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“Why is your lover so perfect?”
Sherlock paused just inside the door to his bedroom. He hadn’t had many preconceived notions of what his evening would look like, but he had at least expected to spend it alone. After all, Watson had a wife now, and though he often visited, his and Sherlock’s relationship was…different. Sherlock had not expected to see a morose and obviously inebriated James lying naked on top of the blankets in his bed.
An empty bottle of port wine sat on the night table, a lit candle next to it. James’ arms were bent and lifted, his hands beneath his head, giving Sherlock a perfect view of his former lover’s chest.
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock asked, stepping into his room and closing the door. It was unlikely Mrs. Hudson would enter his lodgings at this time of night, but not unheard of. Better to give them some privacy.
“Your lover. Your paramour. Your beloved. Your-”
“Yes, I understand what you mean, and I’m afraid I don’t have one at the moment.” A fact that did not make it any easier to refrain from thinking about how it would feel to run his hands over James’ muscles. Sherlock knew every scar. Every birthmark and mole. Every tender spot...
James scoffed. “Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. Watson. Why is he so perfect?”
Sherlock gritted his teeth at this and forced himself to look into James’ eyes. “You’re mistaken as to the nature of my relationship with him.” It was true. There had been a time when he and Watson… but then Watson had met Mary, and it had become clear that however Sherlock felt about their relationship, Watson felt differently. “And I’d thank you not to refer to him so familiarly.”
James waved a hand. “Oh, he gave me permission weeks ago. That’s the thing. He’s so-”
“Gave you permission?” Sherlock took a step forward, his body tensing in indignation. “What have you-”
James continued as if Sherlock hadn’t interjected. “-kind! So approachable! So noble! So perfect!” He glanced up at Sherlock. Perhaps he noticed something in his former lover’s expression because he sighed. “I didn’t hurt him. We agreed on that, if you remember? I kept my word.”
With so much history between them, Sherlock and James had many rules to their interactions. It was necessary and beneficial to both of them. Some rules were tacit, some openly discussed. Of those the two had negotiated over dinner years ago was that family and lovers were off limits. There were some allowances for situations where a family member or lover directly attacked the other, but generally, they both kept their battles between themselves. Of course, Watson wasn’t Sherlock’s lover, but even so. Sherlock had been careful to leave Watson out of cases he suspected involved Moriarty. Just to be safe. But apparently, it had all been useless.
“Then what, may I ask, were you doing that led to him allowing you to call him by merely his last name?8” Sherlock’s voice was stiff. He was showing too much emotion, he knew. He should be feigning indifference. But he couldn’t. Not where Watson was concerned.
James squinted up at him. “Why? Are you jealous?” After a moment in which Sherlock didn’t respond, he shook his head. “There’s nothing to be jealous of, or worried about, or anything. We’re friends.”
“And how did you get to be friends? You can hardly expect me to believe it was accidental.”
“I was curious!” James insisted. “I wasn’t going to hurt him.” There was something both defensive and genuine in his voice. “I just wanted to see what he was like. I couldn’t understand why you would rep… why you would want to be with him. He makes himself seem so dull in his writings... but he’s not like that in real life...” And James sounded absolutely miserable about that.
Sherlock dropped down to sit on the bed. “Yes. He doesn’t give himself nearly enough credit.”
“He’s so kind, and brave, and utterly perfect... I can see why you love him.”
Sherlock considered denying it, but James knew him too well. “Yes, well, like I said, he’s not my lover. He’s married.”
“Pfft! So, what? Lots of people are married. Doesn’t stop them.”
“Yes, but John... doesn’t feel... he likes women...”
James let out a wild laugh. “So do you! So do I! Doesn’t mean he can’t also like men.” He turned toward Sherlock on his side, and Sherlock determinedly looked away.
“But he doesn’t.”
James frowned, and his eyes narrowed. He waited a moment as if waiting for Sherlock to go on or as if James were trying to work out a particularly troubling puzzle. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Watson likes women and only women. It doesn’t matter if I...” Sherlock coughed. “As I said, you’ve misunderstood the nature of our relationship.”
“Oh...” A faint smile played around James’ face. “A pity then.”
“Pity?”
“Well, if he’s not a lover and he’s not a family member, then I’m afraid I have no reason to leave him out of our little tête-à-têtes.”
Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to feel real panic at this. “You just told me you liked him.”
James nodded and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to sit next to Sherlock. “That’s true! That’s why it’s such a pity. I really don’t want to hurt him. And I suppose I could be persuaded to leave him unscathed.” James placed a hand over Sherlock’s. “For a price, of course.”