Chapter Text
James is used to being othered. As a boy, growing up amongst the muck of Ireland, he'd resented it. Different and unusual in ways people did not like, he was born with a mouth too quick, only serving to get him into trouble. The adults in his village stood with backs turned to a little boy who might have used their help to forge a better life, with eyes set forward and high so that they could pretend like they couldn’t see him there in the mud. It was then that he'd first noticed it. The wall. Stacked just high enough that he could climb over the top and peer over, not so hard to scale that he couldn't sit atop it and talk with the other children his age when they wandered near, but blocking him in a way he didn't know how to overcome. Something stopped him from being able to get all the way over, as if with every attempt the wall became higher and higher, keeping him away from everyone else.
As he'd grown older, grown quick and clever like the fox who snuck into coops in the night, James learnt to live with the wall. It wasn't a burden so much as an obstacle, the cage around his pen that he couldn't quite breach, but a fundamental part of his everyday life that he had grown accustomed to. Whether James had erected it himself as a child or it had grown organically from the bones in his body, sprouting out to protect not James himself but the others around him, was yet to be seen. James had stopped caring about it, stopped caring about others, about wanting to climb over it. It had simply become ‘the wall’ to him, in the same way that somebody might think of their arm or leg. A piece of him that was indisputable and unremovable.
That was of course until Sherlock Holmes came into view. Until he stuck his hand in the Professor's pocket and lifted that watch with such ease that it was more poetry than thievery.
As the watch disappears into Sherlock's pocket, one little brick tumbles inward, pushed out from its place in the centre of the wall, falling in and landing at James’ feet. In and not out, as if somebody is reaching to him. In and not out in an act the other boy isn’t even aware of.
For the first time, there is somebody like him. And suddenly, the wall doesn’t seem so impassable as he'd thought it was.
James has been entranced by many things over the years. He has lived his life in hedonist pursuit of anything that amuses, astounds, or invigorates him. He has revelled in every drunken night he’s had, lays with whomever will have him for the sheer delight of it. That boy, foppish and thieving, James decides, will be his. And his Sherlock becomes. They intertwine and tangle so fast that James can barely see the wall anymore. He peers through the hole that Sherlock made and talks with him for hours. If James is the storm, then Sherlock is the mountain that endures it, unmoving and unbothered by the rough rambunctious edges of James that would cut anyone else and make them run away. He does not ask where James came from, makes his own observations and does not push, nor does he ever think to dampen the electric bright light that radiates from his friend.
They become inseparable. In the late nights spent together as Sherlock sleeps near him, James chisels at the hole in his wall in hopes of making a large enough space for him to crawl out from. It is the first time in a long time he has bothered to try, and the first time ever that it doesn’t feel like a futile attempt.
No matter how hard he tries, he can never quite fit through, but James is nothing if not a determined man, and Sherlock is worth being determined for.
The storm quells, raging but controlled now, a threat diminished. There is no need for raging winds when the mountain invites him somewhere safe and warm to rest. Rainwater becomes a peaceful lake full of life and vibrancy, but tampered. It's peace, not because Sherlock demands that James change, but because Sherlock likes James the way he is and gives him somewhere safe to be just that.
It's peaceful, a sardonic grin flutters away to a softer smile by way of a gentle kiss against the forehead. Late lonely nights are replaced with ones full of laughter. The bottles are no less empty, but it's good fun to drink in company. He whistles a jaunty tune, commits half a dozen crimes and promises Sherlock that they're in it together. They'll solve the murders, exonerate his friend's name, and move on to the next great thing sure to amuse them both.
Life is good. It's falling apart around him, but it's good. He's lost his scholarship but found something far better, something worth more than anything else he's ever had.
Then Paris happens. Something catches his eyes, bright and blinding, tinted red.
Then Constantinople. He is entranced, physically pulled forward towards that dark brilliance, putting distance between Sherlock and himself. When he glances back behind him, Sherlock stands stock still, shielded by the bricked archway at the entrance. They're the same colour bricks as the one in James’ wall. They clink as they rattle together, slowly beginning to pull the hole that he has been carving out, James cannot let them fill it in, but he knows that he cannot keep the bricks away forever.
The equation in his pocket burns like thirty pieces of silver. Already, between it and Sherlock, James knows what he will pick.
Silas Holmes tumbles off a cliff, Sherlock is ruined by it. All James can think about is how he would have done it all better. His best and only friend mourns the loss and betrayal of his father and James can do nothing but sit there and think of all the ways he can improve on Silas Holmes' vision.
Sherlock catches the way he stares too long, studies him, dissects and deduces with calm clarity as he tries to uncover James’ motivations. James lies to him, plays the noble card. Promises he has kept the equation to help, to save. For whatever reason, Sherlock chooses to believe him.
Still, Sherlock helps him brick up the wall piece by piece, until only one brick remains.
