Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

William’s head was empty for the first time.

He could have been thinking about gravitational acceleration and survival probability, but it didn’t matter how many milliseconds he had left to exist. They would be spent in Sherlock’s arms, and he was content with whatever happened next.

Then a clap, and the whole world was as dark and numb as his mind.

The position of Sherlock’s arms around his head protected him from an instant death, but he could feel bones snapping as the impact of the water tore him apart.

But he was alive. And from the tight and unyielding grip, he could surmise that Sherlock was, too.

The current swept them under. William came close to giving up any hope that they’d ever breathe air again before it spit them out into the deafening spray of the waves.

“For a genius you really are an idiot!”

Sherlock felt it prudent to waste his valuable breath and energy on shouting that at him despite the fact that they remained in the process of what most people would call drowning.

But Sherlock was treading water, more or less. If he could flounder around in the choppy water, his injuries must have been minor.

William clung to his shoulders. Otherwise, Sherlock would try to carry him. He’d rather sink than be a burden, but Sherlock did have him in a bind with this mutual destruction gambit of his.

“My leg is broken,” he said. His voice was lost in the crashing waves as the river pushed them relentlessly downstream.

His chest was searing in pain with each breath. They bobbed under and up again. He coughed water.

“I can’t swim the distance it would take to reach the shore.” Not to mention that the river’s flow was pushing them at a rate and trajectory that would make it almost impossible even for a champion swimmer.

“And? Do you think I would drop you and save myself?”

“I am merely stating a fact.”

Sherlock snorted water from his nose and spat. “I’ve got a plan! Just hold on, don’t get any funny ideas about sinking without me.”

William had never had a person threaten them with their own life, but it was effective. “I swear.”

Hearing those words seemed to give Sherlock a rush of motivation. William was certain if it weren’t so dark, he would see a ridiculous smirk on his face.

He swam with the debris fallen from the rafters above. William tried to float as much as he could to lessen the strain, but holding the air in his chest was agonizing. Broken ribs. At this point he could be dying slowly from internal bleeding, and there wasn’t much he or Sherlock could do about that.

A distant secondary concern was how if they were spotted floating in the river, William would be taken and most certainly executed. That was not so important to him, but it would prompt Sherlock into a series of foolish actions that may end up with him accused of conspiracy. He couldn’t have that.

Sherlock grabbed onto a plank of wood that had enough buoyancy to float even with them in tow. It would also hide them from view in one go. A good plan.

Even with that, they choked for air and struggled to stay alive against the river.

***

Sherlock was caught between the pure ecstatic disbelief that they’d actually survived and the inevitability of what would come next.

With the aid of the wooden piece, he could hold Liam for hours, likely. The problem was the cold. It was not freezing, but far enough below a normal body temperature to cause hypothermia after enough time. Sherlock wasn’t the mathematician here, but he surmised they’d last 2 hours at best, and that would barely take them ten miles. That meant the outskirts of the city, but still within search radius.

A new puzzle presented itself: how to protect the most wanted man in London. How could they get out of the river without being spotted?

A dark place is what they needed.

The underneath of a bridge would be too obvious, too well traveled. He had to wait until they came to a spot where the edge of the water was lined with thick trees.

Liam’s grip began to slack. Sherlock still had no idea to what extent he had been injured.

There was an embankment with tall grass. It would have to do.

“It’s far enough,” he said, and discarded the makeshift wooden buoy.

From there he swam with Liam in tow until his feet touched ground.

The grass was enough to hide in, as long as they stayed down. In the distance, city lights were flickering.

“It’s not,” Liam mumbled, shivering and stuttering in the oncoming hypothermia.

Sherlock slipped and slid in the heavy mud as he dragged Liam up. “I know it’s not.”

They were plastered in dirt, stinking of earth. Liam’s clothes snagged on an exposed root and tore as Sherlock dragged him free. They both collapsed.

“Are you sure—“ To hear Liam struggle to jab at him in spite of everything hurt more than everything he had endured so far. “Sure... you aren’t trying to kill me... after all?”

“At least you’re healthy enough to sass me,” he laughed, coughing up river water and mud, then he began the slow crawl once again.

After heaving Liam’s battered body all the way up to where the ground was firm, Sherlock let himself sit if only for a brief rest. Liam slouched against his shoulder, too broken and exhausted to even hold his head up. His foot wasn’t quite aligned with his knee.

Now that the extreme about-to-die feeling had died down to a more general sense of danger, Sherlock could process what had happened and what it meant. “So, professor, can you calculate the odds we just beat?”

Liam responded in the most close-to-dead tone. “You wouldn’t be able to follow it.”

“Sounds impressive.” Sherlock groaned as he pushed himself off the ground, hauling Liam by the arm. He was freezing and Liam felt even colder. “We’ve got to get to dry ground somehow or other, or we’ll both die.”

Liam began to laugh, but stopped and coughed.

“Broke your ribs too, huh? Any other injuries you want to share with me?”

“I doubt I could hide it from you,” he said, punctuated in a gasp for air. Sherlock’s heart jumped at the fear he might have punctured a lung, but Liam quickly recovered and continued on. “Broken leg, fibula I think. Maybe the tibia too.”

“Those two do tend to go together.”

“They do.”

“What else?”

“Broken ribs. Two at least. Dislocated shoulder on this side.”

Sherlock pushed with each step through the sticky marsh. “And here I am, relatively unharmed.”

“Do you honestly believe—“ he stopped for breath.

“Do I honestly believe that this genius mathematician could read the slope of a wave and angle himself to take the brunt of a fall? I do.”

“You think... too much of me.”

“Maybe so, but here we are.”

***

The embankment led to a few acres of empty land. The trees were stumped, but tall grasses and weeds had grown up in their place.

William’s mind was already back to it’s constant activity, observing and speculating. An empty lot of this size this close to London? The proprietor must have run into a hangup. If it were a matter of money, someone else would have swept in and bought the land.

This information seemed useless for the time being, but he was thankful for the familiar buzz of thoughts in his head that deafened turbulent emotions.

He pushed along with his one good leg in attempts to support his weight. Sherlock was heaving, his strength was waning fast. He paused for rest. Walk, rest, walk rest. So much effort to go a few steps at a time.

They had to make it far enough that a canvassing of the riverside wouldn’t find them.

The moon had graced them with a bit of light, just a halo of silver around the edge of their surroundings.

“Ah!” Sherlock shouted in the dark. “I see something.”

In the distance, William could make out the jagged shapes of man made structures. This part of the city was slowly overcoming the challenge of the soft earth and encroaching toward the river.

“It’s too far. You won’t make it there with me.”

“Not the city. There’s an outcropping.”

His vision was blurry. He could see the moon’s glow glinting against a patch of rock. A spot raised above the mud and surrounded by tall grass.

“Careful now.” Sherlock lifted him as tenderly as one might carry a bride across a threshold, and laid him down across the smoothest area.

Without taking a beat to rest, Sherlock loomed over William and began to unbutton what was left of his jacket.

“What—“

“Cold clothes will kill you faster than bare skin. Besides, I need to check the severity of your injuries.”

William laid there in indignation as he permitted Sherlock’s examination. Perhaps the punishment for his crimes would be endless pain and humiliation at the hands of this man rather than death.

Sherlock’s hands were cold, and they moved with purely clinical intent across his skin. Not like when he grabbed his hand, or when he enveloped him in his arms. His fingers probed in the ridges of his chest.

“They’re only cracked,” he said, and sighed in relief. “Try to breathe more from your belly and you should be okay.”

He went on to look at William’s leg. Because of how it was twisted, he hadn’t attempted to remove the pants. At first William thought of that as a relief, but then Sherlock began feeling put his bones through the cloth, prodding him all over.

“Looks bad. You’re damn lucky your leg bones haven’t broken the skin.”

“Did you learn this medical expertise from your Doctor Watson?”

“Well, sort of. I’ve broken a bone or two in my time. He was there for a few of them.”

“I see.”

“If I had a splint I could try to set it, but even with that, my medical abilities are limited to, well, watching John.”

“I will live,” he said. “Or, rather, my leg won’t be the thing that kills me.”

“You’ll die from exposure much more quickly, yes. And this slab of dirt, it looks like it could be submerged as soon as the water level changes.”

“That will only happen if it rains.”

“And when does it rain? We’re only in London, after all.”

William laughed, which he then regretted. His chest burned.

They both knew the conclusion here.

“You have to go ahead of me.”

To find a place to hide, food, clean water. Supplies for William’s injuries. None of that could be done while dragging William. Sherlock could disguise his own identity with some effort, but William’s face had been in the last day’s newspaper.

“If they comb the riverside, they’ll find you.” The way he said that was almost spiteful, like he couldn’t abide the thought of someone else catching him. William suppressed the urge to laugh again.

“They won’t comb this far for men who are dead.”

He knew that was not a certainty.

“I don’t like it.”

Sherlock moved to sit beside him. “I’ll stay with you until dawn. It should come soon. No use wandering in the dark.”

He took William’s hand, and as they remained linked, his touch began to feel warm again.

“I think I may sleep until then, if it is permissible.”

“Sure. Save your strength. It wouldn’t make sense to die at this point.”

Sherlock continued to say more, but William had already fallen asleep hand in hand.

***

“Now how will I get my hand back?”

Liam’s grip on him was tight for a moment, but as he fell deeper into sleep, it relaxed and he was released.

Sherlock peeled off wet jacket and shirt and set them where they’d be most likely to dry. A slim likelihood as it was.

He laid down and draped his arm carefully over Liam. It was fortunate the weather had been mild, but mild for London was still weather to die in if you couldn’t get dry. At least with his body, he could offer some warmth.

Liam slept like a log, even in spite of the pain he must be in. That was an amusing detail he hadn’t yet known about Liam, and fortunate too. If he knew about this, he’d probably rather die.

When the sun rose, the sky was still as clear as it had been when the moon came out the night before, and that gave him some hope that maybe he’d win this battle for Liam’s life against man and nature alike.

The sun was shining and a gentle breeze made the grass sway, as if this could have all been a camping excursion, a vacation by the riverside.

Liam was sleeping just as deeply as before. That blond hair and pale skin that had always been so perfectly kept were caked in mud.

He did his best to clear the matted hair and grit from his face, but his own hands were just as dirty.

Sherlock knew that a death wish wasn’t so easily cured. Once his own safety was ensured, Liam would have less motivation to comply with the idea of life ongoing. But for now, at least when he was sleeping, it didn’t seem that those worries troubled him.

