Chapter Text
Sherlock stared at where his father fell in horror, stood still with his hands out reached as if he could still catch him. The handkerchief his father left, clutched in his hand like a string he could use to pull him back up.
Although Silas Holmes was revealed to be a different and more evil man than Sherlock ever knew, in that moment all he felt like was a little boy who just lost his parent. Another piece of glass broken from the container holding him up. Soon, it would shatter.
A hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him away from the scene but he resisted, refusing to move from his spot.
“Sherlock, please. We need to go.” He barely registered that the voice was that of his sister, the girl he’d thought he’d killed for years. The guilt was still raging in his mind, and another one had been added.
“Leave me,” He croaked out, staring into the bushes where Silas landed.
“There’s nothing you could have done, Sherlock. Come on, lets get back to your mother” Xioa Wei spoke softer than he’d ever heard her, joining his other side and trying to pull him away as his sister did.
“Go,” He spoke more insistently, a single tear falling down his face. She stared at him for a long time, reaching to grab his hand.
“Do you promise not to join him?” He would have thought it an unreasonable question, but he was surprised to find that he couldn’t answer her. He stared into the distance for a moment, a beat of silence. Eventually, he lowers his head in a slight nod.
“We’ll be back with the others, don’t do anything stupid” She warns, taking a hesitant Beatrice with her.
When the sounds of the hooves of their horses faded away, he finally allowed himself to break. He fell to the ground unceremoniously, digging his fingers into the ground and choking out a sob.
His sobs get louder and louder, his nails starting to break and bleed as he scrabbles at the floor, trying to get some bearing of himself. He could see him, in the corner of his eye, staring in disgust. He felt as though he was stuck in that same cage as the prisoner, struggling for breath, suffocating slowly as his father watches on in fascination. Maybe this is what he wanted? That’s why he grabbed him with his bloody hands, pulling him into the sanctity of his own death.
Sherlock stands abruptly. He didn’t want his mother to come and see him in such a state. Nor his father, or James. Especially not Beatrice, his newly found sister seeing how weak her brother is.
So, he ran. He allowed his feet to take off and kept running, and running, until he was sure they wouldn’t find him. He was surrounded by tall trees, which became taller as he collapsed onto his back. He stared at them, the way they reached for the food the sun provided. The way they reached to the sky, garnering answers to what’s out there. He closed his eyes, basking in the calmness that surrounded him, the way the leaves swayed with the slight breeze, the way the crickets chirped and the birds flew. Going about their daily lives as if a massive chunk of his hadn’t been ripped from him.
He let the surroundings slip away.
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“Where’s Sherlock?” Was the first thing out of James mouth when Beatrice and the princess approached. Slipping off the horses with a sullen look.
James had to watch as Sherlock frantically ran out of the mines after the others, unable to stop him due to the shock from the blast. He had slipped out of his fingers, the only thing stopping him from chasing after them was Sherlock’s mother, who reminded him that without a horse, he wouldn’t catch up with them. The next 30 minutes consisted of the boy pacing up and down so much he could have already walked there and back.
“He refused to come back; Silas took his own life.” Xioa explained, Mycroft gasped in horror, Cordelia looked pleased. A stark contrast.
“Poor old daddy’s gift to Sherlock before he passed was to grab him to make it seem like he killed him. He’s not taking it very well” Bea had the honour of explaining, her tone detached and cold, as she busied herself with settling the horses.
“And you just bloody left him?” James spits, immediately stomping towards the horses, rage coursing through his body. “He’s vulnerable and you just left him in the middle of nowhere?”
At least the princess looked chastised, but Bea had the audacity to look smug. She gripped onto his sleeve as he passed, throwing him a smirk.
“Well, I thought with him gone for a little bit, we could get a lot more done.” Any other time, this would have enticed James, but in that moment, it disgusted him.
“Fuck you and your redemption. Some sister you are. He did all this for you., you know” His tone was harsh and made Bea flinch slightly.
“I never asked him to.”
