Chapter Text
After Sherlock's accident, with his absence too long to establish the daily orders for such a large mansion, William consolidated his authority within those tapestry-draped walls with a kind and cordial approach, revealing his intelligence that went beyond conventionality, but also so helpful in taking into consideration even the meals for the changes in weather, which no one ever dared to take against his will.
He devoted himself to Sherlock's care, which surprised even those who resided on the same roof, since they were accustomed to the tensions of marriage, and it was a topic of conversation among the servants even when the princes were kind enough to eat together, with whispered comments proliferating.
Due to his injuries, Sherlock had been left bedridden by the imminent mob bites all over his body, leaving open swellings and broken bones that would take time to heal. He did not show his face to the public for months, evoking overwhelming anxiety and calm among the people about his health, amid speculation that he had died, and the royal family struggling to cope with the news of losing a prince at the hands of his own people.
Although the condition of the second British prince was kept secret, close friends and members of the scattered family were received at the mansion. William entertained voices of concern about the prince's health at home, leaving gifts and wreaths of flowers that filled the reception room as if he were actually being bid farewell. He was unyielding in his determination to not allow, with an unwavering resolve, that there would be no visitors other than those within the immediate family. He found Sherlock's detailed diagnoses in the newspaper and the weekly magazine Hello! and The Times, as well as a photograph of him sitting up in bed with the tangle of cables he had initially been subjected to.
William would never be seen as angry as he was then, although it did not show in his serene expression. He dismissed the nurses who hadn't had a voice to fight back when he conducted his own investigation, having evidence that exposed his guilt. There was no way to stop the circulation of that photo, resigning himself to the endless gossip, leaving only those in the service whose line of work they had a history of trust in.
He guarded Sherlock's room and erected an invisible wall around it, allowing only Mycroft, the few friends who bordered on intimacy, and the brothers close to his heart to enter his domain. With the same stoicism, he disdained the withered presents that were now nothing more than an empty tribute, infested with wandering insects, rejecting any gift that hadn't been scrutinized beforehand and that wouldn't pass beyond the first threshold.
It became clear that the royal couple's affection was crossing the threshold of the confines of cameras and performance, and that they were still a married couple behind closed doors. William evaded questions with easy smiles and subdued silences, still having to attend royal events, but he soon asked His Royal Majesty to cancel his schedule. He realized that leaving the house caused him to feel an unrepeatable anxiety, his blood frothed with the urgency of seeing Sherlock, and he couldn't help but lose focus because his mind was left behind in the bed where he had left his husband asleep.
Mycroft granted him permission, affirmed the security of the home, and the windows and doors closed to the world. Two months after that precarious eventuality, when Sherlock's injuries were no longer considered a cost of time from the blows to his head, he woke up one morning from one of the many drug-induced deliriums he was subjected to and recovered his mind, breaking through the fog of exhaustion. He found William tidying the room, and with a clearing of his throat that was more of a poorly feigned cough, he tried to sit up a little on his pillows. Hearing him, William stopped his hands and approached him slowly when he saw him open his eyes.
"Liam..." Sherlock acknowledged weakly.
There was a tenuous silence, of meeting glances and a voiceless affection yearning to be spoken. The first to give in was Prince Monaco, sitting next to the chair opposite him that had been his ally, but also an enemy due to its rigidity, causing him some backache, to his dismay.
"How are you feeling?" William found the question informal enough to start a conversation in the gelatinous air.
Since they became politically involved, they had rarely spent so much time alone together, but right now they seemed so dependent on each other's presence. Even in the absence of any words, just looking at each other caused a flutter in William's heartbeat that he hadn't noticed before. He didn't know why. His pernicious modesty prevented him from calling carnal matters by their names, but he had always thought Sherlock's gaze was... penetrating. And other details like the spiral of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the way he arched his neck, displaying it like a strange habit when something interested him and he saw it out of the corner of his eye.
These were things he had taken to his pillow, his refuge for confidences, that he had even dreamed about them.
The sound of the sheets stirring brought him back to earth, meeting those blue eyes, now marked by fatigue, yet still observing everything. They blinked slowly. "Exhaustion is showing in your every gesture. You should go to sleep," Sherlock observed, a tinge of concern coloring his words. "I'll be fine."