He sat up and threw on his shirt. Less damp, not dry.

Liam was roused by the removal of Sherlock’s body from his side, even though nudging him wouldn’t have woken him before.

“I’m going,” Sherlock said, buttoning his shirt out of habit, though it made little difference. “Town’s only a few miles. The sun should warm this rock up a bit by midday.”

Liam knew better than to try to move. He looked up at the sky with a listless expression. It took a moment for Sherlock to realize that he was noticing the weather patterns. “It won’t rain. I should survive until night falls. Although, this situation will make things easier for search parties as well.”

“Mixed blessing.” Sherlock took his coat and laid it out. “Once that dries, put it on along with yours. More layers the better.”

Liam smiled, but it was hiding a bitter melancholy that Sherlock could not miss. A mysterious expression. All washed up like a sewer rat, and his eyes were still as striking.

“Thank you.”

“You can thank me by staying alive until I come back.”

Chapter Text

The most frustrating part of all of it was that he could have walked a few miles in any direction and been at some podunk town inn, probably eating up ham and potatoes. In a day’s time he could be back on Baker Street, and John could fix Liam himself. The circumstances of their situation made London as far away as the other side of the world.

The ground was mush underneath his feet in spite of the sunny sky. The entire field had the smell of decaying plant matter. Boggy. He had to be careful with each step or he’d fall, which made a short walk into a long one.

Hadn’t he been here one time? It looked like any number of places where bodies would end up.

He’d been walking over a half hour when he finally came to the edge of the town where an old shack stuck up from the grass. It was old enough for moss to grow all over, but the holes in its walls had been patched up recently.

Sherlock smelled fire and looked around for its source. He spotted smoke trailing into the sky from the other side of the little house, and went to investigate.

There was an elderly man standing over a fire pit. He was trying to lift a pot onto an old rusty prop bar.

“Can I give you a hand?”

The man looked up and squinted his eyes. “Who’s there?” Functionally blind, Sherlock assumed. Perhaps a stroke of luck for him.

He made sure to speak with a rustic accent. “Sorry to startle you. Name’s John. I’ve been walking a few days with not much to eat.”

“Well I’ve got nothin son, can’t you see?”

Sherlock did note the pot’s contents, murky water. He was boiling it to try and separate the gunk and stave off any source of disease.

“Sorry, I’m lost is all. On my way to London hoping to find some work along the way.”

The man groaned and gave in. “My son is working at the mill in town. See if they need a hand, they’ll feed you a square meal for a day’s work.”

The only pay he’d get, Sherlock assumed. He was starving and wouldn’t turn down a meal, but Liam wouldn’t last long enough for him to work a day for it.

“Other than that,” the man went on. “The Lady of this land was looking for some hands, but who knows what for.” He scoffed. “Can’t do shit with nothing but mud.”

This patch of land didn’t seem like a wise investment for a noble.

If the town was close and a noble was hiring migrant workers, he might have some chance to blend in. Nobody would suspect he was a famous detective in this condition. Mud-slicked clothes and matted hair.

The old man began struggling with the pot again. “You got water at least?” Sherlock asked. “I’ll boil it up for you if you can spare a bit.”

“Water’s about all I got.” He sat down on stone that served as a chair by the fire and kicked back to let Sherlock do the heavy lifting.

***

With nothing but a cup of water in his belly, he continued on. The town was a shanty in the shadow of London. Shoddily built structures with tents and lean-tos in every crevice.

He kept to shadowy corners so as not to be spotted and recognized, but he doubted many of these folks read the papers.

There was no squeezing water from a stone. These people had little of their own, much less enough to sell or to share. He had to keep moving if he intended to find anything of use, but every step took him farther from Liam.

Past the shanty town, he found a pebbled road. Walking in the direction of the buildings on the horizon, he spotted the mill that the old man had told him about. It was worth a look.

Half way there, a man in a nice coat intercepted him. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said. “You need work?”

So this was the slave driver, or one of his cronies. “Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got someone waiting for me.”

“Got you a little wife?” The man chuckled. “You can bring her too, as long as she can sew.”

What an idea. Liam could pass for a woman in the right clothes, and then no one would suspect him of being William James Moriarty. They could share living quarters without question that way, too. He just had to get Liam back to health and find the right disguise—

As he realized what a stupid idea that was, he began to worry about the state of his mind.

“What if I fix your mill?”

The proprietor looked at him in askance. “What do you mean, fix it?”

Sherlock squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun to study the mill’s giant wheels. He wasn’t a mathematician like Liam by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew enough to be dangerous.

“A few of your cogs must be in ill repair, right?”

The man’s facade of affability turned to suspicion. “How’d you figure that?”

“I don’t have time to work for food, but if you’re willing to pay, I’ll have your production up by twenty-five percent before sundown.”

The exact percentage was complete bullshitting, but he doubted anyone but Liam would know the difference.

***

William laid on his back and watched the sun slowly cross the sky. The pain in his body was agonizing, but he wanted to feel it. He wanted to understand what he’d wrought upon himself.

When the sun was directly above, he reached for Sherlock’s coat. It had dried except for a bit of damp mud stuck in the seams.

He wasn’t cold anymore, but he clutched the coat to his chest nonetheless. Even the plunge into the river hadn’t completely washed away the scent of tobacco that was so thoroughly imbued into the cloth.

The scent helped him ground himself to his surroundings for a little longer. There was always something to be done about a situation, and he was the person who could figure out what. But now, his thoughts flitted away like birds as he tried to grasp at them.

The sky was swirling. Sleep beckoned again, but he knew that this time it wasn’t exhaustion. He was losing consciousness.

Rustling in the grass. Footfalls.

“Stinking mud,” he heard a man say. A second voice groaned in agreement.

William thought, he should call out to them. He could let himself be caught, and Sherlock could return home to a hero’s fanfare. He deserved that. Not a life on the run with a criminal.

He could hear Sherlock chastising him. No, he wouldn’t give himself up. But even as he resolved to pursue life with whatever was left in him, he was dragged back to the mindless purgatory of unconsciousness.

***

Sherlock packed a bag of everything he’d acquired. Foodstuffs, a water canteen, dry matches, a lamp and oil, a blanket tarred on one side to resist water, extra clothes (including cloaks), and enough medicine to at least manage Liam’s pain.

The one thing he lacked was a proper splint, but he could try to make one later. It was more important to get back to Liam before night fell.

They’d need to get the hell out of this town before anyone started to ask questions about a strange man who blew in covered in mud and optimized their mill, sold them a recipe for new age fertilizer, and showed them how to tie a kind of knot they didn’t know.

All the products of accidental discoveries in crime analysis, but at least they’d turned out useful for something.

He had bought himself new clothes as well, and a pair of boots that could stand up to the mud on his journey back.

The sky was already getting dark, but he would make better time, he was certain. He had the appropriate gear and a meal to energize him.

That was what he thought, but he had underestimated the pull of exhaustion. The nap he had lying beside Liam wasn’t nearly enough to recover from the past night’s struggles.

He hadn’t slept well before then, either. He had been awake for nights tracing Liam’s path on his crime board and poring over every word in his letter.

Liam.

The man he’d fished out of the river was like a broken husk of his friend. He was determined to meet the Liam who teased him on the train once again. The Liam who who loved puzzles and mathematical wonders. He had to.

That thought pushed him through the long walk back to the outcropping near the river.

By the time he made it there, night had fallen. But not for too long, he thought. He could apologize for being late. He could feed Liam warm soup from his canteen and build a fire for them to sleep by.

But, there was no Liam there. The grass swayed in the moonlight around the empty patch of rock where he had laid.

It had to be the wrong spot, right? He couldn’t have been too late. He couldn’t have lost Liam.

No. No. This was happening.

He dropped the heavy survival pack he’d been carrying all this way and pounded his fist into the ground. It took a focused effort not to scream. A scream would alert anyone who might still be nearby.

He studied the grass. It couldn’t have been the police. Those bobbies would have trampled the grass all around. There would be a hundred officers gathered around cheering that they’d caught William James Moriarty and patting each other on the back.

No, there were only a few broken stems here and there.

His hands shook as he dug into his pouch for the matches and oil, and lit his lamp. Upon looking closely through the grass, he could spot the footprints of two individuals. One’s steps were staggered as if carrying an awkward load.

A third party had taken him, not the police. There was a chance to get him back, if he could follow the tracks and figure out who the culprit was. The part of him that loved mysteries was piqued.

The promise of a puzzle gave him a second wind. He picked up his supplies and followed the trail of footprints left in the mud.

Chapter Text

William returned to the world slowly out of a deep sleep.

He knew he had a tendency to sleep like a dead man. He’d always considered it a trade off for the potential he was blessed with. Waking up groggy was no surprise. The thing so out of place was how good he felt.

Opiate drugs. Not necessarily a bad choice of painkiller, in his condition. But was the administration for his benefit, or to make him complacent?

As he forced his eyes open through the opium fog and observed his surroundings, a few things immediately became clear.

By the particular slant of the light in the windows, he presumed it was late morning. Nearly a full day had passed. Sherlock would be missing him by now, and he feared what the impulsive man might do to find him.

His own fate didn’t matter except for that.

Second. He was not in a hospital. There were no cuffs on his arms or legs. He was not in the custody of the law.

In fact, he was lying in a soft bed with silk sheets. As he lifted them to get a look at himself, he noticed that he been cleaned, and he was now wearing a white night gown.

His leg was set and wrapped in a cast, and one of high quality at that. Someone had hired a very expensive doctor.

The room was furnished with gold trim and classical paintings. This had to be a nobleman’s house.

There were flowers sitting in a vase beside his bed, white peonies in full bloom. They smelled like a woman’s perfume.

The decor and and everything about it had a feminine touch. The lady of the house had firm control over it. Who could that be? It narrowed the list, but not far enough.

The door opened. William wondered how well he could move now that his leg was cast, if he could walk. Perhaps with the aid of a crutch.

“You’re awake! Thank goodness.”

Through the door came a well dressed woman with blonde hair. She was middle-aged but still in her prime physically. William recognized her face.

“Dutchess Penieres,” he said. His voice was scratchy.

She bounced into the room in her fine dress and sat in a chair near the bed. There was a pitcher by the vase of flowers. She poured its contents into a cup. “Poor thing, have some water.”