“He thought you were dead” The man spat as he climbed onto her horse, Mycroft saddling onto the other. He didn’t wait for him though, immediately setting off in the direction they came from. Towards a man now broken.
“Sherlock?!” His voice echoed through the trees, the leaves shaking with the force of it. The birds flew away either in fear of him or in aid of his search. He wasn’t sure. He lost Mycroft a long time ago, their search taking a worrying long time. Mycroft made the hard decision to go back and get help, and left James to keep searching.
He was tired, sweaty, warm, and extremely worried. The sun was setting under the trees, and Moriarty could feel it taking Sherlock with it.
“Sherlock?” He screamed again, jumping off his horse. He trudged through the mud, before stopping in his tracks.
In the middle of a small clearing a body lay, facing the sky. It was the most beautiful sight James had ever seen.
He ran to the boys side, gripping his hands in his.
“Sherlock? Oh, Sherlock thank god.” He exclaimed, checking over the boys body frantically, looking for any injury that could be there. There was nothing, and yet the boys eyes remained closed.
“This isn’t funny now, Sherly, wake up” He spoke softly, tapping the other man’s cheek with his hand. Still no movement. He looked peaceful, his hat had fallen off at some point. Mycroft had found it abandoned upon the floor a few miles back, causing immense fear in the pair. It was a terrifying sight.
God, a few miles back, no wonder he wasn’t responding. He must have been exhausted.
The rise of Sherlocks chest comforted James, a proof of life. He leant down, stroking his cheek with his thumb and gently placed their foreheads together.
“You’ll never stop scaring us, hey Sherl. Always keeping us on our toes.” He whispered, breathing in his scent. He placed a quick kiss to his cheek before pulling back.
He hadn’t spoke of his feelings to the man yet, nor done anything to act on his affections. But it was becoming overwhelming to try and hide it, spilling over the sides of the blockade he had created early on when he realised it was something more. He had no clue if Sherlock was aware, or even felt the same, but the lingering touches, the hungry stares, the flirty remarks. It was undeniably different to any other relationship Moriarty had with another male friend.
He pulled back, lifting his friend with him and walking him to the horse. He slumps him over the horses back, climbing upon it himself and rides back to the others. Fear gripping his heart with every bump.
Sat by his bedside in Constantinople, James held Sherlocks hand in a vice grip. Watching his chest rise and fall, taking his breath with it. This is what he had been doing for a whole day now, refusing to leave the man’s side. He watched every twitch, every slight movement in hopes the boy would awake. Mycroft, Cordelia, Xiao, even Beatrice came in and out frequently. Accompanying him for a time being or encouraging him to go eat or sleep. But he wouldn’t hear it, he would just grip the man’s hand tighter and stare at him like he held his very soul itself on a tether.
It was quiet, the only sound being that of footfall outside and the boys raspy breathing.
He was starting to fall asleep in his chair when he felt the hand in his twitch slightly, and heard a groan from the bed. Jame’s head shot up, seeing Sherlocks eyes looking at him blearily.
“Oh, thank god, oh Sherlock” The words were tore from his chest, the relief palpable. He reached and cupped the boys face in his hands, tears threatening to spill as he looked him in the eyes. He stroked a thumb across his cheek then leaned in and kissed his forehead. An action of gratitude.
“What happened? How did we get here?” Sherlock managed to croak out, looking up at James with innocent, tired, and curious eyes. It made his heart skip a beat. He leant back, sitting back in his chair.
“You, sir, decided it would be a good idea to run off. You also failed to inform anyone you hadn’t eaten anything substantial for the last few days. So, you collapsed.” He informed him, giving him the best scathing look he could muster.
“Oh” The boy muttered, quietly. His colour had returned to him thanks to the feeding tube administered by the best doctor in the city. But he didn’t seem as peaceful as he did as when he was sleeping. His brow was creased in a constant furrow and James had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth it. Sherlock seemed to be looking at something next to James rather than at him. Frozen in fear.
“Sherlock?” He asked, the young detective moved his eyes to him reluctantly before finally breaking out of his stupor.
