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William scantily remembers being stories about gods falling in love with mortals.
It was 460 BC.
He and Louis used to race each other to bed in order to listen to their mother’s stories. They were exciting tales about valiant heroes, omnipotent deities and grisly monsters. There was a story he would ask his mother to tell him over and over.
Eos and Tithonus.
Eos was the goddess of dawn, an immortal who fell for Tithonus, the king of Troy, a human. They fled to Ethiopia to elope. Soon, Eos grew aware of her husband’s lifespan - her fate to outlive her lover. She begged Zeus to grant Tithonus eternal life. The god agreed.
Although, Eos would realise that Tithonus, like all mortals, would age. His skin creased and wrinkled, and his form grew haggard. Eos would watch as her love succumbed to time and wither away, turning into the empty husk of the radiant young man he once was.
Unable to accept the truth, Eos ran away and fell in love with other mortals, other gods. Tithonus was a dead man alive, a shadow wandering the living realm, each day remembering that he accepted the gift of immortality. He’s ashamed of his choice. He begged and begged to return to the natural cycle of life.
At last, Eos could take it no more. She transformed her lover into a cicada. She watched her partner’s arms turned into wings. The shrill hums of the cicada echoed through sleepless nights and travelled into the dawn, a constant reminder to the goddess.
There was a sense of romanticism - a cliche tale about star-crossed lovers.
Love made people reckless. It made Eos wish for Tithonus’s immortality, and made Tithonus wished to stay by the goddess’ side.
It was a bittersweet story about two people who just weren’t meant to be.
It wasn’t until William saw grey streaks paint his own brother’s gold spun hair, while he remained the same; it wasn’t until he saw wrinkles carved into Louis’ skin, and he was unchanged, smooth and unblemished; it was then; he realises just how tragic the story Eos and Tithonus was.
“Liam.”
His voice cuts through the hazy air. It’s loud, bright, piercing through the white noise. William looks up from the book cradled in his hands. Sitting under the thick willow tree, sunspots dance on his porcelain skin. William had always found solace under this willow tree. Through wintry nights and sunlit summers, the tree is sentry to landscape, it must have been planted long ago.
He’s a bit like the tree actually, he thinks.
It’s been two thousand years and he’s still breathing, blood still running in his veins.
“Holmes.”
It had become customary for the other to appear seemingly out of nowhere. He had known Sherlock since the dawn of time. The initial time they meet traced further and further back in time as Sherlock hopped between timelines until they all blended together.
Time had only ever been a concept to William. To others, time would continue ticking away mechanically like the hands on a clock, because the world stopped for no one. Yet, time slips through William’s hands as easily as water. It would glide past and last an eternity, William hates it.
Sherlock studies the blonde. The dark circles under his amber eyes were clear.
“What are you reading?” he asks.
“ Pride and Prejudice ,” William replies, giving a hollow chuckle. The smile hung on his face like a foreign expression. He traced the gold etched letters on the leather-bound book. “I remember when it was originally released. How long has it been?”
Sherlock frowns.
William seems to sense Sherlock’s unease. “I’m fine,” he reassures, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Still doubtful, Sherlock draws out a long puff from his cigarette. “How was your day?” He settles next to William.
William blinks, eyelashes fluttering slow and lethargic. “I… don’t remember much.”
“Not one thing?”
“Well…, after class, there was a student who accidentally spilt coffee on me. I had to go back home to put my clothes in the wash.”
Somewhere along lines, William had taught at a university again. He teaches some form of Maths he had invented decades ago. However, he did so under aliases. It would be suspicious to have a William James Moriarty appear every few years, he supposes.
But Liam . Liam was a name that always stuck with him.
“Anything else?”
“I got a cup of tea at a nearby cafe. It was like the earl grey I drank back then in London.”
Sherlock beams, wagging his eyebrow. “I can bring you some the next time we meet.”
The next time.
Whatever timeline William is in - past, present, future, Sherlock will be there to catch him up to speed. Strangely, they were two sides of the same coin.
“That… would be good. Thank you.”
It is 1887 and William’s in Paris, France.