He took it and drank, while keeping his eyes on this woman. She was a noble known for her extensive charities.

“Oh, Lord William,” she said, and reached out to tuck a piece of his hair behind his ear. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of all this nasty business. You’re safe here.”

“I thank you,” he said. He couldn’t imagine why she’d want to protect him, or why she was so affectionate, but if was advantageous for him, he would play along. “This place...”

“This is my summer manor,” she said. “Don’t you remember coming here in the summertime years ago? You and Albert would run around and play together when you were very small.”

She remembered the real William. It was not problematic if he could play the part.

“I am so sorry, my lady. I cannot recall.”

“Oh, it was such a long time ago.” She giggled behind her hand. “My, your hair is more golden colored than I remember. How wonderful. It’s almost like you could be my child.”

There were rumors that Lord Moriarty, Albert’s father, had been in a secret relationship with unwed women of high society. Lady Penieres was a widow who enjoyed full control over her deceased husband’s fortune and title too much to marry again. William could respect the delicate social game she played. She had never been on his hit list, but there was something strange about her.

But, again, if it suited his needs. He smiled warmly. “You’re much too young to be my mother.”

“Oh, stop that.” She blushed. Such a physical reaction would be difficult to fake. He’d only ever seen Bonde pull that one off.

His stomach rumbled. Lady Penieres stood up. “My, you should eat! I’ll have my girl bring you something warm.”

“Thank you, but—wait a moment, please!” He did his best to look vulnerable, pleading.

“Of course, dear. What can I do for you?”

“Why are you helping me?” He coughed. “I’ve been branded the Lord of Crime. If anyone finds me, you could be arrested.”

“I simply cannot believe that my sweet little William is such a terrible man,” she said. “Not only that, but I’ve heard that you helped people. Perhaps you helped them on the wrong side of the law, but what is the role of nobility but to help those less fortunate? No law of man should prohibit us from that. It must be the corrupt police at work!”

He wondered who she had heard these things from. Of course, there were a few. Burton and his wife. Lucian. The children of Baskerville. They had sworn never to share their secrets as part of their unwritten contracts, but perhaps they had made attempts to defend him once his name went public.

“So don’t worry,” she said, and smiled. “I will take care of you.”

***

The tracks on the mud led Sherlock to a dirt road that led in the direction of the shanty town, the same way he’d gone the day before. They ended there, and the imprint of a carriage’s wheels began.

Four wheels and two horses. There were not many who could afford such luxurious travel around here.

Liam certainly wasn’t taken by the police. That set in even more dread, as it would be quite understandable for nobles across England to have a grudge against him, and seek revenge in a personal way.

“How much bad luck can one guy rack up?” he wondered aloud. He’d have to walk all the way back to the town and hope carriages like this one were a rare find there.

***

A teenaged girl came to William’s room with a gilded tray holding a hot bowl of soup.

She was black-haired and wore a dress that was plain, but made of fine cloth. There was a scar on her face that reminded him of Louis with a pang of regret.

Louis must think I’m dead.

She placed the tray carefully across his lap. “My lord,” she said, in a soft tone. “Is there anything I might get for you?”

William hated to be uncouth, but he hadn’t eaten in days and was famished. He had already begun to shovel soup into his mouth before he could answer.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I am content for now,” he said. “Although, I would like to consult with the doctor who tended to me, if possible.”

“You want to know when you can walk again.”

She was no typical servant to speak so directly to him. “Yes.”

She sat down in the chair beside his bed. “You should rest for a few days. Then we will take walks with a crutch so that your body doesn’t atrophy. You should be able to walk again in two months.”

Very strange. She spoke with the confidence of an expert. “That is what this doctor said?” He played dumb. She had not introduced herself, and there must be a reason for that.

“Yes.”

“I see. Please thank him, if you can. He is a skilled physician.”

“I will.”

She sat quietly as he finished the soup. It took little time at all.

“It was good,” he said. “Please thank the cook as well, if you would.”

She took the tray from him. “I will.”

The strange girl left the room.

William closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He could not stay here for two months.

***

“Boy, are you not right in the head?”

Sherlock was greeted once again by the old man who boiled dirty water.

Sherlock was so very tired. “What gives you the impression I’m not?”

“This is the third time I’ve seen you walk back and forth through this plot of mud.”

“Maybe I am crazy.” He took another step and felt his body lurch. Not until I find Liam! He thought that, but his body wouldn’t obey the frantic voice in his mind. He slipped and fell.

The old man sighed and knelt to help him up.

By the time he made it to the shanty town once again, the atmosphere had changed. There weren’t any working ladies lounging around trying to land a John, and no unemployed men loitering around passing time.

Scotland Yard had to be near. Probably searching for him. He’d have liked to have been flattered they’d work their way this far off the beaten trail for his sake, but it was probably more so to confirm the death of William Moriarty. The closer to the city he went, the more likely he’d run into them.

“Hey.”

Sherlock didn’t flinch at the sound of that voice, since he’d noticed the other person shuffling through the same ally as him, and sensed his interest in him. He wasn’t a cop though, so he’d assumed he was just a drifter about to beg him for a coin.

He turned to study the source of the voice more closely, and found a young man. Teenaged, probably. Black hair pulled back in a tie.

“Yeah?”

“I can get you out of here,” he said. “Come on.”

Sherlock sighed. “What makes you think I need your services, huh?”

“Deductive reasoning. That’s your thing, right?”

Sherlock stopped the act and scowled. “What do you want?”

“Well to start off, everybody in town thinks I’m up to something since the yard showed up asking around for some famous detective, a guy yea tall with long black hair, so I’d like it personally if you got the hell out of here.”

“Heh, sorry.” It was kind of funny. The boy was his height and build with similar hair, but his face was all round and soft, not like his at all. “Could you cut it? The ponytail looks better on me, anyway.”

He wasn’t amused. “You’re hiding from them, and I don’t care to know why, but I can get you out and then I want you to do me a favor.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got some business in town.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you with the Dutchess?”

“The who now?”

They hushed themselves as a group of officers walked past the opening at the end of the alley.

The young man grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in the other direction. “At least hide, for God’s sake.”

Sherlock watched as he pushed on a piece of junk metal set in the makeshift wall, and it opened to a hidden passageway.

He didn’t have much of an alternative, and the idea of a secret underground tunnel was too interesting for someone with his intense curiosity to pass up.

***

That evening, the same girl brought a wheeled chair to William’s room.

“My lady would enjoy your company at dinner this evening,” she said. “The activity will be good for you.”

“You’re very helpful,” he said. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Marianne,” she said, and looked away. William wondered if it was a touch of shame, or a hint of bashfulness. “I am one of the lady’s adopted children.”

“And a skilled doctor?” He laughed softly at the way her eyes snapped up to him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“In that case, please allow me to continue caring for your injuries.”

“You’ve already dressed this leg expertly,” he said. “And, so as not to be rude, let me introduce myself properly. My name is—“

“William Moriarty.” She said it in a sharp tone, and he noticed the way she kept the side of her face that was scarred turned away from him.

“Yes.”

“You will need help to get up, don’t strain anything.”

She slipped an arm under him on the side opposite the injured shoulder and helped him out of bed.

He found by doing this that he did still have strength on his dominant side, enough to stand upright with only this young girl holding him steady.

After depositing him in the chair, she threw a blanket over his legs, presumably for his modesty. He was still wearing a gown.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll push you.”

“May I try it myself?”

“Your left arm is still healing, and it requires both.”

He sighed. “Very well, I leave it to you.”

***

Dinner was attended by quite a few young people, which William did not expect. The twelve seats at the table were filled with girls and boys of different ages.

He was put on edge immediately by so many people seeing his face and knowing that he was alive, but he had to swallow that and pretend to be relaxed.

There were nine all together, four girls and five boys, all the same age or younger than Marianne. They wore the same expensive and yet understated clothing.

“Good evening!” Lady Penieres’ voice chimed from the head of the table. She was wearing a different but equally elaborate dress as she had before. “I am so delighted you could make it to dinner, William.”

Quite informal. The children were quiet, waiting for dinner, smiling politely.

“Good evening,” he said in kind. “I feel I have so many introductions to make.”

Marianne wheeled him into the seat by the lady’s side, and she took the chair next down on his other side.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d be bashful.”

That, of course, was not the problem.

As the appetizers were served, she went down the table introducing each child and telling him their particular talent. This one paints, this one plays violin, etc.

She skipped Marianne, perhaps assuming they’d already been aquatinted.

“And don’t worry about all that nasty business,” she said. “All of us here are family. We keep each others’ secrets.”

She continued to spill pleasantries as if entertaining a court, while perfectly obedient children listened with perfectly polite smiles, responding only when spoken to.

Except for Marianne, who sulked and grit her teeth.

***

That evening, when Marianne assisted him in getting back to his room, he asked for her to wait.

“Would you keep me company a while?”

She looked at him with a vacant, almost tired expression. “If you wish.”

He smiled, knowing. “You can leave the door open, if you’re worried about your safety.”

“Have I a reason to be?”

“You? Probably not.” He chuckled. “I noticed a chess board in that cupboard, would you play me a game?”

“I should not presume to challenge with man with such a lineage and a reputation for genius as yourself.”

Her tone was dripping with sarcasm. He was glad to hear it. No more fake pleasantries. “I won’t tell anyone.”

She smiled, for the first time since they’d met. “You play white,” she said, and went to set up the board.

The game began. He studied her mannerisms and her expressions as she reacted to his opening move.

William tempted her into this game because it was an effective way to understand a person’s character, but he found himself playing defensively much sooner than he’d anticipated.

Of all the duchess’s “children” he had met that night, she was the only one who did not smile politely at nothing. She was quiet, but she would speak out of turn when she wanted to.

She was the only one who seemed stifled and miserable in this place.

In that way, he was reminded of Albert. But her game was too fierce to allow him a moment to think about him. If he’d been incarcerated. If he’d been killed.

Even though she had given him the advantage, she managed to make him call a draw.

Then in the next round she played white, and she obliterated him.

“What have you gleaned from this?” She asked. “You can’t honestly be playing me because you’re bored.”

“It’s true that I rarely find a good chess partner,” he said. His two brothers and Sherlock accounted for all who’d ever beaten him. “But it is true, I have learned a few things.”

“Which are?”

“First, you are not just well-trained in medicine, I suspect you’re a genius in many respects.”

“You may be correct.”

