Chapter Text
In retrospect, they should have assumed something like this could happen. James will blame himself later on, insisting he should have known that there was a chance this could be a consequence of their involvement in ending Silas’ schemes.
(Sherlock will, of course, tell him it’s not his fault, even as he grimaces in pain while doing so.)
But James is a man who is familiar with life's consequences. After all, that's the little game they play, him and Sherlock. Sherlock goes on his adventures and his escapes into his own head while James lives in reality and cleans up behind him. Sherlock takes the credit, does the good, but James... James does what needs to be done.
So no, no matter what Sherlock says, he should have seen it coming.
And it comes in the form of a package from Sherlock’s mother.
James whistled as he walked down the familiar street to the familiar apartment, a swing in his step as he did. James was not used to having people he could visit, friends he could pop by on.
He might have been intimidated, not that there were many things that made him feel that way, were it not for the fact that Sherlock was also navigating friendship for the first time. It was comforting in a way, the fact that they were probably each other’s first real friend, but also frightening.
James Moriarty was not a man who was used to trusting other people, and he was not a man used to being trusted. It was incredibly fragile, this thing he had with Sherlock. Especially after his father, Sherlock’s sense of trust was all but shattered under the revelation of what his father had done.
But even after all that, James remembers with a frown, Sherlock still had his ethics. Bea had told him of what had happened on the cliff, told him how Sherlock demanded a fair trial for the man who betrayed him, for the man who abandoned him, for the man that left him for dead. It fills James with a sense of fear.
Fear that one day, that moral code will get his one and only friend killed.
And also, on a deeper and more dark part of his heart, fear that one day Sherlock will realize that when it comes to James Moriarty, there isn’t much in the way of morals or ethics. No, James works on a kill or be killed moral system, and he’s not sure Sherlock will like what he finds if the day ever comes to test it.
But as he walked down the familiar street, James pushed these thoughts down and locked them away, something to deal with another time.
No, today he has a goal. He has a mission. Mycroft had reached out and asked him to check in on Sherlock. And doesn’t it feel good, James thinks, to be someone Mycroft trusts to look after his little brother. To be someone who someone else can depend on.
This had been a common theme in the weeks after Silas’s death. Bea and their mother moved back into the manor, but Sherlock, wanting to give them time to reacquaint themselves, moved into a small apartment not far from the estate and also not far from where James himself ended up residing (all thanks to Mycroft’s immeasurably helpful talent of pulling strings and paying for things.)
Sherlock had, as many of their party had expected him to, completely shut down after moving into his new flat. He withdrew into himself, disappearing in his head for hours at a time, rarely leaving the place at all. He and Mycroft had agreed to keep a majority of the details away from their mother and Bea, but between the two of them they could only come up with so many excuses as to why Sherlock had essentially disappeared.
James himself was worried, but he also knew Sherlock. He knew one good mystery, one grand adventure, is all his friend needs to pull himself out of the slump he finds himself it. A good, cathartic distraction.
(James did not forget about the key, but he’s willing to wait to let Sherlock tell him about its significance on his own terms.)
Mycroft had left town for an assignment in Paris, so James was not even a little surprised when he got the telegram asking if he could please pop by Sherlock’s flat to make sure he was still eating, still breathing, and still functioning. Well… James figured he was probably at least doing one of those things, hopefully two.
James stopped whistling as he approached the door and noticed the small box left on the step. “Oh, and what do we have here?” He muttered under his breath.
A familiar address. His smile widened.
He knocked on the door with one hand and predictably, no one answered. He gave it another knock and called out. “I know you’re in there, Sherlock! Let me in, I come bearing gifts.”
James put his ear to the door and smiled when he heard the sound of shuffling from inside. He took a small step back as Sherlock opened the door a crack and peaked through at him. “Gifts, you say?”
James held open the box and shook it. “From mother and Bea.”
Sherlock frowned. “They’ve never sent me something before.”
“Maybe they want to surprise you, shock you out of this sad isolationist act you’ve been putting on recently.”
Sherlock frowns. “It’s not an act, James. I just don’t feel like being bothered.”
