ve got themselves into, he’ll suddenly be there to help and make sure they don’t accidentally kill themselves.

“I am going to return to my office and try to forget this day ever happened,” he says. He fixes his hair, which is threatening to slip out of place. He takes a short, quick breath, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. “I suggest you three do the same. Now, if you will excuse me.”

And with that, Mycroft spins on his heel and vanishes from the courtyard, shaking his head and grumbling as he goes.

“Well.” Sherlock turns to his friends. “That was almost as exciting as being chased by a madman with a gun.”

“Aye, about that. Wasn’t…ideal,” says James, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Not at all,” [Name] says. “Do you think he’ll be looking for us?”

“Possibly,” says James. “We’ve slipped the man twice. It’s personal now.”

“Keep your heads on a swivel. We will find some other way to track down Bernard. It’s enough that we all live to see tomorrow.” Mischief twinkles in Sherlock’s eye. “I have solved one mystery, though.”

“And what’s that, mate?” asks James.

Sherlock’s stare drops down—to James and [Name]’s clasped hands.

Her stomach drops. “Sherlock, it—”

But Sherlock shakes his head, interrupting her. Unbelievably, a lonely smile dances across his face. “It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?” and it’s not a question, not really. Where she was expecting an interrogation, perhaps some bickering, instead there is a peculiar contentment in Sherlock’s face. Like seeing the proof before him has shown him all he needs to know. 

Perhaps he can see the devotion radiating from them. 

His face is soft. “Just promise not to abandon me on a balcony again.”

“Can’t make any promises, mate,” says James, still recovering, but his smile puts the sun to shame. He squeezes her hand.

————————

May I walk you home, madame? and a proffered arm. That’s how her terribly eventful day ends and she wouldn’t have it any other way. She tucks against James, basking in his solidity, his closeness. With the shenanigans they get into, she knows never to take it for granted. Even if he does happen to annoy her on occasion. 

Her apartment is cool, the curtains gently whispering against the floor as they blow in and out of the room. 

James tucks his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with fresh eyes as she digs out a stash of whiskey from her kitchenette. He has been here a handful of times with Sherlock, but they never linger for long. “That surprised me,” he says. “Sherlock.”

“He’s a strange man,” she says offhandedly, crouched and reaching for her bottle. 

“After this morning, I thought he would give me the noose if he ever found out.”

“He is all bark, that one.” She pours a finger of whiskey for each of them and returns to James as he hovers, dazed yet focused. He takes the glass gratefully. “A reward for our survival,” she says, lifting her glass. He does the same, and they sip. 

“What changed his mind, do you think?”

The whiskey burns in her throat, leaving a trail down to her chest. It warms her from within. “You.”

“Me?” James snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Certainly not.”

“He knows you’re a good man.”

James makes a face. “Stop, or I may hurl.”

Trying—and failing—to suppress a smile, she does stop. There is nothing worse to an Irishman than to applaud him, particularly for heroic acts. 

She looks down into her drink, swirling it around the glass. 

Something must cross her face because James says, “Let’s sit.”

The two of them perch on the edge of her bed, his hand coming to her knee. She knows he wants to talk about it, but she doesn’t. Not now. She wants to forget the rest of the world is out there for the moment. She wants to pretend she’s back in that closet, cocooned in the darkness with James. 

“Have you ever hurt someone?” James asks in a different voice than she has ever heard from him. 

She looks at him. There is no smile, no light. He is still her James, but something is happening behind those eyes that she knows she will never get a look into. “Accidentally, perhaps,” she answers slowly. 

“Have you ever wanted to?”

Their eyes hold. 

“I’m not sure,” she breathes out. 

James swallows. He’s the first to look away, and he watches his thumb rub the edge of the glass. He tells the whiskey, “Today, I wanted to hurt Moreau. For trying to hurt you. Still do, really,” he mumbles as an afterthought. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect the people you care for.”

“Yes, but…I want him dead.” The rage that has always sat buried within James snaps at the end of its leash for a moment, gnashing its teeth: she can hear it in the tightness of his voice. 

His jaw clenches after the words escape. Like he didn’t mean for them to. 

She touches his hand. He looks at her. 

“I’m ok, James.”

His pretty brown eyes are wet. “If something happened to you, I don’t know how I could survive it.”

The words kick her in the gut. She stares at him, her own eyes watering, and she swallows the sadness threatening to rise in her. Her clever, sweet James has never been so serious before. It has knocked her off of her own axis, like suddenly a curtain has been pulled back to show everything making the play work. 

She’s here. So is he. 

She doesn’t want to think anymore. She doesn’t want him to either. 

So she kisses him. A firm, sweet kiss that seals an unspoken promise: I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Her hands clasp in her lap, unsure of what to do with themselves, afraid of her own desire.

James breaks the kiss just to put his whiskey on the nightstand beside them. The glass clinks on the wood. His heavy-lidded eyes never leave her, his nose pressed beside hers. He kisses her again, and desperation has possessed him. 

His hands come to her cheeks and he pulls her in, his thumb parting her bottom lip so that his tongue can fill her, dizzying her. She melts, helpless and satyric, and falls into James’s arms. 

Sounds from the outside world whisper into the room—a bird calling, voices down below, a chiming bell—but it strikes her as unreal, like none of it is happening and only this is: James’s mouth, James’s hands, James’s body. 

Clothing starts hitting the ground. First he slips out of his jacket, then she undoes his tie with shaking fingers, then he finds the lacing of her dress. Without a word, James yanks her up and helps her out of her dress as she unbuttons his pants. Excitement shoots like lightning through her and she can’t help smiling against his mouth, like she can’t believe she can be so lucky. It makes her head spin when James smiles, too. She’s happy to make him happy. 

