Chapter Text
James’ immediate intention had been to walk all the way to Oxford. That would have taken him a few hours, but he was angry enough that it felt like nothing. Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. The gall of the man! The ingratitude! Not that it was so surprising—members of his class tended to think of others as tools to use for their own convenience. It was on James, really, for being naïve enough to think that a genuine attachment could form between them. He’d let himself be overwhelmed by lust, by Sherlock’s many fascinating qualities, by the enticing feeling that he’d found an intellectual equal in Sherlock—but he’d forgot that they could never be true equals, not in the rotten society they lived in. Sherlock would never see him as his equal. Theirs was a friendship that would forever be lopsided, and James would not live under anyone’s thumb. He’d promised himself, and he’d promised his mother.
James had walked maybe a mile in the direction of Oxford, powered by the righteousness of his fury, when it occurred to him that he had left his things behind at Appleton Manor. He hadn’t brought much, but he also didn’t own much, and he couldn’t afford to lose his few meagre possessions. That left him in the uncomfortable position of having to crawl back to the Holmes house, hoping fervently that Sherlock had decided to proceed with his visit to Nathan Burford rather than going back to his family.
He’d planned on slipping inside unnoticed and leave just as stealthily, but he didn’t even make it past the front door.
“James? You’re back already?”
This was Mycroft, and the man looked like he’d gone through a few more emotional upheavals since James and Sherlock had left. His usually impeccably coiffed hair was dishevelled, as if Mycroft had run his hand through it a few times.
“Where is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.
Inwardly, James cursed all the Holmeses and their ancestry. “He’s still at Nathan Burford’s farm, and he wanted me to go back here to—” There, James had to think quickly of a good excuse; once he was gone, it wouldn’t matter if Sherlock showed him for a liar, but he wanted to leave with as little fuss as possible. “Well, he worried about his mother, and it bothered him so much that I said I would come back and check on her. How is she faring?”
This sounded very weak—not James’ best lie, for certain—but Mycroft nodded absently, too preoccupied, maybe, to find flaws in James’ story.
“She’s in her room, resting. We should be bringing her back to the asylum, but I don’t think she’ll be amenable, not before we’ve got to the bottom of this matter. And I’m afraid that we’ve only scratched the surface.”
Mycroft’s tone and his gloomy expression tickled James’ curiosity. He should be excusing himself, going to his room so he could escape this mad house before Sherlock came back. He was done with the Holmes family! He absolutely should not feel any desire to know what Mycroft had found.
“What did you find?”
Mycroft looked around, then whispered to James, “Let’s go to my father’s study. I think someone else should look at what I’ve found, someone who’d be less… emotionally compromised.”
This was James’ last chance to serve Mycroft another excuse and leave now, and yet James found himself following the elder Holmes to his father’s study. Mycroft closed the door behind them. The desk was covered with papers, and a safe placed behind it was wide open.
Mycroft gathered some of the documents and handed them over to James. “Here,” he said. “These are my father’s financial records. He— well, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
When James brazenly sat in Silas Holmes’ chair to read the documentation, he expected Mycroft to react, but the older man simply stood by the desk, arms crossed. James skimmed through the papers—astonishingly enough, these were really Silas Holmes’ financial records that Mycroft had just given to him, his brother’s friend that he barely knew. The man must really feel out of his depth to be turning to James for help.
“I see that your father has quite a few business interests,” James commented, sifting through the information. “He isn’t just dabbling. But your brother told me he was a scientist.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said curtly. “I don’t know anything about those business interests, and I doubt my mother knew either. He has always travelled a lot, but it was in the pursuit of his academic work, or so we thought.”
“Oh, I see that that four of his companies went bankrupt in the same year. And then… his fortune improved in—”
“1861.”
James glanced up. “I take it that this date is significant in some way.”
“This is the year Beatrice died.”
“Twelve years ago, yes. That’s what Sherlock told me. And—” James skimmed through more text. “The house used to be administered by your mother.”
“Sherlock may have told you this, but this is her family home. Of course she couldn’t inherit, so it will go to Sherlock and I. But since my mother has entered the asylum, our father has taken control of the entire estate. This is the money that he has used to improve his businesses.”
“And that can hardly be a coincidence. None of what happened was an accident.”
At this point, James was sure that Sherlock would have protested, trying to find alternative explanations, but Mycroft bleakly returned his look, silently acknowledging that James was right.
“You’re not denying it,” James said.