James lightly pushed the door open and walked inside. “Right then, choosing not to take offense to that.”
Sherlock deepened his frown as he stepped aside to let James pass. “No, please do come in.”
“Ah, don’t mind if I do.” James said as he took a look around. He immediately noticed the blankets Sherlock had put over the windows, blocking the light and throwing the room in darkness except for the small lamp on the table. His books and papers were cast about and strewn everywhere, and random dirty dishes decorate the only free counter space.
He clapped his hands together. “Well, Sherlock! I love what you’ve done with the place.”
James didn’t think it would have been possible, but Sherlock’s frown deepened even more. “I’ll admit I need to do some… tidying.”
James let out a chuckle. “Tidying might be a bit of an understatement here, lad.”
“Listen here now,” Sherlock said as he raised a finger at him, “You barged into my flat-“
James’ eyebrows shoot up. “Barged is a very strong word.”
Sherlock glared at him and continued speaking. “You barged into my flat and are now critiquing it?”
“I’m just telling you the truth, love.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. James raised his eyebrows in response. The two stayed stuck that way before Sherlock relented.
“Fine. I admit I may have been… not coping in a way many would consider to be healthy."
James made a shocked face. “Sherlock Holmes has made another powerful deduction!”
“Oh do shut up, I’m trying to be…” he waived his hand, “vulnerable or whatever I am supposed to be.”
“Oh are you, now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Perhaps you can be vulnerable and engage in whatever it is your mother and sister sent.”
“Ah, now I see, you really don’t care about me at all, you just want me to share my sympathy gifts.”
James put his hands up in mock surrender. “You got me, Shirley.”
Sherlock sat down with a huff and James sat across from him. With a nod from Sherlock, James opened the box, turned back the top, and slid it to Sherlock. Sherlock eyed the baked goods quizzically.
“I suppose I owe everyone an apology for… disappearing the way I did.”
James leaned back in his chair. “We’re not looking for an apology, Sherlock. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes. “And if I say I’m not?” He asked quietly.
“Then we work it out. Together.”
“Together, huh?”
James crossed his arms and smiled. “Of course.”
Sherlock met his eyes. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you… why do you care? Why do you stay here even after all of the...." he paused as if looking for a word, "shit I drug you through?”
James frowned. "You've lost me here, Sherlock.”
“I know I don’t understand…" He sighed, "...social interactions the way others do. I know my brain is… dysfunctional in that regard. And I know I have cost you a lot and I just have to wonder…” He paused, the next part coming out quiet, “Why do you stay here with… with me?”
Despite himself, James laughs. Really, truly laughs. Sherlock gave him a genuine scowl in return, and James put a finger up, telling him to wait. “Are you telling me that the most brilliant mind in London, nay the whole world, is so daft he can’t even imagine that someone might care about him?”
Sherlock looked like he was about to interrupt but James took his raised finger and pointed it at him. “I care about you, you stupid idiot! You’re my friend, Sherlock. Probably my best friend. Jesus Christ, I cannot believe you sometimes.” He looked at Sherlock. “Do you not see me as a friend?”
Sherlock had the nerve to look offended. “Of course I do.”
“Then why can’t you see that I view you the same?”
Sherlock sat in silence and stared at him, his hands unconsciously fiddling with the box his mother had sent him. James watched as Sherlock, instead of answering him, slowly began to pick at the pastry inside before putting it in his mouth. Sherlock still looked to be considering how to respond, and as he slowly ate some of the pastry James began to wonder, not for the first time, when the last time Sherlock had a complete meal was.
After a long pause, Sherlock swallowed before answering. “Well because… I just… you’re you and I’m…. I’m…” He threw his hands in the air, unsure.
James’ face turned serious. “You’re what, Sherlock?”
Sherlock met his eyes for the first time since he sat down. His speech had a sense of finality to it. “I am my father’s son.”
And oh, James had some things to say about that. He took a breath to speak, but as soon as he did, he stopped.