“Sorry, I uh. I must have forgotten to eat in all that chaos. Thank you for finding me.” He smiled, reaching out and grabbing the other man’s hand. He squeezed it lightly in reassurance before drifting off again, barely hearing the “Always” muttered in response.
But he did hear it.
And he smiled.
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The journey back to Oxford was a quiet one, all five of them sharing a compartment and watching the trees move past in silence. Beatrice had been kinder the last few days of their stay in Constantinople. She spoke softer to her mother, with an innocence you would expect from a child reuniting with her mother. She was less ardent in her jealousy towards Sherlock, in fact it had almost simmered down into nothing. After his close brush with death and almost joining his father, it had made her go soft.
Mycroft had become the family’s mother hen, constantly checking on everyone. He would write itineraries, check Sherlock’s stitches about 50 times, make sure everyone had eaten, and talk with the train driver to make sure their route was on track. He had fallen asleep from his exhaustion about 50 minutes into the journey.
Cordelia spent most of the journey sleeping, all though much better once she stopped taking that dreadful medication Silas was drugging her with, the events of the last few weeks had caught up to her quickly. Beatrice similarly laid her head against the seat, holding onto her mother’s hand as if she could disappear at any moment.
And James… Well James spent the whole journey watching Sherlock. Every bump, every grimace, every twitch of the nose, every scratch itched, every hitch of the breath. He watched with ample care, never letting his eyes leave him for a second. Three close encounters with deaths embrace and here he was looking out into the distance as if he hadn’t ripped Jame’s heart out of his chest each time. Every time the train jolted and Sherlock made a face of pain, fear held James in an intense grip.
Sherlock was watching the trees pass the window, and the rolling of the hills. He was trying to clear out his mind, not allow any thoughts to enter it. He was aware of James staring. He was always aware of James staring. But he was also aware of the pale man sitting next to James, staring at him with an intense look of disdain. He refused to look at him, so he kept his gaze on the outside world, passing by his with such speed he was scared of how fast time was leaving him. He started to count the sheep he spotted, calculating the density of sheep compared to the space of the fields to determine how well treated the sheep truly are. Its then that he notices a figure standing in each field, a man in a dishevelled cream suit, and a blood stain on his stomach. He was staring at Sherlock, seemingly travelling to each field in a blink of an eye. Sherlock felt his breath hitch, not able to take his eyes off of the man. His heartbeat was quickening and the sounds of train was slowly turning into a roaring in his ears. The man slowly raised a hand, clutching something bloody in his fingers, and pointed an accusatory finger towards Sherlock.
“Sherlock?” A concerned voice cuts through the noise, Sherlock whips his head round to see James staring at him, the man next to him having disappeared. Sherlock tried to catch his breath, not even realising he had lost it in the first place. The other man leant forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Are you okay?”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just stares at James as he tries to catch his breath. James doesn’t try to rush him, he leans over and grabs his hand tentatively, waiting for the man to calm down. His grip wasn’t tight or inpatient, it was gentle and calm. Not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock with anymore senses than needed. It just served as an assurance that he was there. It was a shock, Sherlock thought, that this man who had known him for only a month seemed to know him better than anyone else.
He sighed out loud, closing his eyes and squeezing James hand as a thank you. “I’m okay” He breathed out, sinking into his seat. “Lets sleep.”
He didn’t listen for a response, but he felt James hand hold his for a few minutes longer before retreating back into its place. The cold hitting his hand immediately making Sherlock aware of its loss. But then he heard shuffling and felt a warm leg touching his slightly, not an obvious touch but a clear deliberate one. Sherlock smiled slightly to himself before falling asleep.
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They stepped out of the carriage one by one, staring up at Appleton Manor which held a completely different feeling than the one they had as children. Instead of a comforting look of joy and childhood, it now looked like a haunted, desolate house, filled with pain and despair.
Beatrice was the first one to move, walking into the house with a determination unmatched by anyone else. Cordelia followed behind, eyeing her every move. Unbelieving that she was seeing her adult daughter in the house she mourned her death.