Vehement rays of sunlight shine through the dark low hanging clouds, illuminating the city after the light shower. With a cane in his hands and a hat on his head, William breathes in, lungs taking in the sweet earthy scent of rainfall.
“Has it been raining?” An entertained voice asks from his side. William already recognizes it, the scent of the last cigarette so synonymously associated with a certain someone. A smile couldn’t help but tug on the corner of his mouth.
“The rain stopped just a minute ago.”
Sherlock scoffs. “I must have been lucky then.”
“I suppose so.”
“The Eiffel Tower is being constructed about now, no?” The raven-haired man asks again. William knows Sherlock is only saying this as a way of conversation. He nods.
“When it’s done, I can’t wait for you to see it.” Sherlock’s lip quirks up, a crooked smile on his face. “I’ll be there expecting.”
“Waiting for me in the city of love, Holmes? How romantic,” William muses.
“Meet me in Paris the day it finishes. Do you think you’ll remember it?”
“Always.”
It is 50 BC and William is in the library of Alexandria.
The library was a haven for beautiful poetic expressions, pushing philosophical boundaries. It was perfect for a man hungry for a constant search for new knowledge.
“You should probably finish whatever you plan on reading in this library. It’s not—”
“Caesar’s going to burn it down?” William replies, closing up the book in his hands. He meets the dark sapphire eyes. He sees the usual smug surety of the other man dissipate.
A siege to set Ptolemy XIV’s ships on fire. A blaze that spread into the city, erasing all traces of the wonderful knowledge.
Sherlock widens his eyes, slack-jawed at William’s calibre of deduction. “Are you going to save the library?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t think it would be my place to alter history. I want things as they are,” William continues, “I want to see your future.”
Sherlock stares at him. A shocked expression shifting into wonder.
“I see.”
He turns to leave, his form flickering in and out, warped by space-time and everything in between. His words are an undertone of a secret reserved alone for William.
“Promise to stay safe for me, Liam.”
It’s been two years since the construction of the Eiffel Tower.
It’s 1889 and the wrought-iron lattice tower stands, reaching for the skies on the Champ de Mars in Paris. In William’s time, civilians were awestruck at the tower’s monumental height, praising the architect’s intelligence and the genius of his design. From Sherlock’s time, there had long been skyscrapers that surpassed the Eiffel Tower’s height.
It didn’t stop the stutter in his heart when William stared at the craft like it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.
“Studying the tower, mathematician?”
Giving an ever-so-gentle smile, William says, “You’ve caught me, detective.”
“Care to share your discoveries?”
William launches in a speech about the mathematical beauty of the tower - the elegance of equations paired with the delicate craftsmanship. They say passion creates charisma and Sherlock can already feel himself falling deep. Numbers and details skip over his head as he’s utterly enamoured by the other man’s enthusiasm for the subject.
Finally, William comes to a stop. “Is it still here? From where you are?”
“The Eiffel Tower? As far as I’m aware, it is. They’ve made restaurants and museums out of it too.”
“Bring me there when the time comes?” William chides.
Sherlocks laughs, loud and unrestrained, doubling over. The grin that resides after is painfully obvious, just like everything else about him.
“Look who’s asking to meet me in the city of romance now?” Sherlock mimics.
For a moment, Sherlock looks at William and sees his mouth dropping open slightly, noting his rounded eyes and raised brows. William sighs in affectionate exasperation.
Without missing a beat, William meets Sherlock where he is.
“Do you think you’ll remember it?”
“Only for you, Liam.”
Then William laughs, a real authentic laugh, and Sherlock couldn’t hear anything except the thundering heartbeat echoing in his ears.
He thinks he will do anything it means he could make William happy like that again.
The 19th century is ending and Sherlock finds William in London.
He finds the professor in the confines of his cosy home, sleepy golden rays of sunshine filtering through the lace curtains and a stack of papers on his desk. He holds a fountain pen gracefully between his fingers, writing loopy cursive letters. Sherlock can see the weariness settling on William’s features.
“You should take a break.”
William shakes his head, apologetic. “I’m afraid I have to finish this tonight.”
“Can’t spare one second?”