“Second, it isn’t only because of your gender that you haven’t gone off to make magnificent strides in this world—as regrettable as that is in and of itself. Even my classes wouldn’t admit women, I hate to say.”

“No, it isn’t only that.”

“I’d wager that you are confined to this place, along with the other children, and as of now, so am I.”

She gave a dark laugh at that. “You’re a bit old for adoption, but she doesn’t seem to mind.”

“In fact, she’d be only too happy if I were to take interest in you.”

She winced. “I don’t know anything about that.”

He folded his hands on his lap. “Don’t worry, my interest in you is purely out of curiosity. But, if it suits our mutual needs, let’s play along, Marianne.”

“Play along?”

“I have a wild card on the outside,” he said. The wildest of all cards, he thought with a chuckle. “I’m just waiting for the right hand to be dealt. So let’s play these roles, until that time comes.”

“Then I’ll retire for now.” She stood and put away the chess board. Then she waited at the door and looked back at him, as if considering.

“Is there something I should know?”

“Be careful,” she said. “My lady is not as vapid or slow witted as she pretends to be.”

In her words, behind her tone, there was an implication much darker than that. William didn’t know yet what this Dutchess was into, but it was something more than a matter of wedding off her eldest adoptee to a nobleman.

“I will take that to heart. Good night, then.”

She didn’t answer with a good night of her own, but nodded silently and shut the door behind her.

Chapter Text

The dark-haired youth led Sherlock through a network of tunnels and hidden paths. He was not surprised that such a bad luck town would have an underground, but it fascinated him to no end.

They ended up in a long enclosed channel that looked like it was sized for children. Both men had to crouch to squeeze through. On the other end, they were a few blocks away from where they had been.

The young man in front of him stopped when they reached a small building. It looked like a house, or more like a shack, but inside there was only empty space. No bed and no windows. A hideaway.

Sherlock invited himself to sit at the table, the only furniture in the place. The boy lit a lantern because the windowless room was dark. He remained standing.

“It’s a simple deal,” he said. “Help me free my sister from Dutchess Penieres, and I’ll help you with whatever’s got you stuck in this mud town. Then we can all get the hell out of here.”

“That doesn’t sound as simple as you say it,” Sherlock said. “For one, you don’t even know what it is I’m here for.”

“I’m resourceful. Whatever it is, I can help you.”

“But you need my help to free your own sister?” He sighed. “Well, I can’t trust that, but if we’re lucky, our goals might just overlap.”

“You are here on account of Dutchess Penieres,” he said. “I knew it! So come on!”

“Hold on, hold on.” This boy’s youth was showing and it was making Sherlock feel even older and more tired. “Let’s start with who you are.”

“My name is Matthew and I have a sister whose name is Marianne.”

“And you keep saying there’s a Dutchess here by the name of Penieres, and that’s whose got your sister?”

“More or less,” he said. “Lady Penieres is the land owner of this town. She has been trying to start new developments closer to the river, but the residents won’t vacate, and the ground is difficult to work with as it is.”

“Why is she so hung up on it? I know it’s riverside, but still.”

“She believes she can elevate the people here from toiling in the mud to living rich middle class lives, and she can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t her help.”

Out of touch nobles were all over, but there was a resentment in his tone that came off as personal. “And how does your sister figure in?”

“Lady Penieres is our adoptive mother,” he said. “She took us from the streets when we were both very small, although I can’t remember it very well. There were dozens of children she adopted in the same manner, all street urchins before they met her.”

Sherlock knew a story that started off so well would turn sour at some point. “Get to the point.”

“It isn’t that she was awful to us. We were well taken care of, and she did her best to protect us from the ire of everyone around us. We were safe there, but—but we—“

“But you weren’t allowed to ever leave,” Sherlock finished. “Right?”

The boy bit back the first words that came to him, and answered in a measured tone. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“How did you get out?”

“My sister got me out,” he said. “She’s older than me by a year, and she was always good at everything she did. Lady Penieres was so happy to have adopted her. But me, I’m just normal. I couldn’t play instruments or do math or paint, so I wasn’t valuable to her. She didn’t keep such a close watch on me. And my sister is so smart, she found a way out for me—and stayed behind.”

“Hey, kid. Do you have any cigarettes? I’m dying.”

“No, that stuff’s godawful.”

“Damn.”

“Are you listening to me at all?”

“I got the whole sob story,” he said. “You’re in luck, though. I think I know one more genius street urchin this woman’s keen on keeping locked up. Unless there’s anyone else in town who rides a carriage.”

“So... you’ll help me?”

“Can you hold your end of the deal? Can you get us out of town?”

“Depends on where you want to go,” he said.

“Out of this country. France, Spain, or even America. Just not here.”

“Huh. That’s a tall order, but it isn’t impossible.”

Even if the boy was bluffing and couldn’t keep that promise, he still needed to save Liam, and rescuing a girl along the way couldn’t be too hard.

“I’ll take the job.”

***

They decided to hold off any investigation until nightfall, so Sherlock took the time to rest.

When he laid down, it wasn’t the hard floor or his sore body that kept him awake. It was the thought of what might be happening to Liam. That he was resting while Liam was being held some place. The description of the duchess didn’t indicate that she would hurt Liam, but it didn’t ease his worries.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to function without sleep, but that worry wouldn’t let him.

It was lingering. He had been worried for Liam since he appeared in the dark that night and handed him a letter. Worried for Liam, but also for himself losing him.

He knew he’d be scolded by Liam, John, Miss Hudson, and everyone who gave a shit about him for it if they knew, but after an hour of tossing around, he broke into the bottle of painkiller he’d grabbed from the pharmacy for Liam.

Just a nip. Just enough to sleep. He didn’t want to be sluggish later.

It wasn’t very strong, but it worked. At long last, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

***

When he woke, he wasn’t refreshed like he’d slept in on a Sunday morning or anything, but he didn’t feel his whole body dragging when he moved anymore, and that was good enough for now. He could run, climb, or fight.

The duchess’s manor was separated from the town by a few miles of land. Not the dank and muddy ground, but nicely trimmed grass and sculpted trees. Even in the dark, it was hard to find cover. They approached through an orchard on the west side.

The best vantage point was from a hill with a patch of bushes. The manor itself was surrounded by a high brick wall. The top of the wall was lined with sharp iron fixtures that were just barely passing as decoration.

At the top of the hill, he could see little more than the roof of the manor beyond.

“So, that’s the problem,” Matt said. “If not for that wall, it would be easy to get away.”

“Lady’s really got her house set up like a prison,” Sherlock answered, and clicked his tongue. “So how did big sis get you out?”

“She plotted out the patterns of deliveries perfectly,” he said. “She showed me how to remove and hide just enough product so that nobody would notice the weight. I had to sit in a cramped box for hours, but it worked.”

“But she can’t accomplish a feat like that herself,” he said. “Because she’s being watched.”

“Yes. I was always little more than a servant at the manor. Only kept there because the lady adored my sister. As long as I was there, Marianne wouldn’t want to leave. But she knew I wanted to. I was miserable there. That day, she distracted the others by falling down and spraining her ankle. It wasn’t fake, either. She really hurt herself for me.”

Sherlock groaned. “How many people live here? How many servants?”

“There are ten special children, including Marianne. The less talented kids are made to serve, and most of them don’t mind it. Some stay even after they’ve grown up and they get to be cooks or maids. Last I knew, there were about six of them at this manor.”

“So, nine kids and some number of older kids and adults,” he said. “That’s not very many for this size of a manor.”

“And this is just her summer home.”

“Right, right.” He found himself thinking darkly, maybe Liam should have killed a few more of these pricks. “And we can’t wait for the fall for her to skedaddle back to her main residence.”

“She’d take Marianne with her anyway.”

A whole lot of annoying. Firstly, Sherlock wanted to confirm that Liam was there. He didn’t want to abandon the kids, but it wasn’t like they were being tortured in there. As much as he didn’t like the idea of some lady collecting children like dolls, they weren’t better off on the street. He only had it on this kid’s word that his sister even wanted to leave. His number one priority was Liam.

“Problem one: a big wall with spikes on top.”

“Yes, or else I could have gotten in.”

“Are there guards?”

“One of the staff looks out from the grounds at night.”

“Problem 2: lookout.”

“That much is obvious!” Matt sighed. “Are you really Sherlock Holmes?”

He chuckled. “You know, I never said I was. Maybe I’m just some guy.”

***

They cased the building until morning. Sherlock did a walk around the entire wall to get a lay of the terrain.

Problem 3 was finding Liam in that manor without detection. It was a big manor and not well staffed, so he could sneak around, but it also meant that there was a lot of ground to cover.

Problem 4 was getting Liam out. Sherlock was not beneath throwing him over his shoulder and bolting, but it would be difficult to escape a scorned duchess and near a dozen of her brainwashed kids with Liam’s 130 some odd pounds on his back.

That also wouldn’t account for Marianne, but he assumed she knew how to run.

So that left Problem 5: potentially fighting a near dozen angry children and young adults. People who probably didn’t deserve it. He assumed they weren’t trained to fight, but they could have guns.

“What would Liam do,” he mused aloud. “What plan would he come up with to try and outdo me in this situation?”

Matt was losing faith in him by the minute, he could tell. “Are you talking to me, or...?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh. Good to know.”

The sun peeked over the horizon. By the time they rounded back to the front of the manor, there would be morning light.

“I’m going to knock on the door.”

“What?”

“Getting past the wall is easy. You could distract the guard and I could pick the lock on the man gate. No problem. But we can’t sneak in and get out with two people unseen. So we’re going to leave the subterfuge for plan B.”

“So, what’s plan A?”

“I approach the gate like a fellow noble looking to have a nice chat, and see where it gets us.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Matt looked tired. “If you get caught, I will deny I ever met you.”

“You know, Matt. You might not be a genius like your sister is, but you’re a smart guy.”

“Thanks...?”

When the sun was nestled in the eastern sky, Sherlock approached the gate and pulled a cord to ring a bell somewhere within.

He was soon met with a young servant girl, maybe fourteen, who stayed well on her side of the gate.

After convincing this girl to run and fetch her lady, he was face to face with the duchess herself.

She was middle-aged, but he was taken aback by how attractive she was. Her long blonde hair and her figure reminded him briefly of Irene. He had been expecting someone older who had never had kids of her own, not someone still in her prime who could easily have found a husband if she so wanted.