Mycroft blinked away tears, clearing his throat and entering the house too. Sherlock stood stock still, staring at the house as if it would swallow him at any moment. He could see a face in the top window, cold and calculating, a figure watching him as though he was the intruder in the home.
A hand on his shoulder broke him out of his stupor, he didn’t look at James but moved his head slightly to the side to acknowledge the comfort. Then he walked into the house, James close behind. Always close behind.
The three other members of the Holme’s family were stood at the bottom of the stairs. Beatrice was staring at her painting with an expression no one could quite decipher. It took a few minutes for her to break the silence.
“What did you mean, James?” Her question echoes through the house. Everyone turns to look at said man standing behind sherlock, looking quite startled to have been called upon.
“Going to have to be more specific,” He replied, eyebrow raised. She was still looking at the painting.
“When you said Sherlock thought I was dead. What did you mean?” She repeated, now turning to look at him with a hard stare.
Sherlock decided to take pity.
“Let’s sit down and explain, shall we?” He suggested, pointing to the living room in invitation.
They sat in the desolate living room all close together. Sherlock sat between his brother and friend; Cordelia sat to the left of Beatrice who was staring at her brothers expectantly.
“Well?” She asked impatiently. Sherlock let out a breath through his nose.
“When we were children, you asked to play with me. I said no. You went to father and he told you something. To go somewhere. You left and after that you went missing,” He started, he had been recalling these events over and over for the past decade and as of recently most frequently. “We looked for you frantically. The whole town searched. Then one day the groundskeeper and father came back holding a body. Mother was too distraught, she never actually saw you. A doctor from Oxford came and declare you dead. For the past 12 years we thought you were dead.”
Sherlock hastily swiped a tear from his cheek he didn’t even realise had fallen. All the emotions of the last 12 years starting to rear its ugly head. Beatrice was looking at him incredulously, looking between each of their faces in search of some sort of sign that what Sherlock had said wasn’t true.
“No. No, I was told that there was a fire. At the house. That I was taken away because mother was a danger to me.” Her voice broke, Cordelia grabbed her hand and brought it to her mouth.
“If there was even a single sign you were alive, I would have destroyed the entire world in search for you” Cordelia spoke, “When Sherlock was slowly figuring it out, when we all realised, darling, we ran for the hills in search for you.”
Beatrice had tears streaming down her face, gripping onto her mothers hand like it was her life force. She nodded her head in recognition of her words, and then turned her intense gaze once again to Sherlock.
“I’m sorry.” She said.
“Sorry?” He asked incredulously.
She turned her gaze to Mycroft.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe any of you at first. And I’m sorry that I’ve been acting with hostility. It will take me a while to filter out the venom my… our father has instilled in me.” Her apology was sincere albeit reluctant. The bloody hand gripping her shoulder was distracting Sherlock but he made a conscious effort to focus his eyes onto the floor.
“Thank you.” She finished. No more had to be said. She wasn’t the Bea they once knew, but she was going to try. They had her back, and that’s all that mattered.
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Sleep wasn’t coming to him, no matter how long he shut his eyes for. No matter how many times he counted to a thousand. The next coming days took everything out of Sherlock to keep some resemblance of normalcy. Everyone was going about their day in seemingly bliss. Laughing together, sharing stories, spending their every waking moment attached to the hip.
Sherlock spent these moments trying to laugh with them, but it was getting exceedingly hard to do so. The exhaustion was becoming overwhelming, and he knows he should be eating more but even the though of food makes him nauseous. And he is everywhere. Every corridor he walks, every room he enters. He stands there with an accusatory stare making it harder and harder for Sherlock to ignore.
His family was starting to notice. He could tell, if their concerned gazes were anything to come by. He didn’t know if they knew about his ‘visions’ but he could feel himself slowly becoming a shell of a person and they were watching.
Mycroft had come into his room one day whilst Sherlock was reading, sitting opposite him and looking at him without a word. It was 5 minutes until Sherlock had finally cleared his throat, startling his brother.
“Can I help you?” He asked sarcastically, snapping his book closed and leaning forward.
Mycroft had the audacity to look somewhat sheepish, scratching the back of his neck and twitching his nose slightly.