“I can hardly deny the facts when they are presented so strongly.”
“You’re not surprised that your father would be capable of such deviousness?”
“Surprised, yes. To the point of thinking it impossible? I… This will sound very disloyal of me,” Mycroft said in a low voice, as if afraid that someone else would overhear, “but I have been sometimes… wondering about him those past few years. Maybe I owe these reflections to the lucidity of adulthood. He’s always been a loving and attentive father, when he wasn’t away on one of his travels. His frequent absences were something we had always seen as a necessity, and he came back with such stories, and presents for all of us, that we couldn’t truly mind them. But when my sister died and my mother was committed to the asylum, instead of being more present, he became even more frequently absent. My mother has been languishing in the asylum, and he doesn’t visit her more often than a few times a year. Sherlock has hardly known any family life since the age of seven. I suppose I ascribed my father’s behaviour to grief—I, too, find it sometimes hard to see my mother so ill, when she used to be so vibrant, and I may not be visiting her as often as I should. I found him excuses, but now I can see—”
Mycroft fell quiet, and James didn’t know what to say. He had been meaning to leave all of this behind, and now he found himself in Mycroft Holmes’ confidence. He was doing a very poor job of detaching himself from this mess.
“We all see what we want to see,” he said.
“So you understand my predicament. How can I share this with my mother and my brother? This is indisputable proof that what befell my sister was no mere happenstance—my father has plotted all this, but we are no closer to finding out what happened to my sister. Is she still alive? I can’t imagine how my mother is going to take it. She’s so fragile. And Sherlock—this has all been very taxing on him already. Which is why your presence is so precious, James. I have to admit, I had my doubts about you in the beginning. My brother, smart as he is, isn’t used to managing friendships, and I was afraid—”
“I know, you thought I was taking advantage of him.”
“And I will apologise again for my unwarranted suspicion. You have been a steadfast support for my brother, despite having known him for so little time. I can only imagine what it’s been like last night, opening up Beatrice’s grave… I’m glad he had someone by his side for that ordeal.”
James pretended that he was still examining the papers to conceal his expression. There was no reason for him to feel anything about Mycroft’s candid declaration. He had gone above and beyond for Sherlock, just to have it get thrown back in his face, so he deserved the accolades and more.
“It’s all right,” he said, somewhat sincerely; it wasn’t Mycroft he was angry with. “You’re protective of him. I can understand that.”
Mycroft studied him, his attentive, inquisitive expression reminding James so much of Sherlock that he was tempted to throw the papers in his face.
“Are you all right, James?” Mycroft asked. “You look a little… preoccupied.”
“I might not be directly concerned by this matter, but I can’t say I’m unaffected. But to be quite honest with you, Mycroft, I think that you don’t give your mother and brother enough credit. They might be stronger than you think and not need you to shield them.”
“It may be so, but—”
“Mycroft, Sherlock? James? Where has everyone gone?”
His mother’s voice echoing in the staircase sent Mycroft into a flurry of agitation. He grabbed the documents spread across the desk, piled them haphazardly, then shoved them back in the safe, which he hastily locked. When he left the study, James followed, hoping that Mycroft and Cordelia would be sufficiently distracted with each other to pay no attention to him, thus finally letting him go upstairs to get his belongings.
Of course, he could never be so lucky. “James, you’re back!” Cordelia exclaimed. “Where is Sherlock?”
She was smiling at him so sweetly that James felt as wretched as if he’d killed Sherlock and buried his body under a bush of hydrangeas in the garden.
Forcing a smile of his own, he said. “He’s still at the groundkeeper’s house, but he wanted me to check on you.”
“Oh, he shouldn’t have bothered you with this, I am perfectly fine. I just—” Her smile wobbled. “Did you, did you learn anything about—”
“I wouldn’t know,” James said hastily; he wouldn’t lie to her about this. “I turned around before we reached the village. But Sherlock should be back soon—”
Someone knocked on the front door, and James’ heart jumped, thinking that Sherlock was back. Sherlock wouldn’t have knocked, though, so it couldn’t be him. The Holmes family was absent most of the time, so it was surprising that they would get a visitor. James could see that this intrusion had startled Mycroft and Cordelia, who exchanged worried looks.
“Don’t worry,” Mycroft told his mother. “It’s probably one of the neighbours who saw our brougham drive in yesterday. I’ll go see what they want.”