“Is there something you need to do?” William raises an eyebrow.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you to dance with me,” Sherlock tries, the playful glint clear in his voice.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Did you travel all the way just a get a dance?” William answers, a quirk on his lips, putting down the pen. He crosses his arms together as he leads back on his chair. “I must say, I’m flattered.”
“Of course. You’re all the reason I need.”
“You know how to dance, Holmes?”
Sherlock snorts at that, a brilliant smile unwavering on his face. “We don’t have balls where I’m from. So I’ve time travelled my way into my fair share. Naturally, I know how to dance. ”
His comment causes William to roll his eyes half-heartedly. The grin plastered on his face only grows bigger as William leaves his seat, muttering something along the lines of You’re ridiculous . The blonde stops when he closes enough to Sherlock that the other’s breath hitches as those scarlet eyes pin down his gaze, pale eyelashes casting shadows onto paler skin.
“The offer is tempting and I can envision myself giving in. So what do you say?” William holds out his hand.
Sherlock takes it, his hand sliding into William’s palm.
He lets William put his hand on his shoulder. His own hand on the small of William’s back.
“Ready?”
A hum is solely what Sherlock needs before he takes his first step. He guides them. They dance light, their steps airy like they’re moving on clouds. The music merely exists in their imagination but it was more than enough, William couldn’t help the giggle slipping past his lips when Sherlock loses balance and almost trips on his own foot.
For the first time in a long time, William feels awfully happy. When you live for more than a millennium, things become dull, uninteresting. Yet, the sheepish grin Sherlock gives him after he regains his footing makes his stomach fizz with childish glee, bubbles slipping from his throat into his mouth. It was incredible, akin to the euphoria of experiencing something new.
William suppresses a gasp as Sherlock moves his hand to his upper back. A confident smirk spreads on his features. One William is oh-very familiar with, one where Sherlock is practically asking for a challenge. It is narcissistic; it is obnoxious; it is a smile fit for the dark-haired man’s bloated ego. The arrogant crooked quirk of his grin was distinctly Sherlock, and it never fails to bring one to William’s lips too.
Sherlock dips William low, strong arms supporting his back. Sherlock chuckles, certainty never once faltering as he tightens his grip, pulling William close again. So close such that William wonders if Sherlock could feel his pounding heart threatening to escape. Sherlock caresses his cheek like he is made of glass, ready to crack and fracture into a million pieces.
“Liam, I’m in love with you,” Sherlock says breathlessly, “think I have been for a long time.”
“I know.”
William wants to say it back. He wants to say it back, yet the words cannot form themselves. He wants to because he has been in love with Sherlock for longer. Right from the first time Sherlock introduces himself, from the starting second Sherlock greets him with a cock-sure grin on his face and a cigarette between his fingers. He had been in love for a millennia.
Instead, he finally closes the gap between them.
The story doesn’t mention how the realization comes for Eos. Was accepting the truth gradual like the gentle lolling of ripples on a beach? Or does it come thundering down like a furious downpour when you realise it’s too late?
William pulls back. Crimson meets cerulean.
And he realizes.
The moment understanding for William was the violent tides and angry swells of the ocean. It comes crashing down, dragging him deeper and deeper into the depths of the sea. By the time he discerns the truth, truly takes it in and lets the bitter cold acceptance settle in his soul, he is already drowning.
“You should leave,” William says bluntly.
He watches as hurt washes over the other’s features. Barbed wires seem to crawl up William’s throat. “I’m sor—”
“Don’t. It’s not you, I—,” William attempts, cursing himself as his voice cracks. “Everyone’s going to leave at some point. People die. They do all the time and I’m always going to be here.”
“What about me?”
“You don’t understand what it’s like.”
“I don’t know what it's like? Half the time I don’t even know what’s right and wrong! My memory, I don’t-, there are gaps in them! I can barely remember my original timeline!”
“ Why? Why then do you time travel? ” William wants to ask despite knowing the answer.
You’re all the reason I need.
“You don’t understand, Holmes. Everyone dies, they go, they don’t live forever!” He tries to keep his voice steady, but can’t stop the harshness seeping through the emotionless mask. “They’re not like me.”