That caught William off guard, and he blinked, a wave of confusion wreaking havoc on his expression. He composed himself quickly, just as he had trained his whole life in the etiquette and protocol of lying with a smile, so it wasn't difficult for him to spread it across his lips.
"That's a bit bold of a thing to say, my dear prince, considering you're the one in bed."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and the edge of his lip trembled slightly, until it widened into a small curve at the corners. The expression was endearing, and William began to have the thought that he liked...
"Perhaps," he agreed, then reached out his arm toward him and said suddenly, "You're very far away..." he whispered. "I know," William wanted to say, "it's starting to get overwhelming for me too."
Clearing his throat a little, easing some of the tension in his throat, he took the hand that also bore flowers of bruises, colors that ranged from purple to green to yellow. A garden that was so painful to look at. It was the first gesture he'd given him after nine months of marriage, more so than what they pretended to do on screen for the media and the television talk shows they watched with disapproval and a bad example for the children.
"I guess I'll have to do something about it," William murmured, getting up to now sit on the edge of the bed, causing the orthopedic mattress to dip a little under his weight.
His fingers tingled to touch it. He didn't know why he was so self-conscious, aware that they were married. Still, Sherlock waited patiently, watching him and playing with his fingers together, breathing softly and trying not to move his head too much.
In the end, William gave in to the invitation, and with his free hand, he gently moved the jet-black hair that fell across his face. He marveled at seeing up close that Sherlock had a tiny mole on his cheekbone, the existence of which made him wonder if he had more; considering that if he looked down and met the translucent chest, he could see a few more moles on his skin between the openings in his shirt. They seemed to stretch out, even to the sacred paths beyond, which his clothes already obscured him, and he shook his head to scare away those crows that were only looking for carrion. However, it left a bitter feeling in his conscience. Curiosity was gnawing at him. It even seemed like seeing a constellation, awakening the desire to trace and connect the dots with his fingertips.
He took a deep breath and calmed down. Sherlock laughed softly, as if he could read his mind.
"What's so funny?" William inquired, his hands still on that heavenly journey of caressing his face and the undulating waves of that untamed hair.
"Put your ear closer and I'll tell you.” The British prince whispered, lacking the strength to raise his voice.
Raising an eyebrow, William wasn't seduced by that insinuation, even though it tempted him. Laughter danced in his blue eyes, and it made his pride prick. He wasn't going to back down.
So, he dressed his lips in a seductive crescent moon shape, leaning in so that his ear was close to his husband's. He waited a few seconds, enduring the breath that spilled near his neck, before placing a kiss like the touch of a breeze on his cheek. A flash of heat lashed across his face, sending his heart racing. He pulled away only slightly, and Sherlock was already cupping his cheek, using his thumb to brush over his cheekbone.
"I feel the same way, Liam."
He didn't specify exactly, and there was no need. William understood completely, and he couldn't help himself, letting out a small laugh. It was one of the few times he'd done so in Sherlock's presence, and he ended up leaning closer, bringing their foreheads together.
"Looks like I've been found out."
"You're not very subtle."
"Why should I be?"
The question was a fatal stab, and Sherlock laughed again as much as his rib wounds allowed. That's how he took the initiative to pull him towards his mouth, in a brief kiss, the kind that didn't allow even a thought. It was their second since they were married, and William longed for more than just a few seconds of lips fused together.
As they separated, it seemed as if, upon looking at each other, they realized that an early marriage hadn't yet taught them how to kiss, where to place their hands, and what to do with their tongues; but that didn't mean they couldn't invent a good love together. They didn't slow down; William licked his lips before seeking another touch that might release those impulses he'd kept caged for so long and now struggling to break out.
This time, it was longer than the last and perhaps the first wet kiss in which they opened their mouths. There was a touch between two curious men who were experiencing a new flavor. William was betrayed by a sigh that was more of a discreetly concealed moan. Sherlock's hands were suddenly restless and soon began to move down to open the first buttons of his clothes.
When those cold fingers touched his skin, William felt a surge of chills emerge from his belly; But finally, the reason that had been gagged by his fierce inner longing broke free to tell him they couldn't continue. He gently stopped his husband's hand, which had already almost masterfully opened his entire vest, and broke away from the kiss with a small sound that echoed in his ears and would haunt him even when he went to sleep in the next room.