“Greetings, Mister Holmes.” She remained a safe distance from the gate. “I don’t think we’ve ever met, although I have run into your brother Mycroft once before.”

“I heard you were the most charitable noble around. Kinda rude to talk to me through a grate, isn’t it? Gonna offer me tea?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You won’t find your way into this place,” she said. “I’m not certain why it is you are living as a dead man, but I doubt you’d like it much if I reported you well and alive to Scotland Yard.”

“Not sure you’d want to risk them snooping around here, with the guy you’ve got locked up.”

“What could you want with him, I wonder? If you believe you know where he is, why not report it? Aren’t you supposed to be a detective chasing a criminal?”

So that was Plan A busted. But, that was a confirmation that Liam was inside. Time to retreat.

“Touché.” He tipped his hat to her. “Have a nice day, my lady.”

***

Liam hadn’t slept as well that night. Even with the medication, he had fitful dreams about Sherlock, still looking for him. Tirelessly chasing him.

And every time he called back to him, willing and ready to walk their path together, a great red wave rose up and swept him away.

He woke to the sound of a knock.

“Come in.”

It was Marianne. “How are you feeling?”

“The medication is working,” he said. “I haven’t noticed any inflammation.”

“Good.”

She lingered at the door. There was no tray of breakfast in her hands or any other reason for her to be here. “What’s wrong?”

“A man came,” she said. “To the gate. They don’t know I know, but I saw him. He came for you. I’m sure of it.”

“What did he look like?”

“About your height, black hair. A ponytail, I think. He was wearing a hat, though.”

William couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t worry about that man,” he said. “He isn’t with the police.”

“Could it have been one of your brothers?”

“Oh, not at all. Why do you think that?”

“I have a brother, too. He is out there, and I’m sure he’s still trying to reach me. I thought your brothers may be the same way.”

“They certainly would be, if they had any idea where I was. But no, that man is, well...”. He stopped himself and laughed. “Could we go outside today? I’d like that.”

“We have to have breakfast first.”

“Very good. Let’s get started.”

***

“So now we’re on Plan B?”

Sherlock hadn’t heard him. He was too high up in the tree he’d decided to climb.

He needed a higher vantage point to see the daily comings and going of the manor. With that kind of information, he could potentially put together a plan to smuggle the two out, just as big sis had done for Matt.

Inside the manor’s outer walls there was a ring of well kept garden. The manor was in the center, with a few separate buildings for servants quarters or greenhouses around. No more security fence or heavily armored walls beyond the big external one.

The sun had crept higher into the sky. It was about ten, he thought. So far, there had been no activity.

Then, a door opened from a side wall. A girl walked out. Black-haired like Matt. That didn’t mean it was Marianne for sure, but it was at least a possibility.

She wheeled some contraption down a few steps. He had to squint to make out what it was. A wheelchair. Then she returned to the top of the stairs. When she emerged again, she was stumbling along with a figure dressed in white, the sun shining off that very specific shade of golden blond hair.

Relief and excitement swept through him in equal measures. He had to grip tight to the tree’s branches to stop himself from shouting out to him.

He was safe, at least. His leg had been cast. The girl set him down into the wheelchair. On the level ground, she began to push him out into the garden.

They made their way closer to the side Sherlock was on. Even if he called out, they wouldn’t hear him. But at least he could see them better. He could see that Liam had been washed and treated well.

He saw Liam throw his head back and laugh. Then they were smiling at each other, and Liam took the girl’s hand between his.

Sherlock bit down on his lip. What the hell, I’m out here busting my ass and he’s flirting?. He wasn’t even sure before if Liam had any interest in women, and the idea that he actually might hit him with a sting in the gut that he did not expect and could not reason the source of.

But then, Liam had something in his hand. A glint of light.

Fucking Liam, of course he already knows I’m here.. There went his big hero moment. He had kinda been looking forward to bursting in to rescue him, but now the surprise was spoiled.

Liam flashed the small mirror the girl must have passed to him (which was a totally reasonable explanation for him to be holding her hand, he told himself).

Morse code. It was repeating. Sherlock figured Liam couldn’t know everything, he didn’t know where he was positioned. So he needed to repeat it from a few angles.

DINNER WILL BE SERVED AT 8

For Christ’s sake, he can’t even be less formal than that in covert messages?. Just flashing “8!” would have sufficed.

Then the message changed. He paid close attention.

10 GUESTS 6 COOKS

Nine children and the duchess. Six staff, including guards.

And then, finally, one last message.

CAREFUL SHERLY

***

“William?”

He looked up at Marianne. “I’m finished, but let’s look around at the garden a bit more. We want the duchess to believe we are hitting it off.”

“Yes, I understand. I was just curious. It seems your mood has changed since I told you about that man.”

“You caught me.” He sighed. “Things are always so much more fun than they should be when he gets involved.”

“I’m glad to see you in better spirits,” she said. “However, I am afraid for his safety. My lady was angry after she met with him. Angrier than I have ever seen her.”

“And what might she do, in anger?” William had only known her to be manipulative and somewhat misled. Not someone who abused other purposefully. Not a killer.

“I cannot say, but I hope you warned him well enough.”

“It wouldn’t much matter.” William sighed. “I am convinced he has lived this long because he is too stubborn to die.”

Chapter Text

The rain held off for the day, and in the evening the skies were dark and grey. From William’s window, he could see the trees swaying in the wind, and soon drops began to strike the glass.

It was seven o’clock when Marianne came for him. William could see her wringing her hands behind her back in the reflection of a vase.

“My lady wishes to see you,” she said.

William sat up and got out of the bed on a crutch that had been brought for him.

“Is it not easier to use the chair?”

“I appreciate your assistance, but I have a feeling I will be needing to walk on my own feet again very soon.”

“As you wish.”

She didn’t chide him about straining himself. “Something the matter?”

Whatever emotion betrayed her was banished. “No. Let’s go.”

***

Marianne took him to the duchess’s parlor. She sat behind a large desk, one which had likely been her husband’s. The room was lit by gas lamps, and behind her, the heavy curtains over her window could not mask the sound of the rain.

Marianne bowed her head respectfully as she entered. William limped in on his crutch.

On the surface of the desk in front of the duchess was a revolver and several rounds. Its gold-plated handle and pretentious scroll ornamentation stood in contrast to the soft and subtle decoration of the room, peonies in vases resting on silk doilies. The firearm’s original owner was likely an obnoxious man who commissioned a gun he’d never intended to fire.

But as she demonstrated, she knew how to load it. Slender fingers with painted nails fed bullets into each chamber.

“A man came asking after you today, William,” she said. She was not smiling as she had been in every other one of their exchanges.

“A friend of mine,” William said. “Im afraid he’ll be persistent if I’m not allowed to leave.”

“Why would you want want to leave?” Her eyes were pleading. It was an honest question. “You’ve only just arrived. Haven’t I been good to you?”

“Yes, I appreciate everything you have done.” He wasn’t lying about that, either. “But, if you intend to take my freedom in return for your kindness, I am afraid I can’t accept that.”

She spun the barrel so that it clicked in place. “They’re hunting you, William. And if when find you, they will make your execution a public display.”

“That may be exactly what I deserve.”

Marianne took a sharp breath at that. “Lord William... that’s not...”

The Duchess set the gun down and stood up from the desk. “William, I am quite convinced that you are a gift to our world, a gift bestowed by God. To see your potential snuffed out at such a young age would be a great tragedy for all mankind, like watching the great Ark sink to the bottom of the ocean.”

“I am not certain what it is what has given you such a high opinion of me. I am a murderer.”

“I’ve killed before, too.” She turned to him, smiling again. “Do I also deserve to die?”

William narrowed his eyes at that. He, along with Albert and Louis, had conducted thorough research on every noble in their vicinity, and they had found duchess Penieres to be clear. Her husband did die, but of a heart attack in his sleep. He was much older than her. His doctors noted he had been complaining of heart trouble for some time, but refused to change his own bad habits. Poison was a possibility, but why bother with that when the man was so likely to die?

More than that, his own profile of her did not match that of a murderer. Only a stupid man would believe himself to be infallible, but he sensed something out of place about her confession.

“Even if that is true, I am different.”

“William,” she said, holding her hand out as if to invite him. “You wanted to change this world, didn’t you? There’s no way someone as gifted as you are would wreak chaos for the sake of it.”

“That is shortsighted,” he said. “People who are gifted also have the potential to do evil.”

“Marianne? You’ve spent more time with the young Lord Moriarty. Do you think he is an evil man?”

Marianne looked back and forth as if she was being pulled between the two of them. “I barely know him.”

“Poor girl.” She took a step forward until she was standing within a breath of Marianne. Her hand rose to brush the bangs away from her face, revealing the scar William had noticed before. “I thought you’d have told him by now.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“What don’t I need to know?”

The duchess looked directly at him. “My girl is so brilliant. Her accomplishments may have surpassed your own if she had been born a nobleman. Or any man, at that.”

“I realized that right away.”

She hummed a through a dagger’s smile. “She has been, since she was small. She could beat anyone at chess. And when that ugly child came to my home—“. She stopped smiling and grit her teeth, the mask cracked. “That wretched boy demanded my girl play him at a game of draughts, and when she won, he struck her face with an iron poker.”

She knew he wasn’t William. She knew he killed William. She didn’t seem to mind it, but she’d certainly use it to put him in check.

“Anyway,” she went on sweetly, wearing the smile again. “I hear that dear Louis and Albert Moriarty are cleared of any crime related to your wrongdoings, because they didn’t know. They simply didn’t know that their brother William was a murderer.”

“You don’t need to finish.” He sighed. “I stay, or you inform the police of my brothers’ involvement.

“You’re both just so smart, I knew you’d get it.”

He could feel Marianne tense beside him. He wondered why that was something she chose to hide, but at this point it didn’t matter. “That is a hefty wager you have leveled against me, I applaud you. But still, you haven’t yet told me what all of this is for. What do you want me to do?”

“Why, nothing so violent as what you’ve already done! Oh no. I only want to see to it that you stay alive, and that you are able to use your gifts to continue improving this dark world, with my help, just as God himself intended.”

“As God intends...”

“Yes. But I’ll tell you more about that another day. For now, I’m worried about your detective friend.”

“What about him?”

“I’ve never seen a detective so invested in the safety of a criminal before! I am sure he will be here tonight.”

The duchess was not any genius like himself or Marianne, but she was a savvy woman nonetheless. “And?”

