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James had, in fact, decided to return to England with Sherlock. After Constantinople, Mycroft had pulled a few strings and secured James a new scholarship, as well as Sherlock’s admission to Oxford. It had taken some convincing before James agreed to accept, particularly after whatever had happened between Sherlock’s arrest and their escape from prison. The experience had left him with a decidedly tarnished opinion of Oxford. Sherlock had eventually convinced him that the university’s resources gave them their best chance of deciphering Malik’s formula.
So, now, they shared a flat near Oxford.
Sherlock had only been mistaken about one thing: he had assumed Mycroft would return to London. Instead, Mycroft had remained in Oxford in his reinstated position with Her Majesty’s Foreign Office, where his current duties included overseeing the repairs and grand opening of the Science Building.
Sherlock hung his coat on the rack, closing the door of their apartment behind him. The room was considerably warmer than outside thanks no doubt to the fire Sherlock could hear crackling in the living room.
There was an odd odor in the house, however. It was an herbaceous and earthy scent that Sherlock couldn't name. He recognized it but it took him a moment to place it.
The Folies Bergère.
There were many distinct smells in that place, but this one stood out both because it had been strong and because Sherlock hadn’t been able to identify it.
Sherlock stepped into the living room to find James sitting in his chair by the fire. He had a pipe in his hands that appeared freshly packed. Whatever it was, he had only just started smoking.
Sherlock eyed the pipe suspiciously as James breathed out the thick smoke.
“Do you remember my friend in Paris, Sherlock?” James asked. He took another puff of his pipe, coughing slightly on the exhale. Sherlock sat beside James, thinking back to every person James had spoken to in Paris. James had an unusual trait of referring to anyone he spoke to as ‘friend’ despite sharing only a brief time together. James continued, “The one who wore the pretty feathers and–”
Sherlock’s mind supplied the memory of James leaning back against a woman with feathers and gaudy makeup. He gave James an irritated look. “The prostitute.”
“Hmm, yes I believe that was her occupation.” James nodded. Then lifted his pipe. “This was a gift from her–”
“When did you have a chance to–”
“Not the point. According to Marguerite, this herb–”
“First name basis?” Sherlock asked.
“--is very popular for its intoxicating effects.”
Sherlock frowned at it. “And? Is it working?”
James shook his head. “Not that I can tell. Here,” James said, reaching the pipe out to Sherlock, “maybe it’ll work for you.”
Sherlock stared at the pipe but refused to accept it. “Why would Marguerite give you a gift? Isn’t that a reversal for the way her business usually works?”
James grinned. “There is nothing usual about me, Sherlock. I thought you of all people would know that by now.”
Sherlock felt an inexplicable warmth climb up his neck. James’s grin widened and Sherlock snatched the pipe from him.
He took a draw. The smoke tasted different from tobacco. More bitter, with a peculiar aftertaste that lingered in Sherlock’s mouth. His eyes watered, but he refused to choke on the exhale, despite the overly warm feeling in his chest.
“Well?” James asked.
“How long are the effects supposed to take?” Sherlock said.
“Haven’t a clue,” James replied. “Not even really sure what the effects are supposed to be. My French was slightly lacking in that area of discussion. Not really something covered in the textbooks.”
Sherlock hummed.
They finished the pipe, taking turns passing it back and forth. Then they sat back, staring at the ceiling.
“I still don’t feel anything,” Sherlock said after a moment.
James hummed. He tilted his head, squinting slightly at the ceiling before shaking his head and looking at Sherlock. “Me neither. Are you hungry?” James said.
Sherlock considered the question. He hadn’t eaten lunch today and, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t eaten breakfast either. He had gone straight to class and then spent the rest of the day studying. Sherlock looked over to James who was still staring at him. He hadn’t replied. “Yes, James, sorry I became quite wrapped up in my thoughts,” Sherlock said.
James continued to stare at him.
Sherlock replayed James’s question in his mind. Food. He asked about food.
“I am feeling unusually hungry now that you mention it,” Sherlock said.