"What a naughty prince," he said with a smile, touching his mouth. "Trying to touch me like that when he knows he can't go any further."
The sentence made Sherlock smile, but his fingers couldn't be captured, as his hand managed to slip in far enough to steal his right nipple. William felt his body flinch, though he tried to lessen his embarrassment.
"You're very sensitive, I see, Liam," Sherlock realized, not looking disappointed. "Let me see it better."
He meant his nipples, and William didn't know how to refuse him. They'd been married for months, and he was aware that Sherlock hadn't touched him even once since he'd noticed him squirming at the thought of intimacy. He'd never hinted at it or forced it on him, although before the accident, their relationship hadn't been on the best of terms.
"What an indecorous request," he spoke to fill the silence, so distressing that even William could hear the wind faintly beating against the room's large windows.
However, he forced himself not to flinch a second time. So he ignored his own voices shouting and intertwining with each other, as well as the evasive trembling of his hands, and finished undoing the two remaining buttons. He also did the same with his shirt, with a crushing slowness that made the weight of his breath speak volumes.
He was glad to be in the dark so that he wouldn't see the burning blush that shook him to the roots of his skull. He remained motionless, the object of study for those blue eyes that felt like they were tearing his skin open to see inside him.
Sherlock reached out his hand, and William closed his eyes, the frantic beat of his heart hammering in his chest, feeling him caress his right nipple with the edge of his nail. William felt a strange tingling, as if he'd touched a nerve, and bit his lip as he almost let out a sound. How long had that part of him been sensitive? What had that been?!
He couldn't resist the shyness that assaulted the deepest recesses of his soul. He fell into Sherlock's chest, pressing his hands against his shoulders, the fire in his face and even in his ears, hiding his face as he burst into laughter that ended in a moan of pain, his broken ribs still refusing to move properly. He stroked his back to comfort him, still laughing.
"You're shaking, Liam!" he noted, enjoying that reaction.
William wanted to die. This was a very serious problem. He needed to do something about it. He started by allowing Sherlock to comfort him and laugh at him, resting his head on his shoulder without leaning too far so as not to disturb any wounds. He just had to get used to it, he told himself. That body that hadn't been touched or seen by anyone.
"I'm sorry," he said, feeling the need to apologize. "I didn't—"
With those words, Sherlock gently pulled him away so he could see his face and use his pianist's fingers to brush a strand of blond hair away from his face.
"You don't have to apologize. I'm overwhelmed by physical contact too. We can get used to it."
Pulling away so he could see his face, William began to regain control of himself.
"I didn't think so, since he had no qualms about opening my clothes."
"There are exceptions in life," he concluded in a lethargic voice and winked at him, calming his frantic nerves, eluding somewhat to the roots of the conservativeness with which he had been raised. "Can you give me something for my headache? It's killing me."
At the thought of this, William remembered he should have given him palliatives, turning on the lamp to check the bedside table next to him, which was filled with towers of blister packs. He had memorized the treatment to the letter, his body already programmed for the two- to three-hour schedule, the gastric protectors to prevent Sherlock from vomiting excessively, and the nighttime pains when the pain would wake him up angry and feverish, leaving his husband trembling in bed with his breathing inarticulate.
"Here, take this, it will make you feel better." William handed him the small capsule, and Sherlock brought it to his mouth, trying to sit up a little, illuminating his gaunt and scratched face, victim of a dry throat and so many bruises.
William poured him water and helped him, carefully moving his head so that his lips could reach the glass without choking.
When he laid him down again, Sherlock grabbed his shirtsleeve as if he had the strength to stop him, though such deceptions were of little use. Still, William understood the message and sat back down on the edge of the bed. He let a blessed silence settle between them, a reconciliation under the capricious destiny of uniting them under the precept of love and illness as their vows dictated.
"Thank you," Sherlock spoke in a half-hearted dialogue, holding his gaze, a poorly crafted exercise of will, and he didn't know how much that word encompassed. Whether it was all the care and consideration William was showing him, perhaps the way he kept him company in those hours of solitude, or perhaps... just perhaps he wanted to summarize the words he couldn't say.