She walked back around to the desk. “You will convince him that you live here now of your own free will, and that he must return home. Otherwise...” she picked up the gun and aimed it. Her grip was trained. “Oh, officer! This dirty man broke into my home and tried to steal my daughter away! What mother wouldn’t have shot him under those conditions?”

“Shooting detective Sherlock Holmes may not do well for your reputation in the end.”

“Then maybe I’ll skip the theatrics and hide his body. There is plenty of mud.”

“Please stop!” Marianne stomped her foot on the ground and her voice was loud. “You can’t just take peoples lives and do what you want with them! You called yourself mother, but we are little more than dolls to you!”

“Marianne...” The duchess’s face fell, and she seemed genuinely troubled. “Why... why does everyone resent my help? You, your brother, this man pretending to be William Moriarty, the people in town—why doesn’t anyone understand that I am doing my best to help all of you?”

Marianne opened her mouth to respond, but William stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “I’m certain you are only acting in the best interest of everyone here,” he said. “I would like to hear more about your plans for me. Could we continue at dinner?”

The way she looked up at him, so overjoyed and warm, it made his stomach turn. “You’ll stay?” she looked as if she might cry for joy.

“I’ll tell the detective to move on.”

Unfortunately for the duchess, even if he had meant that, it wouldn’t have worked. There was nothing William could say that would talk Sherlock out of dragging him away.

***

“I’ll carry Liam if need be,” Sherlock said. “You just get your sister, and we will meet you back at your hideout.”

Matthew stopped in his tracks. “What if…”. Sherlock turned to see what was the matter. “What if Marianne is happy there?”

“It’s too late to be questioning yourself now, kiddo.”

They approached the manor gate. It was almost time.

Sherlock puffed the last bit of his cigarette and stomped it out. “This isn’t going to affect your ability to create the diversion, will it?”

“No. I have to see Marianne, and if she wishes to come with me then I will protect her with everything I have!”

“That’s the spirit.” Sherlock envied how quickly youths could rally themselves. “Go on, now. I’ll give you the signal.”

He scurried off. Sherlock groaned and wondered what Liam would calculate on the odds of this being anything but a complete disaster.

***

They returned to his room to prepare for dinner which would be served soon. The rain was still falling. William wondered if Sherlock was just beyond the walls, waiting.

“Aren’t you upset?” Marianne asked.

William supposed his calm demeanor caught her off guard. “Her actions aren’t unreasonable from her point of view. Nobles are told that God justifies their birthright. She doesn’t consider herself better than commoners as most nobles do, so this is the only way she can rationalize her own position over others. It’s a lesser form of evil.”

“But you don’t really intend to stay here, do you?”

“No, I do not, but this may be my last chance to understand what is going on. There is a mystery here, and I can’t help but be fascinated.”

She sighed. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know?”

“Moreover, why didn’t you tell me that you knew I wasn’t the real William? Certainly you’d remember the face and voice of someone who attacked you so viciously.”

“It wasn’t you,” she said. “So why would you need to know?”

“It might have made some things clear to me earlier on. And why not? Are you ashamed of it?”

She looked away, hiding the side of her face bearing the scar. “I’m sorry. That’s just not a story I like to tell.”

“I see. You are entitled to your own stories, to tell or not.”

Marianne bit her lip. When she spoke, the words came too fast and rough. “You’re the only noble besides my lady who has ever acknowledged me,” she said. “I don’t seek acknowledgment but— I just..”

“You’ll be sad to see me go? Is that it?”

She huffed in frustration. “Perhaps so, but that isn’t—“

He laughed. “Think it through.”

“I didn’t want you of all people to pity me.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t.” He allowed his hand to graze the pale scar on the back of the other where a fork had once pierced him. “But I do worry what lies for you out there. Are you sure about leaving? I assume you were adopted quite young, and remained secluded here for most of your life.”

“Its not like I don’t have reservations. I want to be with my brother and I know that means I must leave this place, but once I’m out there, I’ll just be a presumptuous girl who speaks out of turn.” She looked aside. “What can I do? I don’t want to be kept anymore, or to hide.”

William placed a hand on her shoulder. “If you have the power to help another person, then help them. If you do that, you will find a place for yourself.”

“If you say so, then it must be true.”

“Don’t believe me so readily,” he chuckled. “I not the infallible angel the lady seems to think I am. Rather, find out for yourself.”

“Understood.”

***

Eight on the dot.

Sherlock couldn’t see it, but he knew when the guard at the gate left his post that Matthew must have done his part staging a break in over the wall. He’d given him a grapple and some other ridiculous stuff to make it appear he was trying to scale it.

He hurried to the gate and picked the lock of the security door.

Once inside, there were shrubberies and leafy trees to hide behind.

If Matthew was quick, he could catch up before anyone discovered the unlocked door. If not, he wouldn’t be getting that reunion with his sister just yet.

***

There were no other guests for dinner that night, just himself and Marianne and Dutchess Penieres. Her children were elsewhere. He hoped the dispersal wouldn’t cause Sherlock too much trouble.

It was much less formal, too. The lady spread several documents in front of him which detailed her plan for the land.

“Clean water, irrigation, housing projects for workers, supply lines… it looks like you’ve got a solid plan here.”

“I’m so please to hear that,” she said. “May I show you some of my other ideas?”

“Certainly.”

He looked over her maps and papers and was surprised to find no grandiose flights of fancy dreamed up by some self important aristocrat, but solid plans for foundations that would benefit society.

The pitfall for the duchess was not a lack of vision, but the same as her mistakes toward Marianne and the other children.

People didn’t want to be fixed. They didn’t want their hands held. They didn’t want to be mothered. They wanted to believe everything they accomplished was by their own merit.

That is why the Lord of Crime needed to be a devil.

***

Sherlock reached the main foyer of the manor only to find it empty. By observing the building’s classical design, he could assume the direction of the dining hall.

As he turned down the hall, he heard voices and stopped short. Two teenage boys.

“Hey, so, if two people are kin by law and not blood, does that mean they still can’t be married?”

“It doesn’t matter, Marianne won’t go for you. She likes the smart ones.”

“I’m smart!”

“Pfft, sure. But you’re no handsome mathematician.”

The first boy grumbled. “Who does that guy think he is, coming in here and getting so friendly with Marianne?”

“A good-looking genius, I’d guess is who he thinks he is.”

“And this detective or whoever is trying to steal her away! I won’t let it happen, I tell ya I’ll protect Marianne to my dying breath!”

“Just get your head out of the clouds and look out for the guy, okay?”

At the other end of the hall was a large ornate vase polished so well that he could see a reflection in it. Both boys were holding cricket bats. Not deadly weapons, but enough to give him a hard time when he was unarmed.

He assumed the dining hall was through the next door behind the two of them. The older men would have gone out to see to the intruder.

He didn’t want to hurt them, they hadn’t done anything wrong. He could subdue them, but knocking a youth unconscious had risks to it even if it wasn’t deadly.

This was an old building with defensive structures like the big wall outside. He noticed that on the door leading from the foyer there were hooks on the inside with which to barricade the door if it was under attack from the outside. Since the dining hall was farther in, he could assume that those doors would have been designed in a similar fashion.

He stepped out from behind the corner.

“Hey, don’t worry about that guy—just ask the girl out on a date and hope your luck is good.”

The two boys shouted and raised up their bats.

Chapter Text

The three of them were having a more or less pleasant conversation over egg custard, a cozy fire burning on the far side of the room, when the sound of a scuffle became obvious to everyone’s ears.

Marianne looked up, alarmed. The duchess stood and drew her gun from some hidden fold of her dress. William was the only one who continued to eat, washing the custard down with a glass of water.

The door to the dining hall burst open and Sherlock Holmes appeared, ragged and dirty, panting, and holding two cricket bats like swords. He pushed one of his pursuers, a young man, back out on his ass and slammed the door closed, barricading it with one of the bats and brandishing the other one just in case.

The door continued to shake as the boys outside beat against it shouting muffled insults.

William couldn’t help but smile.

Sherlock turned and his face lit up at the sight of him.

“Liam!” He started to take a big stride over.

The sound of two gunshots blasted. The bullets impacted the floor just in front of Sherlock’s feet, leaving smoking holes and cracks in the tile.

Sherlock jumped back and checked himself to affirm he hadn’t been shot. After he realized he had not, he looked up at the duchess with his mouth wide open. “Jesus Christ, lady, what was that for?”

She held the gun steady, aimed at his chest now. “Do not take the lord’s name in vain!”

William laughed softly and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Glad to see you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was a lot less concerned with a gun pointed at him and more about Liam’s current state. “Look at you in here eating custard and pie like everything’s fine.”

“William!” The duchess snapped. She shook her gun at Sherlock. “Tell him what you promised me you would.”

William lifted himself onto his crutches and hobbled over to Sherlock. He placed himself directly between him and the duchess’s aim.

“What’s she talking about?” Sherlock said in a groan.

“She’s under the impression that I can persuade you to leave.”

“Fat chance of that.”

“Yes, I know quite well.”

The duchess’s grip on the gun trembled. “William, please move.”

He looked her dead in the eyes. “My dear lady, will you shoot me?” She bit her lip.

Sherlock nudged him aside. “Hey, hey, none of that! You’re not taking a bullet for me, all right?”

He struggled on the crutches to maintain his position even though Sherlock was barely pushing him, and that was frustrating. “Sherlock, would you please—“

“No, no way! I’ll get shot on my own if I am going to get shot, thank you very much.”

“She really intends to shoot you, so could you allow me to handle this?”

“Not if you’re gonna handle it like THAT.”

The duchess watched their bickering and her brow furrowed. Marianne also followed their odd couple act, owl-eyed from the table where she’d stood up, but was fixed in place not knowing what to do.

The duchess wavered in her stance. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “Does he really care for you, William?”

“Yes, he does. In fact, this is the man who saved my life.” William looked at her again, allowing his eyes to soften, and extended his hand. “Please. Put that away, and we can discuss everything together.”

She lowered the weapon slightly. Her eyes were glossed as if barely holding back tears. “I…”

William thought his plea may be answered, but it was just at that moment that a side door opened.

In walked two adult men, one short and one tall, pushing a third person in front of them with rope tied around his wrists behind him—a younger man with jet black hair. William couldn’t help but see the family resemblance.

His presumption was confirmed when Marianne shouted “Matthew!” and darted out from behind the table to run to him. He shrank in shame. The shorter man pointed the knife at his neck. She stopped fast, fists clenched. “Let him go!”

