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The Holmes family sitting room was the kind of room that had opinions about you. Heavy drapes swallowing the days brightness and family portraits with eyes that followed you everywhere. Even the furniture seemed to have had absorbed an energy of intimidation, judgement. Sherlock had grown up inside its judgement and learned to just ignore it. James, noted it but seemed entirely unbothered.
James was sitting in the armchair across from him, jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, one leg resting on the other, seeming at ease in the way he was always at ease.
James continued on with their conversation. "Shou'an knows about those recordings. We don't know whether she's responsible for them, but either way this connects your mother to the murders in Oxford. So how can we say she's safe here?" He paused before answering himself. "We can't."
Sherlock said nothing. He was already elsewhere.
"The man with the bird's claw." James said into the room but still watching him. "You have no idea what she means?"
"My mind is blank." Sherlock said.
"Well then maybe it's not a person. Bird's claw, it's a phrase. A place. A thing."
Sherlock mind was moving now, in his mind place. Going around in made ups rooms with his mother's voice running on loop. Her voice with that lucid urgency of someone who knows and cannot make themselves be understood. He tries and tries but still nothing. He sags into the lounger defeated. He’s nursing the glass to his mouth when the crest above the fireplace catches his eye.
"Perhaps it's some sort of crest," he says, half to himself.
"Good." James's voice was quiet yet encouraging. An untold keep going goes unsaid. "Whose crest? Someone at the asylum?"
"Or someone at Oxford." Sherlock whispers.
He returned into his mind place again but still found nothing. Like a lock no matter how many keys he tried still wouldn’t open and the answer behind it not being retrievable was starting to feel like a personal failing. Which he resented. He somehow became aware of James saying his name somewhere. It got louder and he snapped out of his state, resigned.
"I've got nothing. Perhaps I was wrong." He admitted.
James looked at him before saying. "Words I never thought I'd hear you say."
A small pause.
Before Sherlock spoke again. "No, perhaps I was wrong about the crest. Perhaps it's some other sort of symbol."
James unfolded himself from the chair, crossed to the sidetable, and poured two fingers of whisky while watching Sherlock through the mirror. He quietly started humming to himself "The best thing in nature..."
Sherlock still sat on the sofa, pondering, he could see his mind still searching for that one hinge to huck on to.
Meanwhile Sherlock was talking to himself in his mind place. "I've seen it somewhere." He set the glass down. "Where have I seen it?" Not a crest. Not a symbol. An object. His mind wandering through Oxford, through the rooms. There.
His eyes went to the cane stand by the door. He stood up and slowly crossed over to it. The canes there were his father's, he'd always dismissed them but the shape his mind had hinged on was this, especially on the handle, the claw on the bird's egg.
James appeared next to him still humming his tune.
"For drowning your sorrows, for raising your joy and God knows I wonder, if lightning and thunder, were made from the plunder, of whiskey, me boys..."
"It's Professor Malik." Sherlock declared.
The singing stopped.
"Well," James said. "Go on."
"Professor Malik has a cane." Sherlock could see it in his mind, where it was in his office in Oxford. Especially because of it's peculiar shape. "And his cane...."
"Yes?" James
"....has a bird's claw." Sherlock concluded.
They dissolved from their stance next to the cane-holder and went back to their previous seating arrangements. Once comfortable enough, James surprised Sherlock with his laugh. That genuine laugh he kept hidden and only let out on special occasions. It has a warmth so unguarded to it landed somewhere in Sherlock's chest and stayed there. It was also very infectious, and Sherlock couldn't help himself and chime in. Their laughter was sure based on the banality of the fact that the bird’s claw was a literal cane Sherlock thought. And looking at James, he deducted he'd thought along the same lines.
"All right," Sherlock said, once calmed down enough, a small smile lingering.
He straightened on his lounger while James having collected himself too, he was watching him from across the room with an expression that had shifted. Still warm with the tingles of a smile but with something else underneath it now, something that had been sitting just below the surface since they'd arrived here at the Holmes manor. The time for sitting quietly was also seemingly over for their eyes met. Albeit the room did not change, the portraits still watched them the same, yet something moved through the air between them. Sherlock felt it in his ribs, he felt it move lower, felt James's gaze as it held his as he did not look away. (and kind of not blink)
He's going to come over, Sherlock thought and more quietly, more honestly, he thought good.