William could grasp that labyrinth of hidden confessions, for both seemed to be walking along the same lines of thought. That declaration softened his sense of duty and led him to establish his own resolve: at that crucial moment in his life, he set aside any consideration of his true plans (whether to free London from the monarchy or, at least, to unbalance it) to understand that what had been born of an affection after receiving lilies every morning, coupled with occasional conversations that offered him some relief in that temporary prostration, would make him hesitate at that defining moment in his life.
He left his musings behind and leaned toward him.
"Don't thank me, we're married," William consoled, scrutinizing his face and caressing the scraped skin, wanting to kiss the wounds beyond even the physical ones. "I have a filial duty to you that I've realized goes beyond our political alliance."
Sherlock hummed softly.
"You don't owe me anything."
"Of course you do." And before Sherlock could brandish some liberal speech that would break the lame excuses he was hiding behind, he added, "I want to take care of the man who put his life in danger, just to save a defenseless girl. I feel I might discover more than I thought."
"Then address me informally. Call me Sherlock. At this point, you can do that."
William chuckled, covering his lips.
"All right: Sherlock."
William watched him from the edge of the yellowish lamplight, his face scratched and swollen, his breathing erratic and his gaze tired, but with a small smile, observing him as if the affection were real and not a practiced strategic convenience, thinking that he really wanted to stay by his side.
They talked about each other, their different lives in different countries, their cultures and tastes, discovering that they both shared a pleasure in the theater and the analytical stratagem of seeing sin in people even before they commit it. William also discovered that Sherlock spoke French better than any other language. He mentioned that he had always wanted to open a laboratory, but without the support or approval of his family. Taking advantage of this glimmer of honesty, William also told him that he loved teaching and did it for charity, but that he couldn't dedicate himself to it.
"Did you end up teaching the servants to read and write?" Sherlock wanted to know, tilting his head toward him, letting his curls spread across the pillow like black ink.
"It was only once. With my schedule, I've barely had time to breathe," William confessed, glancing at the watch strapped to his ivory wrist, remembering a certain eventuality. "It's been very hot today. Would you like to take a bath?"
He remembered that they hadn't done one for a few days, other than cleaning the necessary parts.
"I'll ask Martha to help me later, don't worry."
"I can do it."
"No way!" "Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, a crimson tinge rising across his face, almost forcing him to sit up, clutching his side.
William found this reaction amusing and laughed softly.
"Why can't I? Have you forgotten that I am, before the law and against heaven, your appointed husband, and that one of the vows I swore in front of an honored bishop was to be with you in sickness and in health?"
Sherlock shook his head animatedly, then frowned as he awoke one of the roaring lions hiding behind the bruises. William couldn't stop the laughter snaking in the ducts of his throat.
"Well... we should have also consummated the promise or the simplicity of sleeping together, but here we are, living as strangers, and not as if we were friends, not a couple, Liam," the sick man pointed out mercilessly. "I'm willing to do both," William revealed simply, smiling, enjoying his husband's genuine reactions, so different from the mask of indifference he displayed in front of the cameras. "To give myself to you, to sleep with you."
His response made Sherlock take a deep breath, pressing his hand to the side where his broken ribs still ached. He recovered quickly and decided to return the blow.
"Let me remind you that a little while ago, the time we were supposed to fulfill our carnal vow, you were trembling like a leaf." Sherlock smiled at him sideways. "I don't know if I should believe your words, Liam."
"Respect the modesty of a virgin. Besides, I'm afraid it was because I haven't even been seduced."
"You're choosing the worst possible moment, because it's not like I can do it now. You'll have to settle for just my hands."
"Oh, what a shame," William lamented falsely. "I feel abandoned by my husband."
Sherlock frowned, and William maintained his smile, which grew wider as the conversation progressed. Then they both laughed, and William leaned over to help him sit down, ignoring his own thoughts, whose whispers were a daily torment, reminding him of the promise he made to himself to kill him if he had to and that such attentions would only complicate the mission.
After a long discussion, finally, having gained a degree of persuasion that only his coaxing tongue could achieve, he helped Sherlock reach the bathroom with the help of one of the security guards, who walked hunched over, cursing and spitting out such insane vocabulary and shameless verbiage that he would be sent back to be baptized to cleanse him.
They helped him sit on a chair in the shower area, which thankfully was comfortably spacious.