But on the other side of the door was a boy of about ten, freckle-faced, in cloth cap and coarse clothing. He blinked at Mycroft, clearly intimidated by the tall man looking down at him.
“Hello,” Mycroft said, with just a tinge of impatience. “What is it, boy?”
The boy hurriedly took off his cap, as if it had just occurred to him that he should. “Sorry to bother you, sir, me sister sent me to tell you, to tell you, um, that there’s a Sherlock Holmes who’s become ill and that you should—”
“Sherlock is ill?” Mycroft interrupted him. “Where? At the Burford farm?”
“Um, yes, sir. Mary sent Tom to get the doctor, and then she asked me—”
Mycroft thanked him, already grabbing for his hat, then turning to his mother, “Stay here with James, mother, I’ll go and—”
“What are you saying, of course I’m coming with you!” Cordelia protested with surprising strength. “I haven’t walked anywhere in years, but I can walk to the village, and I won’t wait here, worrying myself sick, when I should be at my son’s side! Don’t you agree, James? You wouldn’t bear staying here, waiting for news of Sherlock, would you?”
There was still a part of James that was picturing himself saying he needed to fetch something from his room, then escaping through a window on the other side of the house, cutting through the countryside in the direction of Oxford. The rest of him—the much bigger part of him, if he were being honest—had felt his stomach sink when the boy had mentioned Sherlock being sick. What had happened, between the moment James had left him and when he’d reached the Burford farm? What could be ailing him? Was it the laudanum from yesterday, the rain from last night, the way he had been pushing himself past his limits for days? Could James stand to leave without knowing that Sherlock would be fine?
“We should all go,” he said to Cordelia. “And if you have trouble walking, then of course you can lean on me, Mrs Holmes.”
“We’ll take the carriage,” Mycroft said, with the resigned look of someone who knew that the argument had been lost. “If Sherlock can’t walk, we’ll need it to bring him back. I’ll go tell Mr Crowle to prepare it while you get ready, mother.”
With the carriage, it took them less than the quarter of an hour to reach their destination. They passed the spot where James and Sherlock had their fight, with the tree that James had shoved Sherlock against, when he had seen that Sherlock was turned on as well as angry. James had experienced a noxious mix of desire and fury, and it had felt awful, like sweet wine with a spoonful of vinegar in it. He’d imagined himself taking Sherlock raw against that tree, leaving him bleeding and humiliated.
“He’s going to be fine,” said Cordelia, putting a gloved hand on top of James’ hand. “Sherlock is stubborn as a mule. He won’t let sickness keep him down for long.”
“Of course he won’t,” James said, managing a smile. “I am not in the least bit worried.”
At the farm, they were received by a young blond woman—pretty, James noticed, but his heart wasn’t in it—who turned out to be Nathan Burford’s elder daughter.
“Oh, Mrs Holmes,” she said, visibly taken aback by Cordelia’s presence. “I didn’t know that you—it’s good to see you again. You look, uh, you look well.”
“I’m also happy to see you again, Mary,” Cordelia said, “and I would love to chat and hear about how the farm is doing, but please, your brother said that Sherlock was ill. May we see him?”
“Right, of course. I put him in me parents’ bed, because it’s on the ground floor. I don’t know what happened. He went to see me dad, and he came back all wobbly, but he was still talking, asking me questions, and then all of a sudden he took a turn for the worst. Dr Maltby is already there, I had Tom fetch him.”
“Where is your father?” Mycroft asked. “Did he say if something happened when he was talking to my brother?”
“Oh, no, when I said that Sherlock went to see him—he went to see his ghost. Dad died last year. I can’t for the life of me imagine what Sherlock wanted to do with his ghost—he isn’t even one of the violent ones, he’s just standing there.”
James could imagine all too well what Sherlock had wanted to do with Nathan Burford’s ghost—interrogate him, open himself up to him looking for answers, when he was already stretched too thin by his previous experiences. Ah, that stubborn, cock-brained, impossible gobshite—
Mary took them to the master bedroom, where Dr Maltby was sitting on the edge of the bed, examining Sherlock with a stethoscope. He glanced up when they entered, acknowledging their presence without diverting his attention from his patient. Sherlock was unconscious, but it didn’t look like peaceful rest—his brow was beaded with perspiration, his head moving from side to side in agitation, and he was muttering incomprehensible fragments. He had been stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, hat and shoes, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned as Dr Maltby listened to his heart or lungs, his hand buried under Sherlock’s clothing with the chestpiece of his instrument.