William heard Sherlock groan beside him, his bravado fading. He must have met the boy along the way. He wished they had time to compare notes.

“Don’t take another step, Marianne,” the duchess said. She kept the gun pointed in Sherlock’s direction, but her attention was split between them.

“Caught him sneaking around during all the ruckus,” the taller man said. “He had all kinds of weird tools on him.”

“Aha,” Sherlock laughed, and raised his arms to surrender. “I put him up to that, I’m the one you want. Leave the poor kid alone, all right?”

The duchess’s frown hardened into a deeper line. “Tie all of them up. All of them.”

Marianne pushed towards her. “No! This is horrible!” She turned to the two holding her brother and scolded them with a pointed finger. “That boy is your brother, or can’t you remember? We are all from the same family!”

“Ha!” The tall one snorted. “Yeah right, family working as hired goons. Just do what the lady says before she loses her marbles, Marianne.”

The duchess glared at her. The gun was now pointed at Marianne, who stood between her and the others. “You too, Marianne. Against the wall.”

William did not like this at all. “Marianne. Stand down.”

She held her fists balled by her sides. “I will not.”

Sherlock whispered to him. “I was gonna disarm her, but...”

Before William could agree with that assessment, the two women began struggling.

“Is this how you treat your children?” Marianne shouted, while attempting to wrest the gun away.

William called out to her. “Marianne, it’s too dangerous!”

To her credit, the duchess didn’t choose to fire. She obviously didn’t want to hurt Marianne, but this is the trouble when guns are brought into tense situations in small spaces.

The gun went off in the scuffle. Marianne staggered back, and fell to the floor.

“Marianne!” Matthew pushed past the two holding him, knife or no. They’d gone slack in shock at the sight, and didn’t pursue him.

His hands were still tied. He knelt and began to cry and scream her name, but couldn’t scoop her up.

“Sherlock,” William prompted.

He was already in motion.

The duchess was standing, stunned, horror stricken, her mouth agape in terror. “Marianne, I…”

Sherlock rushed in quick as a cat and went low, then sprang up with one foot in the air and kicked the gun clear out of her hands.

The gun clattered to the floor near William. He picked it up and pointed it at the duchess.

She didn’t notice. She grasped her head in her hands and started to wail, focus completely on the frail form of Marianne. “Oh, God!”

Sherlock knelt and gave her a look over. “She’s alive,” he said, and took his coat off to apply pressure to the wound. “Bullet’s through her shoulder, though.”

William sighed. “Please tend to her as you would to me.”

“Of course.”

“Sherlock!” Matthew grunted.

“Oh right, sorry, kiddo.” He cut Matthew’s bindings. “Just don’t move her, she’s in bad shape.”

“Marianne…”

At the sound of her brother’s voice, she came to. “I…” she groaned and attempted to push down the pain. “I’m fine. It’s not vital.”

“You got shot at point blank, Sis,” Sherlock said, with a click of his tongue. “I’ll give you points for bravery, but you are the opposite of ‘fine.’ Stay still before you bleed out.”

While this was going on, the two men lingered, uncertain. “You… you shot her…”

“Marianne never hurt anyone, and you—“

The duchess crumpled to the floor, looking at her hands. William wondered if to her, they were red.

“How could I? What kind of mother am I?”

William made his way over, one arm on a crutch and one holding the gun. “Duchess Penieres,” he said. “Your delusion has now become a danger to others.” He cocked the gun. “I’m afraid I can’t allow this to go on.”

She hung her head. “God… Why didn’t God stop my hand? If I am truly wicked, then… then why not like all the others?”

Her broken thoughts spoken aloud were revealing. The pieces were falling into place, but William preferred perfect solutions to his mysteries. “How did you kill your husband?”

She looked up blankly, taken aback by the question. Then she stammered and explained. “I… I asked God,” she said. Her eyes were distant. “I was married to an awful man and each night was filled with such suffering, and despite that, I was never granted a child of my own. So I prayed and asked God, please punish this evil. And he answered. My husband died, and I was given his fortune. It was God’s plan. He wanted me to have it. Wasn’t that it?”

“Unfortunately, my lady, devils answer desperate prayers more readily than God.”

“How could I have…? I did everything in his name! Every day was a mission to do good. And instead of my own children, I was blessed with so many orphans to raise as my own.”

Mathew heard that, and snapped. He spat words at her. “Your own? To treat like your servants! To cast out when they weren’t special enough?”

It was the first thing that snapped her out of her daze. “I…. I only did what I thought was best for you all…”

“That’s horse shit! Look! Look in front of you! You could have killed Marianne!”

She looked. Her lip trembled.

She began to cry, and threw herself on the floor in front of William’s gun. “Please end me.”

William was not as taken aback as he probably should have been by this sudden turn to self destruction. He understood it. “Why do you want to die?”

Sherlock looked up. “Liam…. You wouldn’t really…”

He held the gun tight, and his eyes narrowed on her.

“William,” she said, tears subsiding and revealing a tortured smile. “You answered all of my prayers. Through my dealings, I became aware of such deeply rooted evil in noble ranks. The nobility, who were meant to lead the people in God’s order—they’d become so greedy and sinful. I couldn’t stand it, and yet I could do nothing—so I asked God again. I asked—please send an Angel to us! Send a punisher to wipe our ranks clean! And you emerged, as William James Moriarty, as if God had replaced that wretched child with you, a perfect one. And when my men found you by the riverside, I thought he must want me to serve you, to protect you!”

William watched her silently, letting a moment pass. “I am not your angel.”

“No, no, I realize it now…”. She bent over on her knees until her face was touching the floor. “You ate here to punish me, a foolish woman who thought she was a messenger of God. A stupid woman who put these children through so much pain.”

William watched her from the barrel of the gun. His finger was on the trigger. Perhaps in an earlier time, he’d have pulled it.

“You intend to give up?” He said. “Now that you feel the weight of your guilt, will you die to escape?”

“What?” She pushed herself up and locked eyes with him. “Isn’t it.. isn’t that what I deserve?”

He lowered the gun and turned his head to conceal a smile. “Death is only an easy way out. If you want to repent for your sins, then choose the thorniest path.”

Sherlock shook his head and sighed. “Wonder where he heard that one…”

“What would you have me do, William?”

William saw in her eyes, his own future. He still possessed the ability to help others, to save them. He would no longer be a crime consultant. He would no longer punish. In the same way that Sherlock saved him, he would now live to save others.

“Break the cycle,” he said. “Let go of the hurt in your past. Be the kind of noble who gives everything for their people, and leads the world. Be the kind of mother who loves her children unconditionally. Listen to them, and what they want.”

“Yes…” She rubbed her eyes and stood. “Yes, I vow to dedicate myself to them. As their real mother, the way I should have been raised, and not the way I was.”

William released a sigh and removed the bullets from the gun. “Good. Let’s start by tending to Marianne.”

***

“I am so so sorry!” The duchess wept at Marianne’s feet as she laid in the bed, bandaged and medicated, but stable.

Sherlock and William sat at a coffee table in the corner as the three of them: Duchhess Penieres, Marianne, and Matthew, made their peace.

“I can never make it up to you for what has happened, and I know you can’t forgive me, I don’t expect that but—please allow me to care for you! In a way that suits you both, this time.”

Marianne put her hand into hers. “My lady…. why did you never tell any of us about what happened to you before we came here? It’s awful.”

She wiped her tears. “I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to keep all of you innocent and pure, never to worry. But in my efforts it seems…. I trapped you here against your will.”

Michael let out a deep breath. “You’re kind of a silly woman, you know?”

“Michael,” Marianne scolded.

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive what you’ve done to Marianne. But…”. He sighed. “I’m glad that at least it brought you to your senses. You’re not a bad person when your head is in the right place.”

“Ah, I hope I can be better.” She smiled. “You’re welcome to live here again. This time there won’t be any rules, you can come and go as you please. And instead of Lady, I wish that someday I can earn the honor of being called Mother.”

William stood, bracing himself on Sherlock’s arm. “We should leave them alone.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock helped him into the wheelchair and they left the family to their privacy.

***

That night, they stayed at the manor, as the duchess’s guests.

Sherlock had never been so happy to bathe. He wasn’t the kind of guy who cared about a little stink or grit, but for these past few days he had been exceptionally gross.

The two boys he’d roughhoused in the hallway had the regretful duty of helping him to it. They brought him soaps and towels. He apologized and promised to give them a few tips to impress girls with later on.

The water was so brown with dirt when he poured a bucket over his head , he had to rinse several times before he could bathe. But once he was clean, the hot water and steam were perfection. He soon nodded off…

And woke at the sound of a knock.

The door opened slightly, not enough for the two to see each other. William spoke to him. “Don’t sleep in the bath. It’s bad for the blood.”

His voice was soft. Like when they’d met at Durham. Sherlock wished he’d just come on in. He had no need for modesty. “How’s the girl?”

“Tended her own wound for the most part,” he said with a soft laugh. “I don’t know what she’s made of.”

“The boys think you want to marry her.”

He laughed louder. “No. But if things were different, I would take her on as a protégé in an instant.”

“Then we’d both have doctors following us around, eh?”

William fell silent a moment. Sherlock could see his shoulder through crack of the door. He was sitting in the wheelchair with his back to the door, listening.

“You can still go back,” he said. “Thanks to you, I have found my way again. I won’t falter. You could return to them, your friends and family, your detective business. I will find a way to manage on my own.”

Sherlock leaned back in the tub and wished he had a cigarette. “I don’t want to,” he said. “I’m gonna stick around.”

William’s weight shifted against the door. “Why is that?”

“Well, the flat is empty without John, anyway. And I’d have to do so many interviews explaining how I caught you and how I survived. It’s a pain. And there won’t be any interesting cases now that things are on the mend. I think London should pick up where we left off without the two of us. But, the main thing is…”

It was embarrassing to say. He grimaced and was glad now for the door between them so that Liam wouldn’t see his face.

“Is it something so obvious?” William asked. “I still don’t understand it.”

He choked his reservations down and spat it out. “If I went back, you wouldn’t be there.”

He could almost hear William’s clever little smile at that. It was silent for a lingering moment, then Liam responded with Shakespeare. “I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

Sherlock laughed so loudly that it echoed against the tile in the bathroom. “Aye, Liam. And here am I, a patient log man.”

Chapter Text

Are you sure you are comfortable there?”

