Chapter Text
Until the thrilling moment he first saw Sherlock Holmes, James had staved off daily boredom with many private games. Impersonations, character studies. Improvising his way into an interesting event, and then out of the trouble he would fast become the centre of.
Sherlock Holmes was glad to embrace the man’s hobbies; Sherlock Holmes would gladly follow James Moriarty into just about anything. This was how they found themselves gaining illicit entry to the Oxford Union, the University’s debate club of which they were not members, one cold November day.
“What is our purpose here?” asked Sherlock.
“Staying sharp, Sherly. You think breaking out of prison is difficult? Nobody is more vigilant than an elite defending their silly little exclusive boys’ club from the riff-raff.” He produced a pair of tickets and a membership card with a flourish.
A few places behind them in the line, Sherlock focused in on the voice of a young man cursing and making indignant, sputtering excuses to his guest as he searched through his jacket pockets fruitlessly.
As familiar fondness for James thudded warmly, another part of Sherlock’s brain wondered what the feeling said about him. James’ antics always stunned and delighted him, and most of the time he couldn’t care less about their adjacent victims. He was happy enough to let James pull him into his own sense of justice, which was a kind of antidote to Thrasymachus’ rule of the stronger. Underdogs are justified to bite.
“What is the motion?”
“This House believes that the Saturday half-holiday for the labouring classes is a slippery slope to economic ruin.” James made a face.
“How pleasant,” Sherlock returned his grimace.
“But there’s free drinks after. And besides – in a few years’ time these fuckers will be the sorry spine of British politics. To know your enemy, you must become your enemy.”
“Well, shall we?”
They’d made it to the front of the line. James drew himself stiffly upright and put on a plummy, clipped voice. “Good afternoon, I’m Barnaby Ramsbotham the Third and this is my esteemed guest.”
The chap on the door bowed reverently. “Lord Ramsbotham. This way, of course – VIP section.”
They made their way inside. “Lord Ramsbotham,” Sherlock muttered. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“You dare to question a member of the British peerage,” James rejoined in mock-offense. He relaxed into his usual posture as they passed through the second set of double-doors and out of the doorman’s sight. He tugged Sherlock by the hand towards the staircase that led to the upper gallery.
“Don’t want to claim your front-row reservation?”
“Oh, I think Lord Ram’s Arse might object,” grinned James, returning to his own lovely tones. “And here we get a much more comprehensive view of things.”
They settled in a high corner of the debating chamber that gave them an excellent vantage point. It was a large, impressive space, fully enclosed in a vibrant mural of Arthurian legend that decorated the high internal walls. Flyers had been placed on all the benches, and Sherlock picked one up to scrutinise it. It bore a printed message. ‘Due to an unforeseeable change in speaker availability, it has been necessary to amend our programme. Next term’s debate has been moved forward and this evening’s guest speaker will be Sir Edward Thomkin who will debate the Irish question alongside members of the House. Whoever wishes to hear this evening’s advertised motion debated will have the pleasure of doing so in January and is advised to retain his entry ticket. The committee thanks you for your understanding.'
Sherlock’s stomach pitched as he read, and he handed the flyer grimly to James. Their enthusiasm for this evening’s playful diversion was doused entirely. But the room was beginning to fill up. They’d have a crowd to fight through if they chose to abandon the debate, and a quick glance at James told Sherlock that he was locked in in a new way; he did not intend to leave.
Matters did not improve as the Union’s new President took to the stage to chair the debate. Sherlock recognised him from Candlin – it was the final-year student, loathsomely named Peregrine, who’d once bloodied Sherlock’s nose.
He introduced Sir Edward Thomkin in a bored drawl. Sherlock gleaned the following details: that the man was a self-made businessman and social reformist from Yorkshire who’d served several times as a Liberal MP; and that he was to make the Proposition case for Irish self-government, for which he was a prominent advocate. All of these facts seemed distasteful to the President, who pronounced the word Yorkshire as though it was some piddling, provincial place, barely more than a handful of houses. Other words got worse treatment. Sherlock felt James becoming rigid beside him, and fury shot through his own veins.
Sir Edward Thomkin was the first and best of four speakers either side. He was a smartly dressed man of stout, pleasant features in his late thirties, with traces of a Yorkshire accent that he’d apparently tamed for Westminster. He spoke eloquently and from the heart, with an emphatic pronunciation that called to mind a printed pamphlet. “It is not right,” said he, “that one part of our Kingdom endures Poverty and Hardship while the mainland prospers. Men of Science and Industry, men of academic and moral Rigour, you Gentlemen who are among us right now: do you not feel the Injustice and the Foolishness of the current situation. It is a Wound, a serious Wound upon our Conscience. For what other reason do we expand our Empire, than for the Prosperity, the Enlightenment and the Dignity of Man. If these values are not found throughout her fair corners, Gentlemen! – what does it say of the centre?” So far, so good; but then he began on a lengthy tangent that seemed rather more to be a business proposal concerning the expansion of the railway networks into Ireland, than it was a cry for Irish self-determination.
The Opposition was led by an equine-looking student who approached the motion with a cruel, detached manner and obnoxious lines of argument. It was unpleasant to listen to. As he did so, Sherlock’s mind made many new connections. Of course, he’d studied the history and read the papers, but listening to the matter spoken like this, with James beside him, he was confronted by how much he did not know. How many times had James been in a room like this during his time in Oxford, with people espousing these and worse opinions? They’d never really talked about it.
Sherlock tried a subtle glance to his right to see how James was taking it. James wasn’t even looking at the speaker anymore – he was just staring flat across the gallery, as though his mind was somewhere far away.