William was left alone with him after thanking them for the help, closing the door, feeling his tireless heart beating with force. He was aware of the rush and disorder of a spring he hadn't known how to live through, ahead of his age and that the rigors of the corona would never allow him to live through, so feeling nervous again was killing him. Sherlock was right to laugh at him. His presence made his legs feel weak, and he didn't know why he struggled with the thought of seeing his husband, his man, with whom he would have to share more than a bed, in a few articles of clothing.
He couldn't let it get the better of him. He was determined to achieve what truly embodies marriage, so he swallowed and steeled himself.
Sherlock was leaning slightly in his chair, his shoulders slumped, his head drooping with exhaustion, and his face beaded with sweat. It was obvious that sitting was an effort for him.
"You don't really need to help me. That's what the nurse is for." Sherlock tried to talk him out of it, but William knew it was a transparent blanket also used to hide his embarrassment.
That made him feel a sense of comfort, since he wasn't the only one who felt like a blushing virgin.
"I mean, you'd rather have a woman see you than me?" He used the nuance of the comparison as a weapon. "Why would you want her?"
"Don't take it that way," Sherlock chimed in, grimacing. "I'm not interested in anyone else."
"Then which one?" And although his tone might have been a hint with all the makings of a plea, the truth was he was only using it to get to him. "I hope so, Sherlock, because I wouldn't like to know there were three of us and not two."
Sherlock chuckled at his joke.
"It's impossible to win an argument with you, Liam. Come, help me."
Without the will or the strength to argue, Sherlock tried to undress without false modesty with the lights on, unable to fully raise his arms and let out even the saddest gasp of pain. William took pity on him. Intoxicated by a feeling of austerity and entitlement, he circled the circular cloister, which was covered with marble tiles and white walls that made everything ethereal.
He rolled up his shirtsleeves and removed his jewelry along with his wedding ring, leaving it near the moon-shaped sink and a tall mirror that held some of Sherlock's belongings. It was the first time he'd been in his personal bathroom, noticing the dirty clothes in a hamper that hadn't been picked up for days, and some glass jars at the bottom that looked like a chemistry set he kept hidden from the world.
Sherlock followed his gaze and spoke, responding to his thoughts:
"It's a hobby I practice when I'm not on the verge of death, which is all the time." William tried to laugh at the joke, but barely managed a smile, feeling his pulse flutter beneath his skin as he knelt in front of him to unbutton his clothes. As he reached for his shirt, Sherlock's hand shot out without hesitation, with a vague tremor that he refused to name, but which gave him the feeling in his eyes that he was about to enter swampy waters.
"What you will see now may be an answer to what you are looking for." There was no resentment in his voice, nor any feeling other than faintness escaping through the blue doors of his gaze that gave way to his soul. "However, if you ever open your mouth or reveal that information, you will be opening my grave and burying my charred body."
"You're exaggerating, Sherlock," he said to save the atmosphere, which had become oppressive.
Sherlock let go of his hand, but his gaze indicated that his words weren't pilgrimaging down the paths of lies. He removed his shirt, feeling no further resistance. At first, he didn't make any discovery that would give substance to the words spoken, only finding a bruised but firm torso. He also noticed that he had a bony body and a slight curvature in his spine that seemed like the beginnings of scoliosis due to poor posture; he was thinner than he appeared under so many layers of military clothing, and his skin was translucent, like paraffin.
He left him in his underwear, Sherlock using an extra towel to cover his lap, making William laugh, who shifted the tension to less objectionable topics.
"And you had the audacity to mock my modesty when we were in the bedroom. I think you only used me as an excuse for yourself," he said mercilessly, throwing the clothes away and preparing the hot water in the bathtub. Sherlock laughed at his comment and only shrugged slightly. When William came around to stand behind him, carrying a bowl of warm water, he froze when he saw the ink on his back. At the top of his shoulder blades was a date and below it a name.
1789 - 1799
SHELLINGFORD HOLMES.
If it had been a simple tattoo, he wouldn't have been slightly shocked. The problem was that, upon closer inspection, there were small keloids of bad, intentionally scarred wounds. He brought his hand closer and his fingers stroked the surface, Sherlock holding his breath.
"This isn't a tattoo; it was done with a scalpel, then sealed with ink to hide the scar," William concluded. He sighed, understanding what he'd warned him earlier. "I won't ask any damaging questions. I only have one."
"What?”
"How old were you when this was done?" There was a disgusted tone to his words.
