Work Text:
Sherlock managed to stop weeping in his chase, but, after getting back inside and ensuring his mother was alright, complete embarrassment washed over him on a whim.
He'd cried on his father's—Silas'—arms like the little boy he once was, innocent and ignorant and complacent to the stories the man told. Sherlock knew he was lying, as much as he wanted not to believe it, and yet, as soon as his father embraced him…
He'd completely fallen apart.
James laid a warm hand on his shoulder as he sat on his bed, still dripping wet from the rain, the stains of mud utterly ruining his sheets. “I am sorry, Sherlock.”
“Don't be,” he muttered, voice strangled and throat closing up again. “I was a fool. I am a fool, to have believed him my whole life, to have believed him again and fallen into his arms, into his trap.”
The tears started falling before he could help them.
James kneeled on the floor before him, hand still warm on his shoulder, his usual smirk gone from his face. “You're not to fault for this.”
Sherlock didn't answer, couldn't even if he wanted to, as the tears kept falling and his throat closed up. He closed his eyes without even noticing, still so full of shame, and embraced the darkness of his imaginative mind.
Hiding was likely the most cowardly course of action, but the one he chose nonetheless.
It was quiet in his mind, at least. If he focused enough, he could hear James breathing in the outside world, steady and slow, keeping him company (as he'd done ever since they first met), but otherwise, only the rain could be heard. It made for a welcoming calm, surrounding himself with nothing and focusing on the sounds.
From time to time, his entire body shivered, cold and tired, and he couldn't help but remember his father's embrace.
“Sherlock, come on.”
James was calling to him.
Sherlock opened his eyes.
His friend was crouching in front of him now, a deep frown set on his face. “There you are. You need to get out of these clothes, lest you fall ill from the cold, you're shivering.”
He nodded, incredibly gently, present, and yet so far away. He did not want to be here right now, did not want to face reality and his choices, did not want to shame himself any further.
It would be easier to just fall asleep, instead, and welcome true darkness for the night. He could blame himself in the morning.
“No, no, do not do this, Sherlock,” James said as he rushed to catch him. He didn't even realize he'd been falling backwards into the bed. “Come on, up you go, do you need help undressing?”
As he was aided into a standing position, he couldn't help but think if the situation were any different, James would most definitely be asking that with a charming smile and sparks in his eyes.
He did not need help undressing, obviously, they were both gentlemen and Sherlock was not incapacitated, injured or ill, so of course he could do such a simple task.
And, yet, his body did not move, and his mind wandered once again.
It was difficult to focus at the moment. Perhaps Sherlock simply did not want to.
“Sherlock.”
When he came back to once more, James had a humid—but mostly dry—cloth on his back. He was shirtless, as evident by his vest and button down laying on the nightstand, and hands on his skin.
“Better, now. I suppose I'll spare you the pleasure of having me take off your pants,” he said, coming back around to face him.
His pants were wet all the same, but he'd lost the shoes and dripping socks when they came back inside, so it was an improvement. He didn't feel so cold anymore.
Sherlock looked up to meet James' gaze. His friend looked worried, for once, frown stamped on his face, eyes searching for anything on his person. He most likely did look rather catatonic.
He didn't mean to paint a worrying picture, to trouble James even more after all they've discovered, having gotten him into his family mess.
There they stood, nonetheless, the other man's hands gentle as he assisted a troubled Sherlock do something as simple as clean himself. He did not deserve such kindness.
Yet he craved it immensely.
His head slumped forward into James' shoulder before he realized, his body still slow to catch up with his mind.
Wide arms caught him easily, a hand reaching to hold the back of his back.
“Thank you,” he stammered.
The crying started all over again.
This time, however, against all odds and expectations, James held him closely, running fingers through his hair. Sherlock tried not to think about his father, hiding his face into his friend's neck, and allowed himself the moment. He might not deserve the kindness, but he would not refuse it.
“You're all right. I've got you.”
And if they sank to the floor in each other's arms, Sherlock's hands desperately grasping at the other man's back, it was for no one to see. And if, out of exhaustion, they passed out against the bed, his head still hidden in James' shoulder, it was for no one to know. And if the exchange of soft touches brought Sherlock back from his fall into darkness, it was for no one to find out.
And if, however secretly, James kept him warm in his embrace the entire night, gently helping him back into his shirt and vest in the early morning, really, it was only for them to treasure.