8. If You Can't Hang - Sleeping With Sirens

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Door 128 was painted black, it's brass numbers shining with a gleam and a pride that taunted Sherlock every time they caught his eye. The door hadn't been opened in over six years. Sherlock liked it that way. He didn't want to hear the creak as it opened, he didn't want to feel the cold handle beneath his fingers and he, in any universe, did not want to revisit what sat on the other side.

Door 257 was painted blood red, the numbers scratched into the paint with a long manicured finger that made Sherlock wince and cutch his cheek each time he passed by and was silly enough to glance at the door. Not a thing that lay behind that closed door was anything he wanted to relive or remember in any lifetime.

Door 849 was painted a mixture of purples and dark dark greens, so dark they appeared black more often than they appeared green. The numbers on this door were stuck on, stickers that should have been used to teach a child to count. The child-like innocence did nothing to comfort Sherlock. He hunched over and emptied his stomach almost every time his gaze fell on the door.

Door 919 wasn't painted.

Door 919 was completely bare, the numbers written on in a HB pencil by Sherlock's own hand as he prayed that this door would not later turn his stomach. He often smiled when seeing this plain door, emotions bubbling up in his chest and gaining a death grip on his heart that was extremely (oddly) welcome.

Inside this door was every piece of information and all his memories of the beautiful man known as James Moriarty.

They'd only been together a grand total of three months and considering their track record maybe it was too soon for Sherlock to give the man his own room.

Then again, maybe their track record did reflect the early start of the door. Maybe it would end up like 128, 257 and 849. Always there but always ignored. ...Expect those occasions it wasn't.

As Sherlock looked at the numbers, written in his own scrawl, he couldn't help but remember the times he was writing other numbers on other doors, the same hope filling him and the same welcome emotions suffocating him.

Sherlock trails his fingers down the sandpapered door with a smile before he turns and makes his way down the corridor.

Before he knows it, he's stepped into the palace garden and finds him blinking and sitting up on the sofa in 221B Baker Street.

Stretching, the detective rises to his feet and steps onto the coffee table, going over the furniture, and making his way into the kitchen. Once there, he sends a smile towards his closed bedroom door, imagining the man that was in there, curled in his bedcovers and fast asleep.

The kettle is flicked on and cups collected from the cupboard. Five minutes later, Sherlock is entering his bedroom as quietly as he was possibly able.

The tea tray is placed on his bedside table before he slides onto the bed, facing the still sleeping man. With a small, silent chuckle Sherlock reaches a hand out to cup Jim's cheek, his thumb making small circles on the skin.

"Mm" Jim's hums in agreement as he slowly wakes, Sherlock's touch quickly making his body wake up.

Sherlock laughs again, less silent this time round.

Part of his brain was telling him no, though.

That he was going to be hurt again, like all those times before. Three main people come to mind but are quickly pushed away. Sherlock refused to remember them. They were just doors and numbers now.

The pain, however, always remained. Their actions burned into his mind, soul and skin.

The brief expression of panic, worry and fear is wiped away before Jim sits up and has a chance to see it. He smiles back at Sherlock, eyes finding the tea and his smile widening just a little.

"Thanks, love" He says, voice a bit gruff since he's just woken up, before leaning over and placing a kiss to the side of Sherlock's mouth.

He takes his tea in hand and blows on it before settling the cup in his lap, over the covers and hands still wrapped around the mug. He ignored the handle, opting for holding the sides of the cup instead. It was still too hot to drink.

Sherlock leaves his on the tray, letting it cool that way and just committing this sight of James to memory.

The cover sat on his hips now, just revealing his boxer shorts. His bare chest was completely on display and his usually slicked back hair was loose and fluffy.

He looked perfect like this. Sitting in Sherlock's bed, smiling and holding a cup of tea as he watched Sherlock just as intently as he was being watched.

Sherlock wasn't sure if anyone had ever watched him so intently. Like they wanted to know everything, no matter how odd or how sad it was.

Jim looked like he just wanted to know everything.

Sherlock knew better than to give him everything now. He'd had his everything stolen by many filthy hearts that didn't really care.

This time, Sherlock was going to be smart. He wouldn't give his heart, give his anything, until he knew for a fact that 919 was not going to be painted colours that caused him pain and misery for years to come.

He doesn't want to break his heart further. He needed someone to heal it, to give him strength to demolish those three doors that haunted him. He couldn't risk someone crushing it further.

He doubted he'd be able to keep yet another door locked.

"What's today's plan, then?" Jim asks, taking the first sip of his cooling tea, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face.

Sherlock shrugs "No plans"

"Perfect" Jim grins. "I'm taking you on a date then. A proper one this time" He laughs at the end.

Sherlock smiles at that. Their last date had ended with Sherlock running off to chase a killer around London. Not the best date ever. Surprisingly, not Sherlock's worst either.

Once their tea is drunk and Jim has showered and put some clothes on, they set off.