He's not sure what he registered first, whether it was the paleness of Sherlock’s face or the way his hands went to his shirt collar to loosen it, almost as if his throat was tightening up. Whatever he was about to say vanished from his brain. Instead he just looked at his friend. “Sherlock, you alright?”
Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide as a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. “I don’t… something isn’t right.”
James cursed as Sherlock’s head started to fall towards the table. He lunged out and put his hand between his friend’s head and its surface, but by then he had bigger problems. Almost as soon as Sherlock went down, the room was filled with the sound of the front door being brutally kicked in.
Whatever was happening, whatever was going on, people were after Sherlock and James knew he needed to act now.
He didn’t have a weapon on him, something he’ll curse himself for later, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing the nearest kitchen chair and slamming it into the man closest to him.
The man, dressed fully in black and wearing some sort of facial covering, fell to the ground next to him. James turned and saw men grabbing Sherlock, lifting his now fully unconscious form up from the table.
James moved, but was intercepted by another man attempting to throw a punch at his jaw.
Jesus, how many of them were there?
James avoided the punch and used the man’s momentum and outstretched arm to pull him forward, giving him a dirty yet rather swift kick in the lower back to put him on the ground. Luck must have been on his side, because while the fall might have put the man down for a few seconds, the way his head smashed into the corner of Sherlock’s living room table will put him down for good.
James looked at the two men propping up Sherlock, and saw from the holes where their eyes are that they were not expecting him to be there. The thought sends dread through James, the thought that Sherlock might have been alone and defenseless without James by his side makes him want to never let Sherlock out of his sight again, but he shoves those feelings aside and instead puts on his signature smile and grins at the two masked men.
James knows how to keep his voice steady even when he doesn’t feel it, and watching the way the two men grab Sherlock tight enough to leave bruises makes him want to scream. But instead, for both their sakes, he stays calm.
“Alright fellas, why don’t ya put the lad down and go on your merry way? I won’t even make you pay for the broken door.” James managed his best grin, even when he is met with silence from the other two men.
“Okay then.” James said, as he put his fists up. “We can do it the hard way.”
James took exactly one step forward before he heard a sound that stopped him dead in his tracks. James slowly turned around and saw a gun pointed at him, hammer cocked back and ready to fire.
James’ hands go from fists to open in surrender. “Now, hang on a second.”
The man holding the gun is dressed the same as the other men, but there is something about his stance that tells James this is the man in charge. He figures if he has any chance of talking himself out of the situation they’re in, it’s with this man.
James took a step forward, hands still raised. “I’m sure we can work something out. Whatever ya want, we can-“
James stopped his slow moving forward as the man slowly moved the gun from James to directly at Sherlock’s unconscious body. James freezes.
“Now,” he begins slowly, ”there is absolutely no need for that. Point that back at me. Not a lot of honor in shooting an unconscious man.” His eyes flickered between the gun and Sherlock, and James felt an intense urge to throw himself in front of his friend, but he knows he can't risk surprising the man holding the gun.
The man with the gun looked at the goons holding Sherlock and tilted his head at them. He opened his mouth to speak, and James is surprised to hear a deeply southern and unmistakably American voice, “I thought you said he was going to be alone.”
The voice that responded back is British, but James doesn’t miss the way it’s shaking. “He hasn’t had any visitors in days. We had no way of knowing that-“
“You are paid,” the man began, “to know things.” The American looked at the two men in black on the floor and back up at the English man who spoke. “If these two weren’t already… out of service, know I would shoot you where you stand.” He sighed. “But seeing as how I need you, I guess you’ll live to see another day.”
The American turned to James. “Now, what to do with you?”
James met his eyes. “Listen, whatever you want with Sherlock-“
“What is your connection to him?”
James doesn’t hesitate. “I’m his friend.”
“I was under the impression he didn’t have friends.”
James felt himself get irrationally defensive. “Well then, that impression would be incorrect.”
“You’ve got a lot of snark for a man with a gun pointed at him.”
“Forgive me,” James replied, “it’s been a while since I’ve practiced my ‘scared and cowardly’ tone. Maybe you should put the gun down then so we can talk as rational men.”