"Twelve years. It's a reminder of my family's sin. Every Holmes must bear it. If I were to have a son, which, luckily, you can't, the same would have to be done to him. One of the reasons I agreed to this marriage is so I won't leave heirs who would have to endure the thrall of a claim," Sherlock murmured with metallic dryness, not granting the courtesy of a glance. "The British crown sweeps a lot of blood under the rug. You'll find out for yourself."
That last bit disarmed William because while it was circumstantial information after months of searching for something key, it wasn't the way he needed to present evidence. He put his hand to his stomach and wondered what would have happened if he'd had a baby, having to subject it to that torture. He wouldn't have allowed it. They'd have to kill him to…
He froze. His mind connected the dots and he clenched his fingers. Now it all made sense.
"Sherlock..." he said in a barely audible tone. "Did Lady Moneypenny find out about this?"
At the question, absolute silence fell. William stood in front of him and knelt down to look into his face, a sign of surrender, but also a silent plea. Sherlock held their gaze and reached out to caress his cheek. His hands were slightly rough, but William found himself leaning into his palm and taking it, placing a small kiss.
"Yes, and about the truth that we are the culprits behind the French Revolution. Lady Moneypenny was going to send this information to someone, we don't know who; that's why she was silenced by my grandmother. My brother had tried to make her flee, but my grandmother got there first, and they managed to reach the vehicle. Well, if this were to get out...
...there would be war. It would be the end of the British crown."
William pressed his lips together. Lady Moneypenny found something too big for her. Even to him.
"She was our ally. She raised me, along with many others, and we were deeply affected when they delivered to her home only an unrecognizable body, left to die in an accident," he revealed, leaking that confidential information that he was meant to take to his grave, but which Sherlock's candor also made him give in to. "I planned to marry you so I could discover the reason for her death."
"We already knew that," he said without surprise. "Now that you have it, you can go."
"You won't get rid of me easily."
There was an initial shock, wide-eyed and frozen.
"So what will you do?"
William softened the lines on his face. It hurt him to know that Sherlock, as a child, had suffered this, it hurt him that he had to be forced to cover up this sin after so many years had passed, and that it would continue like this until the name faded into the distance. It hurt to know they carried the guilt without being able to do anything about it.
He gave a small smile and stood up.
"To bath you and then to help you dress," he finally spoke. He circled the chair and sat on his lap, careful not to trip over his casted ankle or his injured ribs. His arms wrapped around his neck and his mouth sought his.
As their lips met again, Sherlock took the opportunity to encircle his waist, just as he had always wanted. After the first, another, a little deeper, followed, realizing that he had resisted, in vain, the unrepeatable urge to feel him ever since he started leaving lilies in his room that, to this day, continued to appear in his vase, which he had to replace later with another.
When his hand caressed Sherlock's chest, he felt the brown warmth of his wild perspiration and the oppression of his gaze, heavy as a blue blanket. His lips, flecked slightly with pallor, curved into a pious smile, and he thought he wanted to stay there forever, brushing them with his fingers. But a timid, suspicious knock on the door interrupted his advances: Martha, the nurse, had come to announce that the doctor had arrived for his routine checkup.
William stood up, straightening his clothes, which had never been untidy, and walked to the door to say they'd be along in a few minutes and that he was helping her bathe Sherlock. She nodded, her face flushing, and hurried out before she saw anything else. Sherlock laughed, and William closed the door, leaning against it, also smiling.
"Let them get used to it," Sherlock said.
"Yes..." William sighed. "Now, let's bathe you."
William thought it would be easy to bathe Sherlock, since the tension had released something inside him he didn't know he had. As the warm water ran over his husband's shoulders, he let out a sigh, drowned out by the small ballad playing in the background on the radio near the window. William had positioned it to escape the grip of the heavy silence, unaware that the discomfort of being almost naked had left Sherlock's tongue defenseless.
His fingers ran over the shoulders, sprinkled with bruises of varying shades that almost seemed to decorate the canvas of the British prince's snowy skin. He first lathered his neck, then his back with its ceremonial arch where the line of his spine was displayed. He walked to face him and hunched over slightly, now covering his chest with the layer of foam.
"I can do it," Sherlock tried to say in his embarrassed voice, which William laughed at.