There followed various speakers and comments from the floor. The most memorable of the remaining speakers, and worst orator, was an undergraduate named Waggett who spoke on Thomkin’s side. He was a skinny, pallid scrap of a man with a wispy voice that seemed unaccustomed to such a large space. It kept stumbling as he forced it out with visible bodily effort, growing progressively paler as his minutes elapsed; the moment his speech was over he collapsed abruptly into his chair with a look of relief.
Sherlock also felt relief when the wretched thing was over and he and James headed silently for the bar. Something wordless passed between them, although Sherlock thought that later, they would do well to talk about it properly. It was striking him all at once how little he still knew about James’ life before Oxford, and how little James volunteered such information. His main impression was that it was painful territory. The man looked numb. He even bumped into someone on the stairway, jolting out of his reverie with a surprised “sorry there!”
“We can leave now,” said Sherlock, with a gentle, momentary touch of James’ wrist.
James shook his head. “It’d all be for nothing. I’m getting my drinks on the House. We’ll perk up. The night is young.”
They reached the bar, where a selective crowd stood and sat about, engaged in self-conscious discourse and social one-upmanship. As they entered the room, James and Sherlock’s ears both alerted them to something behind them at the same time. With a pulse of shared understanding, they ducked seamlessly into a discreet corner, half-hidden behind the door, and listened to the voices of two men in the corridor behind.
One hissed, “you’ve some nerve dragging us into it.” The voice was unknown to them but its type was recognisable at once: it was the voice of unimaginable wealth.
The other, which was Peregrine’s, replied, “there’s no danger.” His unconcerned smirk was audible without even seeing his face. “Now shut up about it, and let’s get sloshed.” There was the sound of Peregrine landing a jovial slap on Unimaginable Wealth’s shoulders.
Sherlock and James exchanged a look. This was something interesting. They watched the two men settle, then sauntered out from their spot and headed for the bar to get a better vantage on any ensuing conversation.
Their cover was blown immediately by the doorman, now turned bartender. “Lord Ramsbotham,” he greeted James, loudly and flatteringly, ready to serve his apparent Lordship.
“I find that unlikely,” came the voice of Unimaginable Wealth.
James turned slowly and Sherlock did the same. Before them stood, by very simple deduction, the real Lord Barnaby Ramsbotham the Third. He was tall and blond with a small, tidy moustache, and dressed immaculately in white tie and tails. He could only be a year their senior, but centuries of noble ancestry did their best to counteract any accusations of youth.
“Ah. Lord Ramsbottom.” James gave a low and insolent bow. “A-thanking you for your hospitality this evening.”
His Lordship clearly thought this below reply. He just stared at James and Sherlock with distaste and said, “Peregrine. Spedding. Look at this.”
Peregrine and another man who made up the rest of their posse assembled beside Lord Ramsbotham. Spedding was clearly the greatest threat of the three. He was an extremely solid man of average stature, easily identified as a champion rugby player. His dark hair framed a broad face that was blissfully devoid of any of the harsher contours that result from deep thought, and might have been very handsome had it mastered any expression other than the casually hostile grimace it now wore. All three peered at Sherlock and James as though they were a pair of slugs.
“How fitting,” said Peregrine. “Our very own papist at tonight’s debate.”
“Rather an antique insult,” said James. “As the Count of Boulogne’s descendent, I suppose all your witty remarks have been in the family for generations?”
“And like the family jewels, are prized on account of their rarity,” Sherlock added.
Peregrine glowered. “You’ve crashed one too many a party, James Moriarty.”
“The bard himself,” said James, relishing how Peregrine’s accidental rhyme made his threat sound ridiculous. There were some titters from the crowd that were stifled quickly as those present remembered their social self-preservation instincts.
The Union President’s face grew redder. He downed the contents of his glass and discarded it into the hands of his nearest bystander without a glance, freeing himself up for the action that might follow. “You’ll regret this.”
“Peregrine, it’s not worth it,” said Lord Ramsbotham.
“Barnaby,” said Peregrine, voice crescendoing, “he is not a member.”
“Which makes me a guest,” said James, “and now if you’ve very much finished I’d like to try the refreshments, please excuse me.”
James turned back towards the bar but Peregrine yanked him around again. Lord Ramsbotham interceded with a firm hand on the President’s shoulder. “For God’s sake, man, call a bouncer. Or get Spedding to do it.”
The President’s face was quite alarmingly red at this point and breathless. “Spedding,” he wheezed. “You heard…”
Spedding apparently did not mind to be bid like this. He advanced on them. “Time to leave,” he said in rumbling bass tones that strongly discouraged argument.
James knew when it was time to cut one’s losses, and began in the direction of the exit. But Sherlock was immobile in his path. He followed Sherlock’s gaze towards Peregrine’s reddening, apoplectic face. Then, seeing their joint expressions, even Spedding faltered, looking round.
The Union President keeled over and collapsed to the ground.
The room erupted into a disorganised commotion.
Sherlock Holmes was calm in most crises. He took a step forward, then looked at Lord Ramsbotham, the remaining authority in the room, for approval before kneeling beside the prone man and seeking the pulse in his wrist. He tried it for ten seconds, and felt for breaths with the back of his palm. He looked up at Ramsbotham and shook his head.
The young Lord was shaking visibly. “Spedding,” he called anxiously. “Send word for an ambulance – a doctor – quickly.”
Spedding hurried to obey but James grabbed his arm. “See if there are any medical students in the building,” he said. “The doctor may be too long a wait.”
Meanwhile, Sherlock had manoeuvred the President onto his back and begun chest compressions. As he was about to deliver the two rescue breaths, James suddenly dived into his way. “No,” he said urgently.
Understanding flashed between them again. Sherlock looked up, still working chest compressions as he scanned the room wildly. James was on his feet. “The glass,” he barked at the room. “Who has his glass?”
But there was no sign of the glass, nor the hand into which it had been delivered.