James could tell the American was smiling. “I like you.” He said. “You’re tough.”
“That would be the Irish in me, sir.”
The American let out a breathless laugh and looked back to Sherlock. “You’re saying you’re his friend?”
James nodded “I am.”
“Did you know his father?”
The question stopped James. He's curious, but trying not to show it. “I did. Is that what this is about? Silas? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Silas is dead. Jumped off and landed at the bottom of a cliff.”
“Oh, I am well aware. That’s why I need Holmes junior, here.”
James took a tentative step forward. “I was with Sherlock the whole time he was with his father. I can answer any question you may have. You don’t need to take him.” James put his hands on his own chest. “Take me.”
The American looked vaguely impressed. “Oh, I intend to take you as well, boy. But I’m not leaving your friend here.”
“Please, I-“
Before James could even process it, the American swung the gun around and landed it on top of James’s head. James went down hard, and in the bleariness of the pulsing in his head he could see the American lean down to him. “Sorry, boy, bad case of wrong place, wrong time. But you might be useful to me, and I hold on to things I find are useful.”
It was the last thing James heard before he saw the man’s arm come towards his head again out of the corner of his eye. When the gun connected with his head this time, James let the blackness take over.
Mycroft Holmes was a man who liked things in a certain order.
He liked his tea with a dash of milk and one sugar.
He liked leaving home for work and coming home from work at the same time everyday. The regularly scheduled travel days being the only exception, but even those were planned weeks in advance.
He knew Sherlock got all the credit for being the “smarter” one, but really what Sherlock should be described as is the more reckless one.
Sherlock let his smarts and his wits lead him into adventures, Mycroft let his lead him to a job where he could inevitably bail his brother out of prison at the end of said adventures.
Mycroft supposed others might have complained, but he does not particularly care. He does not care because routine, rules, and regulations allow him to protect his family.
His job in the government allowed him to pull strings for Sherlock, allowed him to make sure their mother is taken care of and Bea has everything she needs to get re-associated with their family and with the normal outside world.
Some might call his job, his status as the “lesser” Holmes brother a sacrifice, but Mycroft does not see it that way. The relief he feels coming home to his family every night is worth everything to him, so no matter what the cost he is willing to happily pay it.
So no, normally Mycroft does not mind the once a quarter trips to Paris required of him, but something about this trip has him feeling… off.
If he had to place blame on something, he suspected it would be leaving Sherlock after all that happened with their father.
(Which, if he was honest with himself, Mycroft himself had not even begun to process all that yet. Instead, Mycroft has just been dedicating all his extra time on making sure Sherlock, Bea, and their mother were cared for. He supposes one day it will catch up to him, but that is a problem for another day.)
Mycroft knew he was leaving Sherlock in good hands. He is of course, rationally aware of the fact that Sherlock has their mother and their sister and James looking after him, but Mycroft is so used to being the only one caring for him that he can’t shake the feeling that he is abandoning his little brother in his time of need.
He supposed he should trust in his family, trust in James, the newfound friend that Sherlock has all but made a part of their family, but something still eats at him.
Call it intuition, call it paranoia or over-protectiveness or maybe even blame it on the fact that there have been multiple times in recent memory where he left his brother alone and someone ended up dead (and the one God-forsaken time that person had almost been Sherlock), but something in him insists something is not right.
He knows James is going over to check in on him, but dammit, he wants another set of eyes on his brother.
So despite his better judgement and the fact he knows for certain Sherlock would yell at him for “mother-henning him to death” if he found out, Mycroft sends a telegram to a familiar address at Scotland Yard and asks for a favor.
Hopefully Lestrade will be able to check on Sherlock without him knowing… but Mycroft doubts it.
He decided to take the risk anyway.
Mycroft liked routine, liked consistency, and he also liked knowing that his little brother was safe.
His brother had an incredible penchant for getting himself in trouble, and Mycroft often lost sleep after dreams of not getting there in time to save him.
No, even if he was being crazy, Mycroft would rather be wrong and embarrassed than be right and destroyed.
He had already lost and gotten back one sibling… he didn’t want to push his luck.