Chapter Text
"...and based on that, the blonde girl isn't a waitress at all, but a con artist after his money. Look, James, look," Sherlock is in a rather cheerful mood; he's perched almost on the edge of his chair, pointing at the girl, who slips her fingers easily into the front pocket of a man in his forties, most likely a professor, while simultaneously pointing to something on the menu. A wallet flashes between her fingers for a second, then disappears into the sleeve of her shirt as quickly as it appeared.
"Impressive," James smiles, his gaze never leaving Sherlock's face. "But even a child would understand that."
"You're not a child, and you didn't," Sherlock counters, leaning back in his chair.
They're sitting in one of Oxford's oldest pubs, finishing their second pint of beer. The idea of guessing the visitors' professions and personal lives came naturally, and they'd been amusing themselves like that for the last fifteen minutes, competing with each other. At this point, Sherlock had the upper hand – he'd guessed the stories of six visitors, while James had guessed four.
Moriarty looked around, searching for a new subject to study, unable to suppress his curiosity, and lingered on an incoming group of six guys, already quite drunk and well-dressed.
"Look," James nodded toward the very first one, the leader of the group, who was noisily asking the bartender for "a glass of something strong" for himself and his friends. "A third-year student, a mathematician, an only child."
"No," Sherlock countered. "He obviously has four brothers."
"What makes you think that?"
"Look, James," he said, taking over. "A family ring on his finger, expensive but worn clothes—status is important to him—but the jacket isn't new and doesn't fit, clearly a brother's leftover."
"Or maybe he borrowed it from his father," James disagrees, continuing their favorite game, which he silently calls "look" because of the number of times they use this word during their competitions. "He ordered for everyone but only paid for his own drink, while someone raised in a large family would have paid for everyone."
"Not by being such a cheapskate," Sherlock laughs, pointing at the boy just as he's awkwardly pulling a couple of coins out of the tip jar. "Even the way he walks gives away that he has brothers."
James frowns, but immediately hides his irritation with a smile and takes a sip from his glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a short man of about thirty, who makes a discreet movement with his hand and disappears up the stairs leading to the men's room. Grinning, he claps Sherlock on the shoulder and says,
"I won't be long."
As he passes the company leader, he accidentally bumps him with his shoulder—half his beer spills from his glass. He turns angrily to punch the offender, but James is already out of his sight.
***
"Fifteen shillings," James's voice is sharp. "And not a penny less."
"I only have twelve," the man whines pitifully, shaking the change in his hands. "I need it today. I'll pay the rest tomorrow, I swear!"
"What do I care about an addicts words?" James snaps irritably, fighting the urge to punch the wall. Pettiness. That's what pettiness leads to.
He didn't have to get involved in the morphine trade, because most of it was readily available. Finding someone interested in a substance only James could obtain was no easy task, but even then, the problem was obvious: the buyer's unreliability, and the likelihood that they would go to the authorities simply to get even for the lost goods.
James felt a pang of frustration again, and he could almost feel the two bills in his pocket glowing red-hot, burning through the fabric—a formula capable of killing without leaving a trace. A formula that no one had ever managed to sell. A formula that could make him a fortune. A formula that could potentially shape his future.
He would have sold it long ago if not for Sherlock. James had once offered to join him in this adventure. But his obsession with ethics, with the "right" thing to do... All of this was understandable. Understandable, really, but it brought James nothing but growing irritation, because Sherlock didn't need to make his ends meet. He had everything already.
"Will," James says calmly and measuredly. He approaches the man and suddenly grabs him by the collar. In a second, he's pinned against the wall, the money clattering to the floor, and James fights the urge to slam his head against it. These outbursts have been happening more and more frequently lately, and they're becoming increasingly difficult to control. A deep sigh brings him back to reality. "That was the last time you approached me asking for morphine. The last, understand?"
"But James..."
"Don't 'but James,' me" he barks, slamming him back against the wall again.
"Yeah? What if I go to Scotland Yard and I'll tell you what you're doing, huh? Not so brave now?'
This is what James was talking about. This was the last straw. His vision darkens, and the world shrinks to this moment.
"Then I'll make you regret being born"
"Everything alright here?"
Sherlock's voice brings James to his senses. He pulls away from Will. His thoughts race, replaying the last five minutes and trying to figure out how much Sherlock has heard, and then, as if from far away, James hears his own voice:
"Just great."
Sherlock glances at the money scattered across the dirty floor, noticing Will's slight tremor—not from cold or fear, but rather a tremor of a desire—and turns his gaze to the outwardly calm James, who is deliberately dusting his jacket and, meeting Sherlock's gaze, asks serenely, "Shall we go to another pub?"