James is losing him. He can't lose him. He reaches out through that hole, grabs Sherlock by the coat and drags him back close, silently begging him to stay. They're so similar, they could do so much together, look at everything they have already done! He needs Sherlock to stay, to survive any longer he needs Sherlock to stay. There is an ache so tight in his chest that it feels as if he is drowning. Nobody has ever made James feel this way before, it isn’t fair that Sherlock has had such a profound effect on him and now is trying to pull away. If not for the other man, the wall would have stayed the way it was all his life and James wouldn’t have ever learnt the feeling of being seen. He wouldn’t have learnt that there is something to having another listen to what he has to say, he’d have never had to know the fear of losing something he knows that he cannot save.
There’s something doomed about it. Something that feels like an inevitability, like it was always meant to end this way. James refuses to let fate take its rightful course, looks up to the heavens and damns them all. Nobody, not even Sherlock Holmes himself, will stop James from getting what he wants in this life. Not when he was a boy, not now, not ever.
James knows he can help his friend see the light, he can help awaken that part in Sherlock too. He only needs to find the right way.
Nothing makes sense without Sherlock there beside him, he'd never felt so alone at the thought of someone leaving. He's never needed somebody so desperately that he'd do anything to keep them there. Everything is muddied, in the distance, far off from the mountain, thunderclouds begin to rumble. A storm is brewing, and James isn't sure if he can quell its tempestuous rage.
Of one thing James is certain; If he can manipulate Sherlock into taking another man's life, that wall will come down again. If he can help Sherlock feel what he felt on the streets of Paris they can be together again, properly, the way they are meant to be. They are so similar that James is sure that Sherlock will feel the same, that he is denying himself the pleasure only because the laws and morals of other lesser men dictate that he should act a certain way.
James only need find the right motivation for his friend to pull the trigger.
Sherlock knows that something has changed within James. He's become absent minded, or rather, has found some thought to reflect on that he has no intention of sharing with Sherlock, or with anyone for that matter. He has intertwined himself so tightly around that secretive thought that he struggles to focus on anything else anymore. James runs his fingers together as if he's rolling something between them as he thinks, eyes fixed in the middle ground as his opposite thumb plays with his bottom lip, looks to drunken brawls at the pub with more interest than he did before; no longer is he mildly amused by the sight of somebody losing their senses and throwing fists or bottles at another, now he leans forward with anticipation, as if waiting for things to escalate, almost disappointed if they don’t. Sherlock cannot understand why something has changed, only that this change in James has been gradual; inch by inch, day by day, he becomes someone other than the man Sherlock first met.
Then, as if a mask has been pulled down over his face, he cocks his head to the side, smiles wide, and pours them both another drink. He laughs and all of Sherlock's worries for his dearest and only friend wash off like gentle rainfall cleaning away the mud of the day. The mud is still there of course, but mud is expected when it's raining, there's nothing unusual about mud when it is raining.
He asks James why he kept it and James tells him to help save others if even that awful nerve agent resurfaces. There is something solid between the two of them that Sherlock can not see, and yet even with the warning bell in his head, Sherlock chooses to stay. It's all the excitement, James assures, it's tired him out. The most adventurous thing he'd done before meeting Sherlock was applying for a scholarship to Oxford, he's just a simple Irish boy chasing whatever dream crosses his mind next.
When Sherlock looks away, distracted by some ruckus out on the Street behind them he can feel James' eyes boring into him. He turns back and reaches for the man, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to pull him close and whatever storm cloud was forming over James evaporates away to that sunshine smile, all mischief and glee.
“On to the next pub?” He asks and Sherlock cannot deny him.
They stumble out from the pub drunker than any two men have been before, they laugh so loud and long that their voices go hoarse, and it is like that first night in the library again. They share a bed to save the coin, and in his sleep James holds Sherlock so tight that he wakes up with bruises around his waist. Hungover, James stares at the marks he’s made through bleary eyes and offers his apologies, but there's a slight upturn to his smile that makes Sherlock wonder if he's really as sorry as he promises that he is.
Not that Sherlock minds the bruises, it's nice to have somebody who wants him so much that he cannot bear to let go. He wonders if this is what all friendships are like, so all encompassing that it swallows rationality and sense of self. Or perhaps those intense feelings are reserved for people like James and himself, heightened by the understanding that the other really has nobody else but them to hold on to.
Sherlock has never had friends, not that he considers himself particularly lonely. In his youth, his interests leaned far too much towards things other children had no interest in, the pursuit of knowledge and intoxicating addiction he could not have ever hoped to be free of. Nor did he ever have much to say, always watching and calculating, making sense of a world of people that did not appear to see things in the same ways that he could. Then his sister had died, his family had fallen apart like a house of cards, tumbling down until there was nobody there to show interest or teach him how to talk with other children, no-one there to encourage him to talk at all. When he did speak, it only served to run him into trouble, saying things that ought not to be said, speaking out of turn, catching all the wrong sort of attention.