James nodded, pushing himself to standing. “It’s a shame it didn’t work,” James said.
Sherlock hummed an agreement. He put a hand on the arm of the chair and stood. He couldn’t make himself pull his hand away though. The material…he didn’t remember it being so soft. It was an old leather chair that they had taken from an office nearby that had closed down. It had been worn in enough to make the leather perfectly smooth. How hadn’t Sherlock noticed before?
“Sherlock?” James said. Sherlock jerked his hand away from the arm chair and looked at James. If James had noticed Sherlock’s interest in the chair, he showed no indication. James was pulling on his coat, but his eyes stayed firmly on the fireplace, watching the flames dance. “I was thinking about that restaurant by the–” he snapped his fingers, finally looking away from the fire. The word evaded him only a moment longer before he continued, “--the student quarters.”
Sherlock frowned for a moment, trying to figure out which restaurant James could be talking about.
Then he threw his head back.
“Oh, the one with the bread,” Sherlock said. He nearly moaned at the thought. It was fresh bread that wafted all through the student quarters when they were baking it despite the restaurant being a few blocks away. The fresh bread was served with butter and herbs. Sherlock nodded.
“Excellent idea, James.”
James opened the door and Sherlock stepped past him. They started towards their goal, marching through the snow with the thought of the bread encouraging every step.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock spun to see who could be calling him. James continued walking a few more steps, but then he stopped too.
Sherlock squinted as he tried to focus on the figure walking towards them. Mycroft.
“Hello, brother dear,” Sherlock said. The words felt funny as he said them and it made him grin largely.
Mycroft frowned in return. “Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft responded. “I was hoping to catch you indoors to avoid the snow. Guess this will have to do. I need you and James to come with me. My superiors have some questions on the science building revisions and I believe, as students, you two may have some valuable insight. I need to reply to him tonight so that the letter is on his desk in the morning.”
Sherlock sent James a heartbroken look that was returned equally as strong.
The bread, Sherlock thought mournfully.
Mycroft turned and started towards his office and James and Sherlock followed.
His sadness didn’t last long. His attention was quickly stolen by the snow. Particularly the way that the snow crunching under Sherlock’s feet made the most incredible sound.
“James,” Sherlock said, falling back slightly so that he walked with James rather than trailing directly behind Mycroft. “Have you ever heard such a sound?”
“What do you mean?” James asked. He was smiling widely about something that Sherlock couldn’t place. Perhaps he noticed something that Sherlock hadn’t, but whatever it was certainly wasn’t the snow.
Sherlock swatted him. “The snow, James! Have you ever heard it crunch so perfectly?”
James stared at Sherlock, coming to a stop. Sherlock stopped too.
“Oh,” James said. Sherlock frowned, he was about to ask James what the problem was before it dawned on him.
“Oh,” Sherlock agreed.
“We are intoxicated,” James said.
“Clearly.”
“And your brother–”
“He can’t find out,” Sherlock supplied.
“Absolutely not.”
“So we must act as if nothing has happened,” Sherlock said.
James said, “And we must do nothing to make him in the least bit suspicious.”
“Gentlemen?” Mycroft called. Sherlock hadn’t noticed he had stopped too. He was standing a short distance away with his arms held out to the side. “Are you coming?”
–
When they reached Mycroft’s office, he had spoken at length about the science building. Normally when Sherlock zoned him out it was with the knowledge that he could play the memory back later to recall the important bits. This time however, his mind wandered and he could barely keep track of Mycroft’s previous sentence, let alone his full spiel.
Sherlock had stayed seated in the chair across from Mycroft’s desk, whilst James had chosen to stand, walking from bookshelf to bookshelf. He didn’t look like he was paying attention to Mycroft’s words anymore than Sherlock.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. Sherlock’s head jerked back to facing Mycroft, turning his attention away from James. He was certain that Mycroft had noticed his lack of attention but Mycroft’s eyes were focused on his desk where a piece of letter paper sat in front of him. He had begun writing the letter, which he would soon need James’s and Sherlock’s help with. Sherlock had never felt more out of his depth. “I will need your help in a moment, but I must first address some of his other questions in the introduction. I’ll call my secretary for some tea. Would you and James like a cup while you wait on me?”
