Chapter Text
They had been there for hours, examining every document, testing every theory, checking every alibi.
Nothing had brought them any closer to the truth. They were stuck in a dead end, and Sherlock was starting to get nervous..
“You’ve become so used to jumping to conclusions thanks to your genius, Sherlock, that you’ve lost all patience,” remarked James from his armchair, as he poured himself some whisky.
“You need to give your brilliant brain a break every now and then.”
Sherlock was leaning against the desk, staring at the papers scattered across it in search of a sudden flash of inspiration.
He downed his third glass of whisky with a weary sigh.
“Ms Ellsworth has a strong alibi,” Sherlock began to list for the fifth time in a row over the last three hours, ignoring James’s comment.
“But then again, she had no reason to kill her son. He wouldn’t have inherited anything anyway.”
“Mr Davenport is suspicious, but far too obvious for it to actually have been him,” James recited with a snort.
“Lady Ravenfort had no disagreements with her fiancé, neither romantic nor financial; she had a solid alibi and seemed rather shaken by the death of her future husband.” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and stared at the papers.
He’d missed something, surely.
But what, Sherly? James teased him in his mind’s place.
The real James stood up and looked out of the window. The street was as crowded as usual and the sun was beginning to set.
That morning they had turned up at Ellsworth's Mansion to investigate the murder of the wealthy merchants’ son, and had heard the alibis of those present:
The boy’s father, Mr Ellsworth, had been conducting business all morning.
His mother had gone to church for mass with her friends, and then joined her husband for a business lunch.
They had questioned Mr Davenport, a friend of the victim since their youth, just before lunch, and it had taken him and Sherlock exactly two minutes to realise that Mr Davenport had… particular inclinations.
Once this had been established, it was obvious that what he felt for the victim was not simply male friendship. He had just officially engaged to a wealthy woman, so it was not unreasonable to think that Mr Davenport was not particularly happy about it. He was one of the prime suspects, but there was no certainty nor evidence to prove his guilt.
The victim’s fiancée was their second main suspect, although Sherlock did not like the idea, considering it too banal.
“People are banal, Sherlock. But I understand how, after spending so much time with someone like me, you might have forgotten that,” James had told him with his most charming smile.
“Mm, modest as always, James,” Sherlock had replied with a wry smile, though he couldn’t hide either the affection he’d begun to feel for his friend, or how much he enjoyed these exchanges of banter and jibes, which had by now become part of their daily routine.
_
He turned to look at Sherlock.
Over the past few hours, he had taken off first his jacket, then his waistcoat, and finally his tie, leaving him in just his shirt, the collar of which he had unbuttoned.
Now he was hunched over the desk, his cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol, his hair tousled from running his hands through it so many times.
Perhaps because of the alcohol in his system, perhaps because of tiredness, James stared at him for longer than he should have.
He adored this version of Sherlock, dishevelled, lost in his thoughts, whilst working tirelessly to solve the latest case that had come his way. He was beautiful.
“James? Are you all right?”
He jolted awake, trying to wipe away that affectionate expression he’d surely let slip while watching Sherlock.
“Of course, darling, I was just observing your dedication to your work. Have you found anything in these piles of papers, or can I use them to light the fire?”
He walked over to the desk, picked up a pile of papers and pretended to throw them towards the unlit fireplace, trying to divert attention from the fact that Sherlock had caught him staring.
Then, just to do something other than look his friend in the face (he thought he’d probably done enough of that already), he started fiddling with the candle on the desk.
“No, nothing, there’s nothing. I’ve been stuck on this for hours. It could be an ivy leaf, but I can’t see the connection with… well, nothing.” He said, frustrated, too lost in his thoughts to notice the nickname or the glances James had let slip.
Sherlock handed him a sheet of paper bearing a seal.
It was a fragment of a letter they’d found in the victim’s room that morning during their search.
It had clearly been folded and torn, perhaps in a fit of rage.
The only thing it contained was part of a symbol, which neither he nor Sherlock had managed to identify.
James took it, examined it again.
Sherlock had examined the paper; they’d been to the shop that had sold it, an anonymous stationery shop, from which they’d been unable to glean even the buyer’s identity.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing…
Except that…
He’d seen it before, somewhere.
The supposed ivy leaf in the seal seemed to rest on something. Maybe… water?
James suddenly found himself sucked into his memories.
He was in his old Catholic school, in the small village where he’d been born. Through the windows, the grey sky announced rain.
The nun was probably telling the legend of some saint, those sometimes gruesome stories that had fascinated James as a child.
On the blackboard was a picture of a woman kneeling on a riverbank, in prayer. A leaf was floating in the water.
The realization hit James like a speeding train.
It was Saint Iva or Ives, a Christian Irish princess. Legend said that Christian missionaries refused to let her sail with them to spread Christianity.
She prayed, and an ivy leaf floating on the water turned into a boat, which she used to reach Cornwall.