“Sorry, I just, I-… Sherlock.” He stumbled, fidgeting in his chair. Now Sherlock was beginning to be concerned. “I wanted to, uh, iterate that you can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?”
It warmed the young boy’s heart, a confession crawling its way up his throat. Mycroft looked so open and worried, his eyebrows drawn up in a permanent look of concern. It transported Sherlock back to their time alone as children, when Sherlock would retreat into himself after his sister died and Mycroft would try to pull him back out. An explanation was on the tip of his tongue, but dishevelled shoes in the corner of his eye made him stop. He had dragged one of the members of the Holmes family down, he didn’t need to drag his brother down with him.
“I know, Mycroft. Thank you.” He said sincerely, but he was overwhelmed with guilt when he saw Mycroft’s expression drop. The older man nodded solemnly, before standing up and walking to the door. He paused, turning back to Sherlock.
“Please, Sherlock. I thought I’d lost my sister for 12 years. I don’t want to lose my brother now.” It was a subtle beg, but one that had almost ripped Sherlocks heart to shreds.
In an attempt to protect his family, he just kept causing more and more pain.
Now he tossed and turned in his bed, trying to avoid the irate glare of his father. At some point in his exhaustion the man had stopped being a quiet figure in the corner, but now a horrifying looming presence whispering curses to the boy.
“I knew you would betray me, are you not my son after all?” It hissed.
“You killed your sister, and then your own father. Who’s next, is anyone safe around you?”
“Stop, stop, stop.” Sherlock whispered, bringing his hands to his ears. James was sleeping soundly in his bed on the opposite side of the room, unaware of the torture Sherlock was enduring.
“Maybe you’ll ruin James too. I’m surprised he hasn’t run away yet.”
He couldn’t stand it anymore; he needed a change of scenery. So, he stood up and ran quietly out of the house. Across the gravel, across the grass and into the river, wading through until he was in the middle. The water was freezing cold, yet extremely grounding. He looked up to the sky and inhaled the fresh air. He slowly sat down into the water, only marginally aware he was in his pajamas. It was shallow, no risk of drowning, but deep enough to cover his feet which had cause the water to slowly turn red. Apparently running across the gravel bare foot cause you to be prone to injury.
He stared at it with an odd sort of fascination, the blood starting to spread around him. The moon, the stars, and the face of his father reflected in the water. Was that where his father is now? When he flew down the cliff and was submerged by the water, his blood spreading just as Sherlocks did now. Did he join the sky in its reflection or is he forever apart of the water, waiting to be set free.
He trapped him there. Sherlock knew that. His father had done so much bad in his life, had lived all these years surviving and scheming. And all of it thwarted by his own flesh and blood.
Sherlock closed his eyes and leant back, the water submerging his body so just his face was visible. He stretched out so his skin would pull at his bullet wound and cause a dull throb. The water drowned out the noise of the outside world, silenced the taunting remarks. The cold spread across his body causing a shiver to flow through him. His father stood above him, his face drawn into a snarl as he hissed silent insults at his youngest son.
A sudden shadow moved across his face, and his fathers was suddenly replaced by the extremely worried one of James Moriarty.
Sherlock drew his eyebrows together, wondering when he had started imagining James instead of his dead father. It was a welcome change.
But this apparition reached down and grabbed him by the armpits, lifting him out of the water into a standing position.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man reprimanded. He sounded breathless as if he had been running. “You’ll catch a chill Sherlock, the waters bloody freezing, and you’re going to get an infection if we don’t get those wounds cleaned up. God did you not think about maybe putting on some damn shoes?”
He was rambling, but mostly because Sherlock was staring at him vacantly, as if he still hadn’t fully processed that he was there with him.