"Try not to move too much. Don't forget your injured ribs," he soothed, his fingertips running over his pectorals, his fractured accordion of bones, his curved belly, and he tried to regulate his breathing when Sherlock sighed again at that promising closeness. "Does it hurt?"
Sherlock frowned slightly.
"I can take it. Give me the soap. I can wash my fainting doll, who's about to wake up if you keep touching me like that," he declared, amiably removing the sponge from Sherlock's hip, which he'd forgotten to use because he hadn't realized he wanted to touch him directly.
Allowing a glimmer of mercy for the desecrated dignity and decorum, William turned away, taking the opportunity to find some towels and slinging them over his shoulder. When he returned, Sherlock had already washed his private parts and his legs as well. He could notice, with some astonishment, that virility breathing and stirring beneath Sherlock's underwear, rising within the confines of his underwear.
Unlike the other moments when shame had gagged his cheeks, now that he was really supposed to make an appearance upon noticing those pleasing attributes, William found himself looking at him with a smile that didn't leave his curiosity behind. He whistled, and Sherlock covered himself awkwardly, making him chuckle.
"Oh, that's a surprise. I was already interested in the secrets of the royal crown, and it seems I've found another one."
Actually, it wasn't that much, but after yours, it was the second one I'd seen, even with a cloth barrier preventing him from seeing more.
Sherlock stifled a laugh and looked at him with amusement mixed with modesty. He avoided his inquisitive gaze and stood up when he thought they were finished, his footing awkwardly on his crutch because of the slippery floor. It was a slightly chaotic scene, because when he saw him stumble, William ran towards him, forgetting that the floor was wet, and he too slipped and fell forward.
"Liam!" Sherlock was alarmed and managed to catch him as best his body could, causing them both to lose their balance, but not dramatically. They only fell to their knees, William getting his clothes slightly wet and forgetting himself, for he was afraid Sherlock would hurt himself trying to break his resounding fall.
"Sherly, are you okay?" he asked, his nerves skittish.
Ignoring the fall, which could have aggravated something he hadn't yet realized due to shock, Sherlock watched him with a softened expression, a slight emotion shining in his exhausted eyes.
"Did you call me 'Sherly'?" he wanted to know instead, absorbed in surprise.
William wasn't up for dealing with that betrayal from his lips, leading the topics to other, less sentimental areas.
"This isn't the time for that. I'll call the doctor." He started to stand up, but was held back by a quick hand that didn't let him move forward. "Sherlock?"
"Say that again," the aforementioned man asked faintly. "It sounds so good on your lips."
Hearing that, such a sweetly composed request supported by that cherubic expression, William felt as if a penetrating lucidity allowed him to see the reality of things beyond any formality. There was no need to deny it, was there? So he leaned back on his knees and used his arms to encircle his shoulders. Slowly, with warm breath, he whispered in his ear:
"My Sherly..."
When he felt Sherlock shudder in the arc of the embrace, he sensed that it wasn't the first kisses or the proximity of the bath, but that revelation hidden behind an affectionate appellation. It was the certainty that perhaps something had already been born between them, and due to their misgivings, they had ignored its roots.
Perhaps he had always wanted to call him that, hearing that nickname always from the Royal Majesty, who, even with his iron voice, when called his brother, did so as if he were wrapped in spirals of silk.
Calling his Sherly definitely opened the door that had been locked for so many months.
Thus, deep conversations began to develop, from dusk to dawn, wrapped in a scent of shared themes and mutual learning. Many times, Sherlock found himself resisting the grip of the sedative's crushing lust, until William leaned toward him, kissed his forehead, and asked him to sleep. He assured him that he wouldn't leave, that he would be there when he woke up. And he did so to the letter, to the point of starting to let his guard down a bit. He had dark circles under his eyes all the time, a backache that became his closest friend on unhappy nights that kept him from sleeping, and that constant grip on his temples that he tried to distract with a few ibuprofen tablets, cups of bitter tea, or mint tea infusions. He didn't know he'd been nursing a bodily fatigue, reducing his bones to ashes when he was suddenly overcome by drowsiness, as if an invisible force had nullified his will to stay awake at the kitchen table, almost like a faint that alerted the servants. They frantically called the house doctor and carried him between two men who were part of the security detail.