“I’ll be here for you then,” Sherlock says faintly. His voice steels into determination, his eyes coated with sickly tenderness as he meets William’s gaze. “Liam, I’ll be there every time you set yourself on fire, I’ll be there to catch you. I’m not leaving.”
“ Sherlock , you’re going to die eventually,” William hisses. He takes a step back. He’s desperate to get Sherlock away, spare himself the heartache. “Humans are liars. No one really keeps their promise forever. You may travel time however far and however back you want, but you’ll still grow old.”
Where there was an ending to everyone’s story, there was none for William.
“Let me prove you wrong.”
“Leave,” William chokes out, looking down to avert Sherlock’s gaze. “Don’t make this any more difficult for me, please. ”
When he lifts his head, Sherlock is no longer there. What remains is the faint scent of tobacco hanging in the air, the hushed crackling of firewood in the background, and how it felt to have Sherlock’s lips on his.
It’s 2018 and William is teaching at Oxford University. He’s in front of a group of frustrated and clearly sleep-deprived university students as he explains the complex mathematic theorems projected onto the screen.
It’s 2018 and Sherlock is in the prestigious university again despite graduating with his degree in Chemistry just a few years back. He strolls the familiar halls, tracing the steps he once left. Ending up at the doors of a lecture hall in the mathematical institute, he hears the telltale words of class dismissed , followed by students trickling out the classroom.
A glance from beyond the doorframe. Champagne blond hair, a maroon sweater and leather shoes.
“Liam?”
The man looks over from the student he is talking to. And surely enough, piercing red eyes meets him.
“Sherlock.”
Like a simultaneous equation - two endless lines on a given plane meeting, intersecting - Sherlock finds William in his own timeline.
Sherlock offers to take William to lunch after that. William brings him to the cafe he one time mentioned the earl grey of.
“Do you believe in fate, Liam?”
Putting his teacup down, he meets Sherlock with an incredulous look. “Holmes, I’m a math professor,” he reminds Sherlock, “So as a matter of fact, no, I do not believe in fate. However, I do know of another way we can predict the future. Have you by any chance heard of the scientist Pierre Laplace?”
“Oh?”
“Laplace stated that if someone were to know the precise place and speed of every atom in the universe, said someone could also predict the exact state of the universe at any point in time,” William explains, fidgeting with the string of the teabag.
“So do you think everything that has happened up to this point could hypothetically be foretold?” Sherlock asks, curious about William’s answer.
“Perhaps,” William laments, “But some might say it takes away the excitement of life when you know what happens every second coming.”
“Yeah,” Sherlock agrees, then stops. He’s thinking, William remarks; the cogs in his head clicking, turning behind those blue eyes. “Then would you be surprised at what I’m going to say if you knew what was coming?”
“That depends what it is.”
Sherlock leans closer, taking William’s hands in his calloused ones. “Stay, Liam. Stay right here in London with me.”
William may have liked to be one step ahead of things at all times, even when Sherlock was the one who lived in the future. He used to loathe the unpredictable because it left room for error; it made him feel out of control.
Now, he’s in Sherlock’s present, there’s no need for him to catch William up to speed anymore.
Maybe. Just maybe.
He can learn to live in the present.
“Okay,” William says quietly.
To Sherlock, the soft promise rings loudest in the noisy cafe.
The next morning comes as the sizzling of oil on pans and the pleasant scent of omelettes cooking. In the gentle white gold light illuminating the unlit bedroom, William groggily drags himself to the bathroom.
Washing his face to rid the remaining traces of sleep, William stands and stares at himself in the mirror.
In that reflection, there is a single strip of white. It is stark against his wheat blond hair.
“ I’m ageing. ”
It’s 2019 and William’s in the Eiffel Tower.
Close up, he could see the webs of iron crisscrossed together as they extended up the tower.
“Liam?”
William looks up.
“Do you believe in alternate universes or different timelines?” Sherlocks says, putting down his fork. “Do you think we would still meet… if things were different?”
William smiles. “I think we would have. I’m sure I still would have fallen in love with you.”
On Sherlock’s hand, where there was a memento mori ring, next to it now there’s a gold band.
“I love you too, Liam.”
William hadn’t listened to stories in a long time, but he is sure this is his favourite one.