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James was pretty sure Sherlock already knew. He was way too damn clever to be fooled by the same half-arsed tricks as everyone else. So then why did he not say anything about it? It made James increasingly nervous and he didn't know why. He certainly had nothing to worry about, if Sherlock knew but chose to keep quiet about it. His secret was safe with his friend, because, James assumed, that's what friends did. He did not have much experience with this. He had acquaintances, people he would share a drink or a joke with, but never a secret.
Until Sherlock had come along, that was. Sherlock wasn't naive, that wasn't the right word for it, but he had a tendency to trust people. And James, for whatever reason, was one of them now. Upon days of meeting each other Sherlock had taken him to his family's home, let him witness his mother's insanity, his father's manipulations, his brother's absence, his sister's grave. James had sunk his teeth into whatever Sherlock had given him, holding onto it all so tightly out of fear it might be taken away from him again. The fear that Sherlock would suddenly wake up and realise that James was a stranger in his childhood home, taking and changing and seeing things that were not his to touch.
It was not James' place to criticise, at least that much had been made clear to him. The punch Sherlock had thrown had not been very painful, but it had been real and that had surprised James. He had left, disappointed a clever man like Sherlock would turn a blind eye to facts when they got in the way of his emotions. He had never seen that happen before, had underestimated the sanctity of family. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. James had been without one for a long time. Perhaps, if he were in Sherlock's place, he would cling to it in the same pathetic manner, no matter how broken it was. Perhaps he would not realise it was broken at all and invite someone in to see. Only to see and to help, not to speak the truth but simply to be there. James learned this too was what being a friend meant.
He found it easier to take than to give. He took Sherlock's secrets and filed them away in his brain, information after information, while refusing to say more than he had to. Sherlock would find out more than enough by watching and listening closely. James lost sleep imagining all the things he might discover. He took every sentence he had said, day by day, and turned them over in his mind. He had told Sherlock he would have to leave Oxford if he lost his scholarship. With that he would know James was poor, didn't come from money or at least had no access to it. His Irish accent made the guess as to which of these was more likely very easy. He had told Cordelia Holmes, with Sherlock present, his mother had died of consumption. This was true. But just as blood clung to handkerchiefs, poorness clung to the name of the disease itself. Another telltale sign. You have no money, James. He had at one point mentioned a sister. They had never talked about it. About their shared grief of losing someone so dear. About Sherlock getting his sister back, while James had not. Resurrections didn't happen in families like his. In families like his, you just buried, and buried, and buried.
James' biggest mistake had been how easily he had given in to the plan to break Sherlock out of prison once it had formed in his mind. It had been a good plan, and it had worked, but it had been stupid of him nonetheless. He still felt the discomfort when he thought back to it. The bonnet covering his short hair, the skirt swishing around his legs with every step, reminding him of a feeling he had thought he had forgotten. When he and Sherlock had stood face to face, the differences between them had been so glaringly obvious to James, he couldn't understand why Sherlock hadn't said something right then. Possibly because James had punched him in the face before he could. He couldn't deny it had felt good. He was stronger than Sherlock, and unlike him wasn't hesitant to throw a punch when necessary. Right then the necessity had arisen from James wanting to feel better about himself. Sherlock might think he was some silly girl playing dress up, but he was still a better man than Sherlock could ever dream of being.
When they had first met, James had assumed this was because Sherlock's father had been too soft on him. After having met the man, James knew this wasn't true. Silas Holmes, despite his intellect, was a desperate, controlling man who more often than not made bad decisions. But from what he knew he had been largely absent from Sherlock's life for the past few years, his only parental figure a mother so confused from the drugs and people telling her she was mad, she could hardly have been a strong guiding force for him. Instead she had made him soft and strange and weak. With a mother who wandered the hallways of her house mumbling nonsense, wading into the river looking for her long lost child, who could not fault Sherlock for sometimes staring into space for a moment too long, clearly seeing something no one else could, or for running instead of staying to fight.
James could fault him. Because James had put in the effort to cut his mother out of himself carefully and completely. She had died and he had decided not to grieve her, instead betraying everything she had tried to give him. He remembered the evenings when she would pull his unruly curls into tight braids, his scalp burning under her unyielding fingers. She had tried to tame him, to shape and mold him into something she could bear. He doubted she ever succeeded. She had been an unhappy woman, never satisfied. James had felt nothing but relief when he had cut her fingerprints from his hair. He had shed the dress she had made him and not felt any guilt. She had not made it for him with love, but out of necessity. The need for it had passed. When James looked at his face in the mirror, he did not see her face looking back at him. It was always a sigh of relief.
"You never talk about your childhood," Sherlock said. He hadn't even raised his eyes from the book he was reading. James did though, placing it open faced over his thigh. They were sitting together in two of the armchairs in the Holmes family's library. To have a library inside your own house was insane, but he would not betray himself by pointing it out. Sherlock treated it as if it were normal, so James would do the same. They spent a lot of time here. Sherlock could sit unmoving for hours, devouring book after book, page by page. James usually got nervous after an hour, taking a break to take a walk through the house, studying the family portraits, or wandering the grounds. Two more things which were ridiculous to have. There were no paintings of him or his family. There had never even been a photograph of him until long after he had come into the city. It was as if he had never even existed before that.
"What makes you say that?"
"This part of the book is set in Ireland. I was just wondering if you missed it at all."
"It could be a beautiful country."
"You don't think it is?"
"If I were in denial of all the poverty and all the barren fields, perhaps I would." He chewed on the soft flesh of his cheeks. "But I doubt your book talks about that."
Now Sherlock looked up, just to sheepishly avoid his gaze. This did not stop James from staring directly at him.
"I apologise for bringing up a touchy subject. I was simply curious. I can't imagine being a little boy there."
James scoffed before he could remind himself not to and no matter how hard he bit his tongue, he could not stop himself from speaking again. He didn't want to. He would not let Sherlock pretend they were both more stupid than they were.
"Me neither."
Now Sherlock had to meet his eyes. His cheeks were flushed with nervousness. Still he had this unbearable air of politeness about him.
"You don't have to tell me this, James. You don't have to tell me anything."
"I don't have to," he replied, lifted his chin. "Because you already know."
"It is none of my business."
"Damn right it isn't."
His heart was beating way too quickly. His lungs felt tight, unable to expand fully against the tight binding of his chest. Sherlock tried to offer a friendly smile.
"Your secret is safe with me, James."
He should have been more relieved at these words. He forced his breathing to slow down.
"When did you find out?" he wanted to know. He at least was curious what had given him away. But Sherlock shrugged.
"It was not just one thing. But you did have me confused for a bit."
"Good," he said and meant it. It was calming to know he could confuse even minds like Sherlock's. At least for a bit.
Sherlock laughed, then picked up his book again. James got up. His muscles itched with the need to move. He felt the other's eyes on him.
"Going for a walk, my friend?"
"Yes. Have fun with your book."
"Thank you, I'm sure I will. Oh, and don't forget about dinner. Mother would be heartbroken if you missed it."
Even now, with everything laid out in the open, Sherlock invited him to his family's dining table with such ease. James didn't know if he deserved it. But James did not care what he deserved and what he didn't, and neither did Sherlock. He nodded to his friend. His tone sounded mocking, though his words were genuine.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."