Typically, the next week passed at a snail's pace. The little square on his calendar marked Sat was taunting him, as was the clock that seemed to run slower with each passing minute. It reminded Jim of being in school again.
A shiver runs through him at that thought. Ugh. School was a horrible place and all those people that said he'd miss it when he left couldn't be further from right if they tried.
It's Friday now and Jim is sat in his desk chair, watching the clock tick exceedingly slowly towards six p.m., which was when his shift ended.
Sebastian had emailed Jim throughout the week and he'd planned to stay for a few days into the next week, only making Jim more energetic and excitable as the week went on. He'd even been all smiley and happy around Sherlock, confusing the detective to a point Jim almost thought it was cute.
Molly, naturally, had squeezed him for every single bit of information about Sebastian. She wasn't going to ever let him live down the way he slipped up and called him 'Sebby' in front of her.
Six o'clock eventually rolls round and Jim bounces up, smiling like an idiot. Sebastian would be here in just over a day. Plus, tomorrow he got to shoot at things and argue with Sherlock.
It was weird. Jim actually found, when he thought about it, that he really really enjoyed arguing with Sherlock about anything and everything. On Wednesday he even found himself smiling when he heard Sherlock call him James.
Usually he complained when anyone called him James, even his own mother got snapped at if she called him James. His full name only passed his mother's lips if he was being a right pain in the arse, though.
In what seemed like a bat of his eyelashes, Jim is pushing his key into the lock to his flat.
Now. To choose his outfit for tomorrow.
Not that it's a date, he adds mentally before pulling out his wardrobe and scanning the clothes there.
On one side he had all his suits, including his favourite from the lovely Vivienne Westwood, and on the other he had more casual clothes. His countless pair of shoes lined the bottom of the wardrobe and he probably had around twenty beanies on a shelf above his clothes.
This was going to be a tough choice.
Saturday comes faster than Jim expected and before he knows it he finds himself outside his Uncle's shooting range, clad in a pair of denim shorts that reached his knee (it was a warm day, for England) and a light blue check cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He'd gone with the casual look. Simple.
He'd added a dark blue beanie too, just because he liked wearing them. He'd have to take it off to shoot but oh well.
Clothes were a bit of a guilty pleasure for Jim. One day, like today, he'd look a little on the hipster side despite being twenty nine. Then other days he'd looked like a snob in his Westwood suits. He loved his ties too.
Jim was pulled out of his fantasies about his own clothes by a taxi pulling up. Sherlock climbs out, dressed in his usual fitted suit and expensive top. Jim bet even his underwear was ridiculously expensive.
Not that he ever planned to find out.
Sherlock approaches him with a smile. "James."
Jim rolls his eyes and nods back, a smile tugging at his lips. "Sherlock."
Jim turns and heads for the door, hiding his smile. Within minutes Jim has the door to the actual range open.
After some searching they find the storage room with the guns. Jim stops dead in front of the door, his whole face flushing red as he reads the charming note left by his Uncle.
Sherlock laughs and nudges Jim with a teasing smirk "I thought this wasn't a date?"
"It isn't," Jim grumbles as he tears the note down.
He reads it over once more before screwing it up and throwing it over his shoulder, not caring about making a mess.
'Remember my rule, Jim. NO SEX'
Sherlock follows Jim inside the small storage room. It really wasn't made for two people to be inside, as Jim discovered when he turned to hand Sherlock ear muffs and ended up being pressed chest to chest with the lanky detective.
His face glows again as he steps back and shoves the ear muffs into the other man's hand.
Jim hears Sherlock walk away, laughing again. With a huff, Jim balls his hands into fists and reminds himself that if he slaps Sherlock it's possible that his computers will pay for it.
But dear God, he wanted to slap that man.
"James!" Sherlock calls suddenly "Are y--"
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock! My name is Jim!" Jim shouts back, cutting the other off.
Much to his annoyance, he hears Sherlock laughing again.
Don't slap him. Don't slap him. Don't slap him.
Jim chants the phase a few times over, reminding himself every time that he just got pretty, new monitors that he'd wanted for a very long time. Jim was so busy trying to calm himself down, he completely missed it when Sherlock repeated the question.
Sherlock appears in the doorway, smirking.
"Just going to stand there all day or are we actually going to shoot? It is the reason we're here, after all"
Jim almost, almost, lifted his hand and slapped that stupid (still oddly beautiful) face.
With another huff, Jim picks up the guns and pushes past Sherlock, probably with more force than needed. He was pleased to see Sherlock rubbing his shoulder when he glanced back.
"I'm starting to worry you brought me here to shoot me..." Sherlock trails off as they enter the range.
"It's tempting," Jim replies with a smirk.
They ended up taking lane - Jim had no clue what to call these little alcoves - three and four. Sherlock had his ear muffs on and the gun aimed perfectly before Jim could blink.
Jim slips on his own ear muffs and tries desperately to remember what his uncle had told him about guns. Aim and shoot. Easy enough, right?
Jim looks at the gun and fumbles for a moment, trying to hold it properly. It felt all wrong under his fingertips. Without meaning to, Jim's eyes flashes towards the office where he knew his uncle had a computer.
Keyboard over a gun any day.
Warm, large, hands slide over Jim's own, causing him to flinch backwards. His back hits Sherlock's chest and he looks up, over his right shoulder, to see Sherlock smiling softly at him.
Their eyes met for just a second before Sherlock's flash forward and he repositions Jim's hands on the gun.