In the end, she was martyred on the banks of the River Hayle.
There, the town of St Ives was founded.
Its symbol is the ivy.
“There it is, the insight, the flash of genius. Well done, my James.” said Sherlock in his head, leaning against the classroom wall, right next to the blackboard, with a smug and proud air that melted James's heart.
He blinked and returned to reality.
Sherlock had noticed his moment of realisation and had turned his full attention to him.
He gave a proud little smile, adjusting his waistcoat, then proclaimed, “I’ve found it.”
“Oh, really?” asked Sherlock, encouraging him to continue with a knowing smile.
James stepped closer to Sherlock. Now they were standing face to face. James could see the signs of fatigue on his friend’s face, overshadowed by the excitement of the moment, by the satisfaction of having taken a step forward.
“Yes. As you can see, the leaf that you brilliantly deduced to be ivy is floating on the water. Like a boat.”
“Mmm, well done, James. Carry on” Sherlock urged him, tilting his head and leaning forward slightly.
James got lost in that gesture, which wiped every coherent thought from his mind.
Their faces were mere centimetres apart, and he could see the shades of blue in Sherlock’s eyes.
Unconsciously, he let his gaze drift to his friend’s lips.
How often had such intrusive thoughts intruded on his reasoning, causing him to lose every shred of concentration?
It wasn’t good, and James knew it. But God, if Sherlock looked at him like that…
“James? Lost in thought again?”
James snapped back to reality with a start.
He smiled, a little embarrassed.
“Yes, well… If I remember correctly, according to legend, there’s a particular Irish saint associated with this iconography…”
“Saint Ives!” Sherlock exclaimed, his face lighting up. “James, YES, YES, YOU’RE RIGHT! I’ve heard of her somewhere!” he said in an excited voice, his eyes wide like those of a child who’d just unwrapped the present he’d been pestering his parents for for months.
God, he’s beautiful. Was all James could think.
“Ooh, James, that means… wait” Sherlock scattered the papers across the desk, searching for something.
James kept staring at him, fascinated.
Sherlock let out a satisfied grunt.“Father Morwen, the victim’s tutor from childhood until the age of eighteen. The two were still writing to each other. Why would the victim have torn up the letter…? ”
“Umm… well, looks like we’re off for a little trip to Cornwall,” James muttered, still half lost in thought as he gazed at his friend in front of him.
Sherlock turned to look at him, with a mixture of excitement for this step forward, curiosity about what would happen next… and something else, that James couldn’t quite put his finger on.
It was similar to the way he used to look at him before throwing himself into a situation that would get him into deep trouble, when he’d give him a sidelong glance knowing that James would try to stop him, to no avail.
It all happened too quickly for James to react.
Sherlock, still wearing that rapt expression, cupped his face in his hands and kissed him. James lost even that last shred of concentration.
It was as if time had stretched and shrunk at the same time.
His brain managed to formulate a few thoughts, but they sounded more or less like “oh fuck fuck fuck Sherlock’s kissing me Sherlock’s kissing me oh my god”.
Without really thinking about what he was doing, he placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip, but it didn’t last long.
Too short, not long enough.
Sherlock pulled away and turned to retrieve his jacket and tie.
“Come on, we’ve got no time to waste, off to Cornwall!” he said cheerfully, and walked out the door.
James blinked a couple of times, trying to reconnect with reality. Had Sherlock really kissed him…? And then he’d just walked off, as if it were perfectly normal?
He spotted the whisky glass left on the desk.
He was probably drunk, or at least tipsy… right?
It didn’t matter. Sherlock had kissed him.
Jesus Christ. Sherlock had kissed him.
He moved slowly, gathering his things. He decided that if Sherlock didn’t bring up the subject, neither would he.
Although… no, probably what had happened didn't prove anything. With that thought, James left the room, trying to shake off the sensation of Sherlock’s lips against his own.
___________________________
EXTRA
Sherlock and Mycroft were looking at the train timetables for Cornwall when, quite calmly, Sherlock muttered, “I might have screwed up.”
Mycroft snorted. “What have you done this time, brother dear? You know I can’t bail you out every time.”
“It’s not that sort of trouble, brother dear… I… I kissed James,” he said uncertainly.
Without taking his eyes off the timetable board, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And did you like it?” he asked, not so much surprised by the revelation that his brother liked Moriarty, but more by the fact that he’d been the one to make the first move.
“I’d say… yes, yes definitely,” he said thoughtfully, as he tried to sort through his thoughts to reach a conclusion.
Mycroft turned to follow his brother’s gaze, which was fixed on a spot across the station where James had just appeared and was heading towards them.
“Perhaps more than I should have” he whispered.
He put his hat on and walked towards James, leaving Mycroft to marvel at Sherlock’s naivety.
Perhaps one day those two idiots would stop throwing every clue off the trail and focus on the most important case, and, as it seemed, the only one they couldn’t solve: their own.
.