“When he passed out in my kitchen, he was burning up,” Mary said, keeping her voice low the way you did in the bedchambers of the very sick. “And he’s been mumbling things that make no sense, and calling for someone named ‘James’.”
Cordelia and Mycroft both turned toward James as one. “Ah, that’d be me,” James said; he didn’t often wish he would stop being the centre of attention, but he very much did now. “I suppose he—”
For the first time in his life, he was out of fibs, out of sweet talk, and this wasn’t a situation he could punch his way out of. Cordelia and Mycroft’s friendliness would turn into suspicion, for sure, once Sherlock’s feverish mumblings would reveal that he and James had just had an ugly fight, which James had lied to their faces about. It would make sense for them to wonder whether James had something to do with Sherlock’s unwell state, if he had abandoned him when he was already sick.
“James,” Sherlock muttered from the bed.
As if he were pulled on a string, James walked toward him. Sherlock’s eyes opened a slit, and he seemed aware that James was there, because his face tightened with effort, turning red as he struggled to sit up, dislodging Dr Maltby’s hand.
The doctor tried to push him down, gently scolding him. “Sherlock, you know what I always say, fighting me will not help you get better sooner. Please, you need to lie down—"
Sherlock ignored him, his eyes fixed on James with febrile intensity. “James,” he repeated. “I have seen it— Nathan Burford, his voice in my head, he said— pheasants, rabbits, a hare. The Tilcotts!” James had come close enough that Sherlock could grab his sleeve, forcing him to lean down. “In Highgate, the Tilcotts. The address— the estate game book, it must have been written there, with the other game deliveries. James, I know that— that you must hate me, I have asked too much of you, but please, please, for my sister’s sake, for, for my—”
He must have expended all of his energy, because he crumpled in a faint over the pillows. He wasn’t completely unconscious and his eyelids were still fluttering, but he was beyond speech.
“What did he tell you last?” Cordelia asked anxiously. “I heard— he said ‘sister’ didn’t he? James?”
“He did, but I’m not sure— I can’t make sense of what he said. I’m sorry, please excuse me.”
He hurried out of the room, not giving either of the Holmeses the time to say anything else. In the yard, among the clucking hens, he could finally breathe. He stood there for a moment, taking deep, slow breaths, the soft caress of a breeze on his face and the smell of manure in his nose. He hated sickrooms. Oh, how much he hated them! In his mind, Ireland and sickrooms and misery were tightly bound together, an unholy trifecta. But even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t escape Sherlock’s piercing gaze, boring into him. You must hate me.
“If only,” he murmured. “I wish to God I did.”
He couldn’t help turning Sherlock’s words over in his mind. They might be the ramblings of a man in the throes of a fever, but they were Sherlock’s ramblings. There had to be an important message in there, something that had been worth expending what little strength he had left to pass it to James. He must have managed contact with Nathan Burford’s ghost and learnt something from him. The Tilcotts, in Highgate. A family name and a place. Was Beatrice there? What was the connection with pheasants and rabbits?
Gravel scrunched under someone’s feet, and James immediately opened his eyes, whirling around, his body bracing itself for defence.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, James,” Mycroft said, raising both hands in a pacifying gesture.
“No, you— ” James chuckled ruefully. “All right, you did startle me. I was just lost in thought. What did— what did the doctor say?”
“A brain fever, caused by a general state of physical and mental exhaustion. It isn’t life-threatening at this point, so Dr Maltby has deemed it possible to move him. He’ll rest better at home. Though the doctor is worried about him being delirious despite the relatively low fever—but was he really delirious, James? Could you truly make no sense of what he was saying?”
“I think he managed to communicate with Burford in some way. Does the name ‘Tilcott’ ring a bell? Do you know anyone in Highgate?”
“No, none of this sound familiar.”
“He also mentioned an ‘estate game book’.”
“Ah, this I know. When we were children, our father used to hunt on the estate, and whatever we didn’t eat, Burford would sell. Everything was written down in the estate game book. I fail to understand what—”
“If Beatrice didn’t die that day, if Burford took her somewhere else… then it would have made sense to use the cover of a game delivery.”