*

Two months later, Sherlock is painting door 919.

He's painting it white with a gold edging. It looked worthy of royalty. The numbers on the door shine brightly, the sliver reflecting the light at all angles it could.

It was simple, elegant and yet intriguing. Just like James.

Their relationship was going great. Perfect, some may say. Excluding the occasion argument about work but, naturally, their careers did clash.

Sherlock had been in this position before. All three of the doors that haunted him had once been bright and charming. He'd repainted them after.. everything, of course.

Sherlock hoped he didn't need to repaint this one. He didn't want to.

James was different from the others in so many ways. And yet he was exactly like them in so many ways too.

Hopeful he hasn't rushed into this, Sherlock heads for the garden.

*

"Are you sure, Sher?" Jim's voice trembles, the nerves and worry leaking out without his control.

Sherlock gives a nod and slides his hand into Jim's, squeezing just a little, before he closes his eyes. He steps into the corridor.

"1..2...8" Sherlock says slowly, his hand settling on that icey hot doorknob.

Six years. Now he was opening it.

"I painted this one black. The numbers are brass, dirt covering them but the gleam never fading... Right, here it goes"

He feels his hand being squeezed before he's back in the corridor, pushing open the creaking door.

He doesn't cross the threshold, just the allows the door to open. It's dark. He can't see inside. He's about to step in when light explodes around the room and memories hit him like a speeding truck, over and over.

The first meeting. The first kiss. The first time he was taken to bed.

As the memories hit him, he's talking. Telling James a story while he stares into the room.

It's a concrete room, the floor and walls blending together in a sea of cracked grey.

It's bare of everything, expect the person who stands in the middle. His black hair is covering his face, Sherlock can't see his eyes but he knows they're on him. Those dark eyes, as midnight a black as the hair that covers them.

"Ah. Little Sherlock. Come to see me at last, eh?" His head moves to the side, his body still.

Sherlock swallows. More memories rushing at him in a splash of grey, black and red.

He's talking again, to Jim that is. Telling him about how the gambling started and how the man that was locked in this room spent less and less time with and spent more and more time with other men and women.

The man moves then, the movement sudden. Sherlock flinches. His eyes and head move to look at his raised hand, his hair moving to reveal a cruel smile on thin pink lips. His face is ghostly white.

His fingers move to reveal dice, a red pair. Sherlock looks at them briefly and when he's eyes return to the other's face, his hair is moved and two black eyes are staring straight at him.

His mouth opens, a roar of anger escaping them as he rushes towards Sherlock.

Instinctively, Sherlock slams the door and locks it before he has the chance to cross the barrier. The door rattles, the sound of fists pounding on the wood echoing throughout Sherlock's mind.

When Sherlock next opens his eyes, he is on the floor in front of the sofa, James on his knees in front of him as he silently cries and begs for Sherlock to open his eyes. Relief is the only thing that shows on his face when Sherlock looks at him, his eyes also wet with tears.

"We're not looking at the other doors" Jim says, pulling Sherlock into a hug.

"I want you.. to know" Sherlock replies weakly.

He did want Jim to know but he also, very much so, didn't want to go near 257 and 849.

"No. You're not going near those bloody doors, Sherlock. We're get rid of them without opening them. I don't want to know, don't want you to remember, that pain. Alright?"

Jim pulls back from the hug, to watch Sherlock's face and for Sherlock to see how very serious he is about this whole door situation.

"Alright" Sherlock nods before collapsing into Jim's arms again.

Jim doesn't hesitate to hold him close and press a kiss to his temple.

*

A year passes. 128, 257 and 849 remain sealed off. 919 isn't repainted and good memories are added each day.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock hisses the words from his side of the dinner table. "Get up, now. Jim. Get. Up."

Jim chuckles, shaking his head as he continues sinking down onto one knee.

"Get. Up." Sherlock growls the words, his hand gripping his fork.

Jim pulls out a box, larger than usual. He holds it out, still smiling as Sherlock glares at him.

Sherlock stays silent now, just glaring at his boyfriend of twenty months.

"Sherlock Holmes." Jim starts, his eyes darting all over Sherlock's angry face but his confident smile never drops. "Will you-"

"No" Sherlock answers.

Jim ignores him and opens the box. "Move in with me?" He finishes as a small square of paper springs up out of the box.

Jim removes the paper and unfolds it to show the deed to a house, Jim's signature on the bottom and another space for Sherlock's own signature.

The detective breathes a sigh of relief.

"You're such a dick" He mutters, stabbing his fork into the chicken on his plate before he reaches out to take the deed and skim read it.

"Is that a yes?" Jim laughs, taking his seat again.

Sherlock's eyes flash up to him, happiness hidden just under the anger.

"It's a yes, but don't think I'm not angry for you scaring me like that"

Jim just winks. "Love you too, babe"

Sherlock rolls his eyes but even he can't hide the smile.