The cool afternoon air raises goosebumps all over her as James takes off her clothes. It is perfunctory, but there is a slowness to their undressing, basking in the resplendence of being together, right here, right now. 

James takes her up into his arms and he lays her on the bed. His fingertips whisper across her ribs, into the divot of her waist, then the swell of her hip. Memorizing her. Watching keenly as she shivers against his feather-light touch. Her nipples harden as her shoulders bunch, staring up at James with wonder. The things he does to her. 

His hot, wet mouth lowers and captures a nipple. A soft moan leaves her chest as her head falls back, trembling beneath him. She is so wet that it’s almost painful. Like he knows this, he touches her: slippery, soaked. She gasps, fingers slipping through his curls. His mouth works at her nipple as his thumb flicks the other, clasping her breast, all the while he slips two fingers inside of her and slowly fucks her with them. 

“Oh,” she gasps out, hips rolling to bury him deeper. She didn’t know she could feel this good. The heel of his palm grinds into her clit, the skin just rough enough that it makes her shiver. 

His teeth pinch over the hard bud and she cries out, a soft keening cry that makes James groan, the sound muffled. She can hear his fingers fucking her and her cheeks warm, embarrassed and unbelievably aroused all at once. She’s soaking wet and squeezing him so tight, especially as he adds a third finger, stretching her more and more. His thick, calloused fingers. 

James releases her nipple with a wet sound, then he’s kissing her breasts, her chest. He sucks on the skin, teeth holding her in place, until dark spots blossom like roses. Memories for later.

Her hips are thoughtlessly rolling, chasing her pleasure, and James rides with her, letting her use him. The pressure builds and builds until she is wriggling beneath him, moaning and sweating as the thread grows tighter and tighter. She knows she’s close. James knows she’s close. 

So when he suddenly pulls his fingers out of her, right before she trips into oblivion, it feels like the worst betrayal. She gasps, eyes fluttering open to stare at him, confused. Her body hums with need, burning with an animal desire for what she wants. “Wh—”

“I never want to see you hanging off of Mycroft fuckin’ Holmes again.”

Her chest rises and falls with her frenzy. Heat pools between her legs. She can feel her wetness seeping into the sheet beneath her, her heartbeat throbbing in her cunt. Her hand, with a mind of its own, moves to touch herself, but James is too quick. He catches her wrist and holds her hand at her side. The other one, too. 

She whines, bucking against his hold. “James.”

“You’re mine, mo chroí.” His brown eyes are almost black. His cheeks are flushed and his cock is hard against her thigh, dizzyingly close to where she wants him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she cries. “Yours, James.” He could get her to say anything right now. 

“That’s right, pretty.” He noses at her cheek. Her eyes shut, basking in the touch. He stills for a moment. His ruined voice recites, “‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you.’”

Then he yanks her up.

James pulls her into his lap. He sits with one leg dangling over the side of the bed, the other stretched out. Her thighs fall open as she straddles him, her body trembling. She feels oddly vulnerable like this, breasts under his nose, hovering inches from his cock. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers as he runs a hand through her hair. The Irish lilt, husky with his arousal, only makes her tremble more. 

She wants nothing more than to please James. 

Her fingers wrap around his cock. His lips part, staring at her with heavy eyes, a whisper of a smirk. Her fingers don’t quite meet around him. She runs her hand up and down the velvety length, and perhaps she does know what she’s doing because a soft sound leaves James, one she would very much like to hear again and again. 

A hand holds him up while the other finds her back. He touches her, pulling her close until she nearly falls into him. “Sit,” he says, like he’s being kind. Such an innocuous thing to say with an entirely new meaning now. Just that one word and she’s a goner. 

She sits—slowly. His cock stretches her open and she somehow forgot just how good it felt, like her mind couldn’t handle the memory. There are no words for the relief she feels as he fills her. He curses as he buries his face against her neck, his hands moving to her hips as he helps her lift them before sinking back down. 

The last dregs of coherence leave her. 

She is nothing more than a body seeking pleasure from a man she loves. James meets her thrusts, his hips rolling, and he buries himself deeper and deeper as she moans, calls his name, begs for more. He holds her waist until there are bruises. He tells her she is doing so good, taking him so well. 

She holds his shoulders and grinds down on him, James’s hands all over her as his mouth explores her neck, his mouth greedy and hot. She moves a hand to his hair, pulling on his soft curls as she rides him. 

The pleasure builds and builds again, her clit rubbing against him every time he sinks into her. James has his face in her hair, his mouth right beside her ear, when he asks if she can come for him. 

She shudders, gasping and holding him tighter, and James holds her down, thrusting in and out of her until a broken moan leaves her and heat flushes through her. 

She comes with stars behind her eyes. Her body quivers as her back arches, pushing deeper and deeper. “James,” she moans, loud and begging. 

“I know,” he breathes out, a wild look in his eyes. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” 

He holds her as he softly uses her, burying himself and caressing her as he fucks her, like she is a piece of glass he can’t help wanting to shatter. Her arms circle his neck and he kisses her breasts, smothering her in adoration as he comes, warmth filling her. 

She falls into him, spent and tired and content, as her cheeks rests on his freckled shoulder. Her eyes linger on the curtain as it sways, dancing from the window before falling back into it. She catches her breath, coming down from her pleasure as James traces shapes against her spine, soft and caring. 

After the chase and making love, she wants nothing more than sleep. She doesn’t know she has drifted off until she feels James laying her against the pillows. He curls in beside her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks, his fingers dancing along her sides. He loops an arm around her, his chest against her back. He’s so solid and warm that it instantly relaxes her. 

As sleep tangles her in its web, she hears James whisper one last thing: “Stay, mo chroí.”