Sherlock had heard the screams while engaged in a subtle conversation with Mycroft, mentioning that his act of heroism had boosted his popularity, and that many of the groups supporting his marriage had now gained even more traction. He brandished the clichés that a contrary sexuality wasn't an affront to obsolete scriptures, written by fictitious men, an invention of the Church itself for its own convenience and its desire to gain newfound power, since even religion itself had murdered the Messiah.
He forced himself to get up, despite Mycroft's intervention, using his iron support to help him go to the source of the scandal, his heart beating to the tune of a bad omen, when he saw William fainting in bed. Despite the imperturbability with which his expression had been dressed for so many years, he couldn't stop his heart from sinking. It was total chaos, and Mycroft thanked the universe for prompting him to visit them that afternoon, because no authority could tell the terrified little ants what to do. He knew sending Sherlock to his room was a waste of effort, but he demanded he sit in a chair and let the doctor’s work.
The diagnosis was simple and didn't require a thorough clinical examination.
"It's fatigue. From the way they say he fell asleep; it could be a sign of vasovagal syncope or a symptom of narcolepsy. He needs some tests. In any case, this phenomenon suggests cataplexy associated with attacks of irresistible drowsiness, indicating sleep paralysis in its most insidious form. Observation and rest are recommended."
Before deciding or thinking anything else, Mycroft grabbed his cell phone, and Sherlock watched him leave the room. He assumed they couldn't decide anything until His Royal Majesty Albert granted the honor of authorization. While William could now use the Holmes name, any decision in an unconscious state had to be discussed with his family. After the quick call, Albert had said to just let William rest and that he would send someone to check on his little brother's condition.
Mycroft's order was for William to be relieved of caring for Sherlock for a week, and his brother supported that decision.
When the anxiety eased, he left the curtains of the Prince Consort's room closed, changed his clothes, and wrapped himself properly. Sherlock remained by his side, monitoring his condition. He was only there for a couple of hours until the doctor asked him to go to his room and rest.
With a sad expression, he removed his silver ring, which had small skulls carved into it, and placed it on William's finger as a symbol of his presence. He stood up with his brother's help, bending down with willpower to place a kiss on his forehead.
And so he returned to his room, unaware that William would wake up three hours later. He was in the presence of the doctor who had briefed him on His Royal Majesty's order. His face revealed no decipherable expression, but he smiled at the doctor and at His Royal Majesty as well.
"I appreciate the concern, but it's not unnecessary. It's just a minor ailment I've suffered since childhood," he soothed. "There was no need to call my brother."
"Your safety is also our priority," Mycroft replied, calmly sipping his cup of milky tea. "Sherly is better, so there's no need..."
"You can't forbid me from seeing you," William interrupted. "I don't want to abuse an authority that doesn't concern me; however, I don't want to have to remind you that I come first before you." He held up his wedding ring, which also featured the skull ring he'd noticed at that moment, unable to contain his sweet smile at the knowledge that Sherlock had been in his room. He cleared his throat slightly and continued, "You know that."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and William gave him a conciliatory smile.
"Please excuse your worries for me; our priority is Sherly. I'm not going to leave his side. As soon as you leave this house, because you can't be here all the time, I'll go to his room. After him, I rule this house, so no one can ask me otherwise, Your Majesty."
He hadn't finished saying that when a chuckle was heard at the door. Sherlock's hunched figure appeared, using crutches, and one of the nurses stood behind him, apologizing to Mycroft for not being able to contain him.
"I told you, brother, you weren't going to be able to stop him."
Upon seeing him, William's eyes lit up with an amber glow that no one noticed. He was about to get up, but Sherlock stopped him, also approaching the bed.
"Don't get up, I'm fine."
"Sherly, what are you doing out of bed?" William scolded subtly. He moved a little off the bed to give him more space. "Come, sit here next to me."
Mycroft gave a faint smile after sighing.
"You two are a perfect match." He stood up, straightening his suit slightly. He decided to play a little game, giving them no escape. "If you care so much for each other, I've heard you don't sleep together. So what lie are you trying to present to me?"
"Who says we don't?" Sherlock asked, taking William's hand.
Evidently informed by their reports, Mycroft didn't believe them.
"And since when?"
This time, it was William who answered, interlacing his fingers with Sherlock's, looking down at him, and raising his free hand to caress his cheek.
"Starting today."