That was until James Moriarty. Until the drunken boy who held him so tight it hurt to breathe against bruises. Until those inviting, infectiously devious eyes caught his and he'd found his voice again. His quick witted skills of deductions were lorded then, cherished and celebrated with every uttered observation. James at all times wanted to know what Sherlock thought, James, at all times was not put off or turned away by Sherlock's cleverness and overactive imagination, but utterly enthralled. He encouraged, pestered Sherlock to pursue knowledge like it was Sherlock's own birthright to know. He'd had forsaken everything for Sherlock, stood up for him when even his own brother claimed there was no way to help, lost a scholarship for merely knowing Sherlock, and yet he still remains by Sherlock's side.
And then Paris happened, and something changed, James became distracted, distant. Still determined to help, but clouded by some unknown factor Sherlock could not hope to solve.
Then Constantinople. While Sherlock looked in horror, James looked in awe. When their eyes next met, Sherlock could feel it. That change. Like an eastern wind rolling in.
Sherlock can't be sure what it is, but he knows that can fix it. He can put James back on the right path, stop him from being blinded by whatever shiny thing has caught his magpie attention.
Of one thing Sherlock is certain. He will put James back on the right path, he will not let that same corruption that claimed his father take his best friend's life.
They are at odds with one another without knowing it, goals perfectly aligned to keep them together that will ultimately draw them apart. Their game is doomed to end in only one way, and there is nothing either man can do to stop it.
While James starts his plans to orchestrate a way to get Sherlock to kill, Sherlock himself begins to seek out some great distraction or challenge to help pull James from his slow sinking descent into whatever darkness had gripped him. They strike at the same beast from opposite sides, unable to see one another for the size of the beast or perhaps blinded by their own self righteous goals to see that the other still aches for his friend's hand in his own.
James thinks to his own first kill, when he had reacted faster than he could think to stay his hand. Sherlock had done similar in Constantinople, but had chosen to spare the life of man he'd shot, aimed for the hand, refused to kill when there was an option not to, even with the stakes so high. He must then, as far as James is concerned, be presented with a similar opportunity, only one that will not allow for such clever shooting. A shorter time limit to make a decision, with less opportunity to disarm or injure rather than kill. Sherlock is not the type to kill for himself, he covets the preservation of life, wants to do good, so he must be placed in a situation where killing his opponent is surely the only way. A mercy, perhaps, to put a dog down as he froths at the mouth. Where life and death must be one simultaneous decision. James will have to be careful manufacturing such a scenario, both not to endanger his own life in such a way that he loses it, but also to make sure that Sherlock does not realise what had been set up for him to do. It must be James after all, who else better to kill for than for James himself?
Sherlock, lost in similar thought, knows that if he's to save James from whatever he is facing, he must find a distraction, some mystery to work on that captures his every waking moment like the one they’ve just had. James likes the excitement, the chase, so Sherlock must give him something to chase. While he'd rather not endanger anyone, he knows he will not be able to free James from his darkness without something dangerous to capture his heart. A crime to solve with as much mystery as the one they faced together, though hopefully without any personal connection given that Sherlock is already down a father and could not bear to lose anyone else. James wants to do good Sherlock is sure of it, he keeps the equation on the mere idea that somebody might try and use that nerve agent again, that somebody might harm innocent people, that another would withhold a cure of profit. He will want to help again, in some new way, He only needs something to solve, someone new to help. They only need a good mystery to send them on their way and Sherlock is sure that James will begin to feel better. He would, after all, and aren’t he and James similar enough that Sherlock can predictably guess what James might like as well?
Three days later, they are presented with their perfect crime to bring the two of them back together. It is the beginning of the end for them both, though only one is sure to die from it.
A body pulled from the River Thames. Not unusual in its own right, aside from the very important and most unusual fact that when it is pulled out, the body itself is remarkably dry. Not perfectly dry as if never wet in the first place, rather it repels water, beads sliding off it as though running in fear. Sherlock hears about it first. James is too busy trying to flirt his way out of having to pay for a pastry at the bakery he demanded they walk half an hour to try. He’s got the young lady behind the counter giggling as he leans half over towards her, whispering in conspiratorial tones about how pretty she is. It gives Sherlock plenty of time to asses the other patrons of the bakery itself.
Two dock workers talk about it in hushed tones at one of the tables. Their grim expressions catch Sherlock’s attention first, then their words.
“I've never seen another quite like it,” the first mutters, face gaunt as if he's seen a ghost, “bodies I can take, who works by the river and hasn't seen a body? But a body like that? Clean and fine and not a lick of water in it? It's not natural that. And the way it cracked, like something breaking apart.” He shudders.
Sherlock turns halfway back to James, tapping him on the back to get his attention.
“Did you hear that?” He asks James. James, with a pastry already crammed half way down his throat like a gull, looks over with amusement and utter obliviousness.
“Hear what, Shirley?” He asks back.
“I think we've got a mystery to solve.”
“Already? And here I was beginning to worry we’d have to have another ordinary day.”