“Dear God,” Mycroft murmured. “With everything new we learn, I—” With a sharp breath, he seemed to steel himself. “What matters is to bring Sherlock home right now, where he will be taken care of. It’ll be impossible to tear my mother off his side, so I’ll need to wire the asylum. And I suppose I should wire Hodge too, to ask him whether they’ve apprehended the fake princess. I might even need to go to Oxford in person. Will you stay with Sherlock and my mother while I’m absent? I’m worried my mother will overlook her own health out of concern for Sherlock… She gets medication at the asylum, and we haven’t enough for more than a day. I should go ask Dr Maltby about it.”
Mycroft had disappeared into the house without waiting for James’ answer. Most likely, he couldn’t fathom a negative answer. James fought a surge of irritation; Mycroft must not imagine that James would mind staying with Sherlock and Cordelia for a few hours after he’d already got himself more involved than any stranger should have been. Surely, a concerned friend wouldn’t leave now, not before he knew whether Sherlock would make a full recovery. James had carefully laid the trap that he was now snatched in.
“‘Men at some time are masters of their fates: the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings’,” he murmured, then laughed bitterly at himself.
Sherlock was transported into the carriage, bundled in blankets, and Cordelia rode with him, while James sat on the driver’s seat with Mr Crowle. Mycroft stayed behind, to take care of the telegrams he had mentioned. James wished for nothing less than for conversation, but Mr Crowle was in a chatty mood.
“I’ve been working twenty-five years for the family. Young Mycroft wasn’t even walking yet. I held baby Sherlock and baby Beatrice in my arms.” Mr Crowle glanced back at the window separating them from where mother and son were settled. “Not right, what happened to this family.”
“Misfortune is rarely right, and yet it is,” James said, feeling a prickle of irritation.
Children died every day, even more so in Ireland than in England. Was it more wrong because the Holmeses were wealthy? Why should they be spared, when so many other suffered?
“I reckon you’re right,” Mr Crowle said good-naturedly, “but that’s not what I meant. Tragedy hits everyone, but—” The man looked embarrassed. “Mr Holmes has been nothing but generous with us. I can’t complain. But me and Mrs Crowle, we could have taken care of Mrs Holmes and the children. We’d have done it gladly. Ah, well. No need to cry over spilt milk. The boys are all grown-up now. I just wish Mrs Holmes could stay home all the time.”
Silas Holmes, a cipher at the centre of the Holmes family tragedy. After everything James had gleaned about him, a picture was being painted: clever but destitute man marries beautiful and wealthy girl, goes into business to make his own money, fails at the business, engineers a situation that will push his wife and children out of the way so he can use the money that should have gone to his sons. A man that didn’t let anything get in his way, but who had managed to charm everyone so thoroughly that he was beyond suspicion; an intriguing man, whom James burnt to meet in person. He must not have killed Beatrice, if James had interpreted Sherlock’s babbling correctly. Maybe killing was a line he wouldn’t cross; maybe he did love his daughter enough to not want her to die. James knew how hard it was to read a father’s heart.
When they arrived at the manor, Mr Crowle carried Sherlock in one of the guest rooms, as the attic was too remote from the rest of the house if they wanted to wait on him hand and foot. Cordelia and Mrs Crowle fussed over Sherlock with blankets, pillows, tinctures and decoctions. James left them at it and wandered through the house like one of the ghosts, thinking that he could just go and no one would notice it until he was miles away. In the staircase, he stopped in front of the portrait of Sherlock and Mycroft standing together, dressed identically in beige trousers, cream waistcoats, navy-blue jackets and ties, with unbuttoned shirt collars. Sherlock carried a satchel, hanging from his shoulder, his hand gripping the strap. His blue eyes were staring in the distance, but James could feel them on him. Both brothers held their chins high, their expressions confident, even a tad arrogant. Good breeding and privilege, visible even in this picture of two children.
And yet, and yet. James couldn’t reduce Sherlock to just another rich boy. Singular, infuriating, thrilling, he had hooked himself into the fabric of James’ soul. They stood on the opposite sides of a giant chiasm, but at the same time they were as intwined as if they had shared a womb. Despite his efforts to keep away, James found himself eventually drifting to the room where Sherlock had been put. Mrs Crowle was absent—James had heard her potter about in the kitchen—and Cordelia Holmes was sitting by her son’s bedside, fast asleep, her chin resting in the cup of her palm.
James tiptoed inside, unwilling to wake up either Sherlock or his mother. He sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating Sherlock’s face. It was the second time in as many days that he was watching an ailing Sherlock sleep. Sherlock wasn’t so agitated anymore, and he rested quietly on the bed, his head turned toward James on the pillow. It was a good thing that he had calmed down, as his previous excitement couldn’t have been good for his fever, but James hated seeing him so still.