Sherlock nodded and Mycroft called his secretary. She opened the door and Mycroft asked that she bring a pot and three cups.
Mycroft looked up at Sherlock. “I have many books you may like. This should only take me a moment.”
It took Sherlock a moment to realize Mycroft was dismissing him.
When he realized he had missed a beat, Sherlock jumped to standing. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed at Sherlock and Sherlock quickly looked away.
He moved to the other side of the room. He was unusually aware of the way his feet felt hitting the floor. Each step made him a little more aware and by the time he was comfortably distanced from Mycroft, he was uncomfortably focused on trying to walk normally. The prospect was much more difficult than usual because he could not remember how walking normal was supposed to feel.
“You good, Sherlock?” James asked. Sherlock looked up at James. “You’ve been staring at your shoes.”
Mycroft was scratching out something on the paper, apparently ignoring their conversation. There was a small knock at the door and Mycroft’s secretary walked in with a tray.
“No, I haven’t,” Sherlock said. “I only just looked at them.”
James wasn’t blinking much. “I’m certain that you were staring at them longer than is acceptable. Might even be suspicious.”
“And how long is an appropriate time to stare at my own feet?”
Mycroft was suddenly beside Sherlock and James, a hand on each’s shoulder. Sherlock flinched. Mycroft was not known for moving quickly. Sherlock had never had anyone sneak up on him so effortlessly.
“What is going on with you two?” Mycroft demanded, his voice low. Sherlock was suddenly deeply aware of Mycroft’s secretary still standing at Mycroft’s desk looking at Sherlock and James strangely. Perhaps she had spoken to them and neither heard her? That would explain her expression.
Mycroft turned to Sherlock, his nose wrinkling. He grabbed Sherlock’s lapel and pulled him closer, sniffing the fabric. Somehow his eyes narrowed even further. “Have you been smoking hash?”
Sherlock tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult when Mycroft was looking at them so seriously. Mycroft’s eyes flicked back and forth between their faces. Sherlock’s face ached with the effort of not smiling.
Mycroft raised a brow.
He should have known better than to look at James, because as soon as he did, James looked back. Any other time, it probably wouldn’t be funny, but with Mycroft staring at them, Sherlock couldn’t help himself.
Sherlock made a valiant attempt to suppress the laugh. It emerged instead as a strangled snort. He stared at James in horror for half a second before they both dissolved into helpless laughter.
Mycroft appeared thoroughly disturbed at the reaction and that sent Sherlock over the edge. Sherlock nearly went weak kneed as he laughed. He stretched one arm out, putting it on James’s shoulder for support but it did nothing to help because James was in the same position. Once they started, neither could stop.
Sherlock opened his eyes, gasping in a breath and looked at Mycroft. The look on Mycroft's face only made it worse. Sherlock could feel tears slipping from his eyes as he dissolved into laughter once again.
“Stop it!’ Mycroft hissed. He grabbed each man by the arm and dragged them past his secretary. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Simmons.”
He didn’t stop until he had them both outside.
He let them go and Sherlock would have hit the ground if he hadn’t grabbed the wall in time.
James was not so lucky. He toppled, hitting the cobblestones hard. It seemed to stun the man into silence.
The sight caused a new howl of laughter to escape Sherlock and suddenly he was on the ground too. Jame’s laughter started again this time louder than before. Sherlock’s sides ached and he couldn’t draw a breath in, but everything was so funny he couldn’t make himself stop.
Mycroft shut the door firmly behind them.
When Sherlock finally was able to calm himself down to a point of being able to look up, Mycroft was standing above them both with his hands firmly on his hips.
“Neither one of you are going to be of any use to me tonight, are you?”
James was panting as he pushed himself up. “I think he caught on, Sherlock.”
Sherlock snorted, his shoulders starting to shake again.
Mycroft cast a look up to the sky as if asking for strength as the snow continued to fall.