James had been terrified when he had awoken to the sight of an empty bed opposite him. He had leaped into action immediately, searching every nook and cranny of the house in search of Sherlock. James had hardly left him alone since they had arrived back, even though Sherlock may not have noticed it. No matter where he was in the house, James wasn’t far behind. He wanted to be there for when he finally cracked, when the bottle was overflowing. What he didn’t want, was Sherlock to do it when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t until he had looked out the window, that he saw a figure laying lifelessly in the water. It reminded him eerily of when he had watched Sherlock chase his mother into the river in an attempt to get her back of the house. Now it was James sprinting desperately out of the house, yelling Sherlocks name as he ran into the water. The man didn’t hear him, that much was clear. And even when he was standing over him he had made no flinch.
“You’re here” The boy whispered, breaking his stupor.
“I’m here” James reassured him gently, reaching out to grab his hand.
“You’re always here.” A small smile started to grace Sherlocks face, his pajamas were dripping into the water.
“And I always will be” The other man replies, reciprocating the smile. “Let’s go inside, Sherly. Please.”
James got them situated in their bedroom again. Immediately stripping Sherlock of his wet clothes and replacing them with dry ones, trying to push down the red creeping up his neck. Sherlock wasn’t very cooperative, he just kept his eyes trained on James for the duration. James reluctantly got up at some point to grab ointment and bandages before kneeling in front of Sherlock on the bed and tentatively tending to his now damaged feet.
“He’s here.” Sherlock spoke in barely a whisper, his eyes never once leaving James.
“Who’s here?” James responded, focusing on his task with such tender care it brought tears to Sherlocks eyes.
“My father”
It was more of a broken sound, but James head snapped up none the less. Searching Sherlocks face frantically.
“Is he here now?” He questioned, his hand resting on the now bandaged foot. Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes still boring into him. “Ok, where is he?”
Sherlock’s breath hitched slightly before reaching down and grabbing onto James. He pulled him up, James barely having time to process what was happening, he placed him standing slightly above him, his hands on either side of him on the bed. His shadow blocking out the light.
“Now I can’t see him.” His smile was one of relief and the ghost of his breath brushed upon Jame’s lips. The other man was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher, his eyes roaming up and down his face until finally settling on his lips.
James breath had quickened slightly, Sherlock had noticed. His arms were encompassing him and Sherlock had become very aware of how close their faces were. But even with the position they were both in, he could feel his eyes were starting to grow extremely heavy. James noticed, of course he did, when does he not? He reluctantly pulls back slightly, not far enough for the figure to return, and furrowed his brows.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept, Sherly?” He asked gently, brining up one of his hands to swipe a curl of his hair to the side.
“I’ve slept for about 2 hours.” Sherlock responded easily.
“Tonight?”
“No. Since we arrived.” James couldn’t help the disbelieving noise he made in response to that.
“Sherly, we arrived a week ago” He said in shock, Sherlock didn’t respond, he just closed his eyes. “Ok, that’s alright, we’ll just… ok.”
James was rambling but he made a decision fairly quickly. He grabbed onto the boys shoulders, and slowly laid him down on his side. He then climbed into the uncomfortably small bed next to him, and turned Sherlock so he was facing him.
“What are you doing?” The detective asked.
“Sleeping with you” Moriarty winked at him which earned a blush on Sherlocks part. Jame’s grinned mischievously before schooling his face into a serious expression. “I’m making sure you can’t see him, he won’t get you while I’m here, Sherlock, I promise.”
Sherlocks eyes were already closed but he gave him a pleasant hum of thanks, and before he fell into the depths of sleep he reached out and grabbed James hand in a vice grip. Bringing it to his chest and promptly falling asleep.
When he showed the first tell-tale signs that he was sleeping, James let out the frightened breath he had been holding in since he saw an empty bed an hour earlier. Seeing the blood surrounding Sherlock in the water had brought back all the fear he had in Paris. Watching Sherlock start to grow lifeless as his blood started pooling from his abdomen. He had been terrified that he would lose him, even though he had only known him a month, Sherlock had become the most important thing in his life. He couldn’t stand to lose him.
He reached out a hand and rested his palm on the side of the sleeping mans face. His thumb stroking up and down. It was a tender gesture, which led James Moriarty to a realisation. That he would tear down the world for Sherlock Holmes. And that didn’t frighten him in the slightest.