“I hope that you know what a terrible person you are,” James murmured. “You have bound me to your sickroom, and there is nothing I hate more.”
He had thought Sherlock to be sleeping the comatose sleep of the feverish, so it was a shock when Sherlock opened his eyes. His gaze was lucid, though his eyes had the glassy aspect given by fever, and held none of bleariness and confusion showcased by someone who was just waking up. Therefore, he must have heard what James had just said.
“You are bound no more,” he said in a feeble murmur, diverting his eyes. “I have no desire to hold you against your will, James.”
“Don’t overestimate yourself.”
“I know I have said— unkind things. I was overwrought and should not have taken it out on you. I’d understand if you wanted to leave; I’m surprised you haven’t done so already.”
“Your mother and brother got in my way, and then you had to go and faint dramatically.”
“Yes, I—” Sherlock sighed and raised a hand to wearily rub his face. “Nathan Burford showed me some of his memories—I heard rather than saw, but I heard enough.” He dropped his hand, his eyes widening in sudden alarm. “The estate game book! Did you look?”
“I haven’t yet, but I told your brother and he explained what it was. Is this where Beatrice is? The Tilcotts in Highgate?”
Sherlock lifted himself up, clearly intent on leaving the bed. “We need to go and look for the address.”
“Not now, we don’t,” James said, pushing Sherlock down with a hand on his chest; it was worryingly easy to do. “She was sent there twelve years ago. A day or two won’t change anything, and I will not let you keep ruining your health. Think of your poor mother.”
He jerked his chin in direction of Cordelia, still breathing softly in perfect oblivion. Sherlock glanced at her, looking surprised to find her there.
“She must be uncomfortable,” he said. “She shouldn’t be sleeping here, but in a bed.”
“Well, I’ll let you wake her up and tell her that. Since you won’t sleep and recuperate, then at least tell me what exactly you learnt from Burford.”
Sherlock fell back against his pillows. James still had a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat pulse and feverish heat radiate through his nightshirt, but Sherlock didn’t comment on it, as if he found the presence of James’ hand on his body a perfectly normal occurrence.
“He told Beatrice there was a fire at the house, and that a certain Mrs Tilcott would take care of her. The implication was that the whole family was dead. But there’s more: Mary Burford told me that— that my father paid off Nathan Burford’s gambling debts right after my sister’s supposed death.” He closed his eyes, but in pain rather than out of exhaustion. “This is where I should formulate an actual apology to you, James, because you had warned me. Nathan Burford didn’t act of his own accord; he must have been mandated by my father. I just don’t understand why…”
“Mycroft and I have learnt a few things too, while you went gallivanting with the dead,” James said, before he shared with Sherlock what had come out of the examination of his father’s papers.
“So this is the crux of the matter,” Sherlock said bleakly. “This is what it all amounts to. Money. Control.”
“Those are things you can only scorn at when you’ve always had them,” James said.
Sherlock slanted a look at him, but he didn’t get angry, as James had half-expected he would. “Money, I’ll grant you, but I don’t think I’ve ever had any control over what happened to me. Anyway. I suppose it doesn’t matter. We just need to find where Beatrice has gone. I’m just afraid that—”
He glanced again toward his mother and obviously swallowed back what he meant to say because he was worried she would wake up and overhear. James vowed to ask him what he had meant later, when they had privacy.
“Are we—” Sherlock said, showing uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Are we all right, James? Is everything back to normal between us?”
“Supposing it’s ever been normal,” James said.
“I take your point, but you know what I mean.”
Looking at him, at his pale face and his clear eyes that saw so much, too much, James found that his anger had drained from him. As much as he wanted to cling to it, he couldn’t work up even an ounce of annoyance. He’d had the opportunity to leave, and he hadn’t taken it. He had said unkind things, too, as well as a few untruths, but he couldn’t muster an apology—maybe Sherlock was a better man than him. He almost certainly was.
“We’re fine,” he said instead. “Now, go to sleep or I’ll knock you out. If you want to find what happened to your sister or continue to investigate what happened to the murdered professors, then you need to recover.”
“Is it awful if I say that I had almost forgot about the murdered professors? Oh, and Shou’an! What happened with Shou’an? Did they catch her?”
James pressed his hand down, hard against his ribs, and he felt Sherlock’s heart jump. “Sleep. Now. We’ll talk more when you wake up.”