Jim watches what he does and nods when he feels confident he's holding it right. Although, he could feel Sherlock's warm chest pressed to his back and it was more than distracting - especially the way Sherlock's heart seemed to be hammering into Jim's shoulder blade.
Sherlock's large hands linger a moment before he squeezes Jim's smaller hands and backs away, picking up his own gun and shooting at his own targets, eyes forward. Jim watches him for a moment, scalding himself when he found himself describing Sherlock with a gun as sexy.
Jim looks forward when he felt his staring was starting to border on the creepy side. It wouldn't do any good for Sherlock to think that Jim liked him that way. Because he didn't.
At least, he didn't think he did.
He aims and shoots, silencing his thoughts.
He doesn't like Sherlock. His feelings for the man stood beside him drift more into the bracket of loathing. He was good looking, of course, even Jim could admit that but his personality sucked worse than Jim's explanation skills.
And they really sucked. How does a way of saving the machine you love get misinterpreted for a date, for Christ's sake?
Another shot from Jim.
A date, with Sherlock Holmes. Bloody stupid idea. Jim wouldn't be surprised if after the four hours they'd planned to spend here Sherlock had come up with a few ways to murder Jim and visa versa.
Another shot.
They pause ten minutes later and Sherlock shows Jim how to reload, his warm hands guiding Jim's all the while.
Jim had almost snapped and asked if it was necessary for him to stand so close. Although for some reason beyond Jim, he'd bitten his lips instead and let the other man guide him.
They shot in silence for two hours, both lost in their thoughts and comfortable with silence.
Then Sherlock taps Jim's shoulder as he's reloading. Automatically, Jim slips his ear muffs off and raises an eyebrow. Sherlock already had his ear muffs off.
"I saw a small counter with drinks signs on the ways in," Sherlock says.
"You thirsty?" Jim asks, already walking towards the door.
Sherlock just grunts as a reply, following Jim.
Jim stops by the door and gives Sherlock an odd look.
"What?" Sherlock almost snaps, tone defensive.
"Why'd you grunt?"
"What?" Sherlock repeat, frowning now.
"Why did you grunt like that? That wasn't a I-dislike-talking grunt that was more a... disheartened grunt." Jim waves his hand around, shocked by his suddenly improved explanation skills.
Sherlock blinks, clearly shocked.
He seemed surprised that Jim had read him so well. That makes Jim smirk. So the great Sherlock Holmes liked to be mysterious.
Jim tilts his head to the side, wondering how much fun he could have with reading the unreadable man before him.
Jim wasn't a great observer like Sherlock but he knew a thing or two about people like Sherlock. Excluding the obvious, Jim doesn't think they were all that different.
"I..." Sherlock pauses, frowning even more as if he hadn't told his mouth to speak.
"You...?" Jim questions.
Sherlock shrugs and goes to open the door. Without hesitation, Jim brings his hand down on the door and, using the element of surprise to his advantage, shoves Sherlock away from the door, pressing himself against it to block the entrance.
"Nope. Not running away. I want to know. You..?"
Sherlock watches Jim's face closely and Jim can feel him calculating, debating.
In the end, Sherlock let's out a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. "I dislike giving into my bodies demands. Hunger and thirst, for example. I am a man who prizes himself on his mental capability" Jim snorts at that, earning a glare. "So every time my body needs something, I feel like it's failing me"
It was Jim's turn to frown.
"That..." He pauses, considering his words. "I'm sorry but that's stupid. Fair enough being proud of your mind but seriously? You need to look after your body or your mind will collapse along with your body."
Sherlock looked like he'd been slapped. Jim decided that was good enough, for the time being, in terms of slapping the man before him.
The detective then pulls on his emotionless mask, one that seemed to be slipping of late. "You don't know what it's like. The rest is just transport, all the matters is the mind."
Jim scoffs. "Bullshit, Sherlock. I may not know what it's like to have a million trains of thought or whatever the hell goes on in your big brain but I do know this. You are a bloody drama queen that's, frankly, scared of the real world. You stay tucked away in your puzzles and stick to yourself. Tell me, did you get your heart broken and that's when you started the charade of being heartless or did it just happen?"
Okay. Jim hadn't planned to go quite that far. It was all out now, though.
Sherlock's face falls and his lower lips twitch. Jim's own expression softens and he wants to take it all back.
But he can't. He's already said it.
"Sherlock, I'm -"
"Right" Sherlock cuts him off quickly. "You're right."
Jim doesn't know what to say, so he settles with "I know."
Sherlock stares at him, his eyes glossed over his unshed tears. Jim had a feeling most of Sherlock tears where like that: unshed.
"But how..?"
"How do I know you're an overgrown child who can't handle his feelings?" Jim jokes.
Briefly, Sherlock cracks a smile. "Yeah, that."
"The overgrown child bit's obvious. Not offence," Jim smirks, happy to revert back into their jokey ways.
Sherlock laughs "None taken."
"As for the other bit.. It was a guess, at first. But the more I watched, well not watched but saw, you... The more I saw myself, a few years back. Hiding from the world. I still do, in fact. Physically. But you've done it emotionally, haven't you?"
Sherlock doesn't say anything, his eyes darting down to the door handle Jim had stepped away from.
He wanted to run away, that was clear.
Jim sighs and tries to smile. "Let's just get that drink, yeah?"
Sherlock nods, grateful for the change of topic. As they walk out, Jim frowns.
Once he started talking, things he hasn't even consciously acknowledged came tumbling out. Who knew what he might say to Sherlock, if not himself?
That was a bloody scary thought.