James having picked up his glass, downed the liquor in one swift gulp before setting it down on the side table. He moved across the room in an unhurried manner. Sherlock tracked him the whole way and made no move to stand up. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that this was already kind of answer —staying seated, letting James come to him, letting the space between them close at the pace James decided. It was a conscious and deliberate confession one he found he didn't mind at all.
James came to a stop in front of him. Between his legs. Close enough that Sherlock had to tilt his head up to hold his gaze, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him, close enough that he smells his cologne. James looked down at him, not in a condescending judgemental way but in way that ensured all of his attention saw Sherlock, and it was worth it.
A reward, Sherlock thought.
He had deduced it the moment James had started walking over. Moreso, he figured hoped he was going to be kissed as a reward for solving what the bird's claw was, which would probably be the most effective incentive systems he had encountered to date.
James's hand came up to Sherlock's face, aiming to touch his cheek, just shy fingers at first, a slow stroke along his jaw as though they had all the time in the world and the house wasn't currently full and Cordelia wasn't a floor up and everything (the case) wasn't ongoing and complicated and urgent. As though there was only Sherlock's face under his hand.
Sherlock didn't move, only the rising of his chest did he permit himself.
James's thumb moved up and traced the line of his cheekbone and then with the same deliberance slide across his lips slowly. The pad of his thumb tracing their shape and Sherlock felt his breath change, he also felt the familiarity of the setting almost like a deja vue but in a role reversal way.
James was watching him through his lashes and a particular warm gleam in his eyes that Sherlock had come to understand was reserved for him specifically, which was still, somehow, remarkable every time.
James bent down and the kiss was slow but thorough, no sense of becoming brief. It tasted faintly of whisky, he noted. Sherlock's hand moved from their rigor state at his side and found the side of his jaw and James made a quiet sound against his mouth at that. Sherlock catalogued it immediately and added it to the private archive he kept of such sounds, which was ever growing.
Some while later when they broke apart, James's forehead dipped toward his, breath warm, Sherlock's hands found his waist. It was to anker himself in the reality of this.
When James moved away a bit, he looked up at him with eyes dark, his hair beginning to escape its careful styling. His thumbs started tracing slow circles against James's sides. James was watching him.
Something had shifted in Sherlock's chest. Something that had been bubbling there for days, maybe longer, pulled out and then being simply let go.
He leaned forward.
Time seemed to stand still as he slowly pressed of his face into James's groin. His forehead connected with his hip dip, tilting his head to the side his cheek graced the front of his upper thigh, nose at the crease of him. He breathed in. Slow and deliberate, filling his lungs with the scent of him. Noting the specific heat already gathered there, as well as the faint trace of arousal that was present underneath. Sherlock's senses catalogued it with a thoroughness that even surprised himself.
He pressed closer to the middle and breathed in again. Deeper this time, his nose at the juncture of him, taking in the essence of James Moriarty at close range, in a way that was entirely without precedent. Somehow this felt like the most natural thing he had done in recent memory.
James went absolutely still above him. One of his hands having migrated to Sherlocks hair, and the other one to his nape, holding on. Sherlock could feel the effort of that stillness James put in, it felt like his grip was the last of his composure that’s becoming ever so slippery.
Sherlock turned his face slightly. Letting his lip part against the wool of James's trousers. He could clearly feel the outline of his member as well as the warmth sensation on his lips. He exhaled a held in breath through the fabric, deliberately, trying to give some heat back. His grip on James’s hips tightened a bit in this quest of learning the geography of him by feel alone. He felt James's suck in a breath and his hips shifting unconsciously towards him. At this he felt something low in himself tighten in response.
He did it again. Slower. James's hand tightened in his hair. Not in a directing sense, just a slight guidance spreading his fingers through his careful done side-part and beginning to tussle it. Sherlock felt the slight tremble in them, and this filled him with enormous private satisfaction.
He started to mouth along the front of him, which turned into planting open kisses up his length over the fabric. Slowly tracing the shape of him, with patience he usually reserved for special occasions that really required it. Like this one.
The growing evidence of exactly what he was doing to James, was pressing against his mouth and Sherlock felt his own breath go uneven, but he didn't try to regulate it. He just opened his mouth wider, dragging it down again, to restart from the base of him upwards. He felt James's hips stutter, just barely. He did it again. But this time when he reached the top tip, he let his tongue press flat against the fabric.
"Ahh..."
James made that sound which went straight through Sherlock like an electric current, finding it's home in Sherlocks lower region.
That, he thought, Again.
So, he stayed there and mouthed at the tip of him, fabric now damp. He was unsure whether it was entirely his own salvia or not. After a few moments he felt James's knees shift, felt him bend slightly forward over Sherlock's head, both hands fisting in his hair, his hairstyle now thoroughly destroyed.
This felt like some sort of cue and subsequently Sherlock's hands found James's waistband. The urge to touch unclothed skin overtaking him completely. He found the hem of James's shirt, all tucked in, pulled tight into his waistband and worked it free with efficient fingers until he had enough to push his hand underneath. The skin of James's hip was warm. Actually, warmer than expected, that fact and feeling it under his palm making something in Sherlock go very still and very greedy thoughts entered his mind. It also accelerated what he had to admit was his growing erection. He spread his fingers, felt the jut of his hipbone, the plane of his side, to get to more places.
It wasn't enough.
He found the top button of James's trousers with his free hand. He was still mouthing his shaft through the fabric —not pausing. Finally, he'd worked it open, just the one, it was enough to loosen the tension, enough to make room for his right hand to slip lower, fingers spreading over the warm skin underneath it. Grazing the lower part of his hip, deciding this involuntarily is where he pressed in, holding on. And then his thumb moved with slow and deliberate intensity, tracing the hollow of his hip dip, stroking down into it, following the soft give of that particular inch of skin. Truthfully Sherlock was tracing it with the intend to memorise it, to eventually hopefully add this to the Essence of James collection he'd been putting together in his mind.
After some time, he felt James's breath come down to him in a long, careful, deeply unsteady exhale. This brought him back to the present and his objective. He rectified the momentary loss of himself in the reverence of him, by returning with newfound vigour to mouthing and licking the full length of him through the damp wool. His hand resting low on his hip, barely moving, just a presence, just there, weight of it alone enough.
"mhmhhh" James moaned, low and helpless, the sound of someone coming thoroughly undone, and it made Sherlock dizzy. It made him self-aware of his own steady erection.
James made another sound, lower this time, sounding totally wrecked at the edges. Sherlock admittedly loosing himself in their tryst session. Until somewhere in the distance a tiny noise was heard and reality began to form again, especially for James.
"Sherlock....Shhherlock." The word came out strained almost like a plea for him to stop. Sherlock however did not stop.
"If you...." James tried again, "I'm going to be in a thoroughly unsavoury situation." a pause before gathering himself, "in the middle of your family's sitting room." Yet the fingers in his hair had not loosened by any measurable degree, even one hand had moved to his neck slightly gripping. "With portraits watching."
Sherlock considered this for a moment.
Then he pressed one final, entirely deliberate open-mouthed slow kiss directly to the tip of him, tongue darting out, liking him through the damp wool. He felt James actually shudder. He looked up and James looked down at him.
The image he saw was almost divine like. Everything from his glazed eyes, rosy cheeks, glistening skin and his composure still hanging on albeit by a thread, which Sherlock considered impressive. He thought about the halo effect and that it definitely was working. His own expression, he feared was not better. Guessing it to be somewhat akin to when one was drunk having had exactly the wrong amount of liquor and knowing it yet having no regrets whatsoever.
James leaned down and kissed him. It was slow almost a bit too soft, the hand from his neck coming up cupping his face with that careful gentleness he hid underneath everything else. Sherlock eagerly reciprocated, it felt like sealing this moment into eternity. Then James straightened, exhaled once through his nose, and peeled himself away with visible hardship. He tracked back and fell back into the armchair.
Sherlock blissfully deflated against the lounge chair.
They sat there in the room in an comfortable silence no need for speaking. The house and its other occupants murmured enough around them.
Sherlock stared at the ceiling, and he thought What was that?
Not in a negative way, he thought it to be more in unexpected way. He thought of the right way to describe it, landing on the conclusion that in a way it was a tiny slice of a daily perversion that had, in some strange and entirely unscientific way, loosened something in him, cleared a space in his mind. And he felt, against all probability, lighter.
Across the room, James shifted in the armchair and cleared his throat. "We should," he said, composure admirably almost restored, "give it another minute."
Sherlock considered this. "Yes."
A pause.
"Wouldn't want to give the portraits more disreputable things to see," James added.
Sherlock considered his words and their absurdity and exhaled, which came out more as a laugh, a quiet one and that was enough to snap the cord of seriousness between them. James was already laughing too, that low, genuine laugh that Sherlock had come to consider some while ago was one of the best sounds in his current world.