Sherlock was stretched out on a cot in the room where Liam had been staying these last few days. “Hey, it’s better than my couch.”

Liam frowned at him and scolded. “I wish you’d have taken the offer to stay in the guest room. You need a good night’s rest in a real bed.”

They’d been over it already. Sherlock wouldn’t let Liam out if his sight again, that was non-negotiable. He waved his hand over his shoulder to dismiss it, but Liam kept hen pecking him.

Liam sighed and his tone was much softer. “If you won’t be persuaded, you can sleep beside me.”

That was a tempting proposition that had Sherlock nearly jumping up, but he decided against it. “I don’t need a fancy bed to sleep well. Just get your rest.”

He heard him sigh again—maybe frustrated, maybe disappointed. Sherlock stretched an arm to douse the light.

***

The two of them had breakfast with the Penieres family, and it was awkward as all hell.

Marianne couldn’t come to the table because of her injury, and Matthew stayed with her. So that left them with the duchess and her brood of ducklings.

Sherlock clenched his fists under the table while Liam kept smiling sweetly like nothing weird was going on.

Sherlock hadn’t known this lady very long, but her saccharine manner was grating on him already.

“Children, I’ve made a very important decision.”

They looked up at her, obviously thrown off by the fondness in her address.

She took the hands of the boy and girl sitting on either side of her and smiled at all of them. “I know it won’t come naturally for quite a while, but I’d like it if you’d call me mother instead of My Lady, or Duchess. You are my precious children, and from now on, I want us to be a loving family.”

William ate his eggs with the delicate mannerisms of a noble and wiped his mouth. “I have an adopted brother too, you know. He always calls me ‘brother,’ and never anything less or more than that.”

The duchess smiled gleefully. “Yes, I hope you’ll all become better siblings, too! Starting tomorrow, I will take you two by two into the city to pick out your own clothing from the styles that are popular with young people! You don’t have to dress to my taste anymore.”

“Don’t overwhelm them now,” Sherlock said with a groan, looking around at their poor, bewildered faces. “They don’t know anything else.”

“Truth be told, I didn’t either. I always called my father ‘my lord’ and dressed in a modest, simple attire. I thought that was the best way to raise a child, even though I didn’t enjoy it very much, myself. I think I should invent my own way to parent now.”

“Of course.” William dabbed his mouth and folded the napkin, signaling that he was done with the meal. “Do you children like that idea?”

The littlest girl piped up first, eyes lighting up at the ducthess. “Can I wear a dress like yours?”

She smiled. “Of course, dear!”

This was getting too sentimental, but Sherlock didn’t know when they’d have their next decent meal, so he went for seconds.

***

They returned to the room to prepare for their outing. Each were given a suitcase with clothes and necessities. Sherlock packed them both. The duchess had given them each quite a few fine things, and a nice stack of coins.

He cocked the ridiculous golden-trimmed gun. “If I hadn’t seen this thing fire, I’d think it was a toy.”

“I think she wants it as far away as possible.” Liam sat aside, watching Sherlock pack, offering criticism occasionally. “If it’s useless to us, we can always sell it later.”

He grabbed the crutches and lifted himself up.

Seeing Liam upright was a relief, but Sherlock kept an eye on his posture. He had to catch every ripple that reached the surface. Everything else would be hidden deep beneath the waters.

They dressed in common clothing, suits and coats with hats. William’s distinctive blond hair had been tucked away, and the same with Sherlock’s ponytail.

“Must you leave so soon?” the duchess asked them, at the door. “Of course I won’t force you to stay, but please consider it. William is still healing.”

“We’ve got to move,” Liam said. “As it stands, all of London knows our faces. If we wait, the stories will spread all over England, and likely to Europe as well, before we have a chance to escape.”

“I’d go mad cooped up in here anyway,” Sherlock said. “Thanks for the breakfast, but we gotta go.”

Marianne approached them in the wheelchair that Liam had been using. Matthew pushed her along. She was pale in the face, but otherwise lucid.

“Marianne, you should stay in bed,” Liam said. His concern for her was cute, and Sherlock wished for a moment that they could stay here and keep these two in their lives.

“I had to see you off.”

“Don’t push yourself.”

Matthew laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

The duchess spoke meekly, still showing signs of shameful body language, but working through it. “Once she has healed, I thought of helping Marianne to open a doctor’s office in the town where she and Matthew can work together.”

Sherlock hummed in thought. “It’ll shake things up having someone so young as a doctor, and also a girl.” He got an idea like a strike of lightning, and snapped his fingers. “If you have any trouble, reach out to John Watson, he can help you out with the doctor stuff.”

“I’m sure,” Marianne said. “Should I also tell him you’re alive?”

“If you feel like it.” Sherlock shuffled his feet. That should have been his first thought. “Nah, I should tell him myself. I owe that to him at least.”

“Then let me send a telegram on your behalf. Coded, of course.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I still owe you for all of this,” Matthew said. “I would have smuggled you out of the city myself, but the lady has much greater resources at her disposal.”

Marianne kept one hand on Matthew’s over her shoulder. Her smile hid her sadness. “William…”

“Yes?”

“Once you and Mister Holmes find a safe place, please write to me somehow. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—“

“Of course I will. I promise.”

She looked up at her brother and then to the duchess. “Would you two excuse me just a moment? I’m sorry, but I’d like to speak to William alone.”

“Huh? Well, okay, but don’t move until we’ve come back.”

The duchess smiled. “Thank you for everything. The two of you will be welcome here always. I wish you the best of luck. And, I will pray for you.”

William nodded. “I hope that one day we can accept your offer. Goodbye, Lady Penieres.”

They watched the two of them exit. Sherlock looked to Marianne. “Should I step out too?”

“No, you’re fine, Mister Holmes. I just wanted to ask, if it’s all right…”. She looked down at the floor, bashful, clasping her hands together. “May I know your real name? Since William was the boy who hurt me, I’d rather not call you by his name any longer.”

Sherlock looked to William. He was smiling warmly. “Neither name means anything to me anymore,” he said, and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes with a hint of a smile. “From now on, I’m Liam.”

“Liam? Ah.” She smiled. “That’s a cute name.”

“Innit it though?” Sherlock laughed. “Seeya later, Sis.”

***

The duchess had a carriage prepared for them to take them back to London, and exclusive boarding on a train headed for Scotland. Matthew procured the fake identifications. They posed as two university students studying abroad, who had to make a change of plans because of a boating accident.

Just two reckless bachelors on a tour of Europe.

Once out of the country, it would be much safer to settle down long enough to let William’s injuries heal.

On the train, they were treated to a compartment lined on both sides with plush seating.

“So fancy,” Sherlock groaned. “I’d have been fine in a regular car.”

“The benefit of high class isn’t only comfort, but also privacy,” Liam said. He limped inside and Sherlock didn’t miss the groan of exhaustion when he was finally seated again.

“You okay?” he placed their things aside and sat down on the other side of William.

“The mere act of walking is taxing,” William said. That was the most honesty Sherlock had gotten out of him so far. “Fortunately, the route for us doesn’t involve any railway changes. I can sit right here until we arrive.”

Due to some sort of safety inspection, it would be almost an hour before the train even moved. Sherlock wasn’t looking forward to a full day’s time stuck in a small compartment, even if that compartment did also happen to contain Liam.

After all the passengers had boarded and final checks were made, the train sped off.

Sherlock watched through the window to his right as they passed through the city of London, wondering when he would see it again.

To his left, Liam had fallen asleep in the seat beside him with a book still open in his lap and his hand right where it was about to turn the page. The rhythmic sound of the rails beneath them must have put him right to sleep.

Sherlock sighed. His head was bent forward, he was in for a sore neck that way.

He slipped his arm behind the crook of his neck to act as a pillow. As soon as he did, Liam leaned into him. His chest expanded as he inhaled. Sherlock felt warm breath against his neck as he let it out, still sound asleep.

Well, now he was stuck.

“Liam…”

Liam stirred against Sherlock’s shoulder at the sound of his voice. “Hm?”

“Sorry to wake you.”

He didn’t move his head away, but rather, he curled in closer, mumbling. “What’s the matter?”

“We are leaving London now. I thought you’d want to take a look.”

That roused him up. He lifted his head and leaned over Sherlock to watch the city pass by. His eyes focused. “I’ve left this city by train hundreds of times, and yet this time…”

This time, it could be the last.

“Liam. That stuff you said to the duchess. Do you believe it now?”

“About the thorny path, you mean?”

Sherlock gave him a chuckle. “Yeah. That.”

Liam watched the scenery pass the window, distant. “I only wish I hadn’t dragged you down that path alongside me.”

Sherlock moved the arm Liam had been lying on, and wrapped it around his shoulder. “Hey. I’m the one who jumped.”

Liam finally turned his gaze away from the window and looked at him, his eyes a little wider and more alert for just a fleeting second. Then he leaned his head back into its position on his shoulder, burrowed into his neck. “I’m sorry, I need to sleep a bit more.”

“There’s a whole other bed for you to—hey, Liam!”

He was already sound asleep.

***

Liam passed his idle time on the train by looking out the window as they passed through England’s rural areas. They would be on the train for nearly ten hours, since they wouldn’t be disembarking for the lunch break in York.

Sherlock was not as accustomed to boredom, and he was addicted to cigarettes. His hands shook if he went without one for more than an hour.

“You should cut back.”

“I should, yeah.”

Liam smirked. “I’ll stop if you do.”

Sherlock answered with a frustrated groan. “It’ll take me a while. I get withdrawals.”

“Understandable.”

“What’s with the sudden urge to stop?”

This time, Liam sat on the opposite seat facing Sherlock. He was trying to move around, sit up, and lay flat in different intervals to help his recovery. He leaned forward and laced his hands together. “Since I have chosen to live, I figure I should stop killing myself slowly.”

Sherlock’s eyes began to sparkle, and he answered with a burst of energy. “Then I’ll definitely quit, too!”

That made Liam laugh, even if just a little. “You need a distraction most of all. Unfortunately—well, I suppose it’s not unfortunate for most people at all—but I don’t think someone will be murdered in a mysterious fashion every time we board a train.”

“If only.”

Liam did allow himself to laugh that time.

“I got it.” Sherlock plucked a pack of cards from a drawer in the train compartments, and began to shuffle them. “Let’s play.”

“Very well.”

***

By lunch they’d played several rounds at every card game they knew. They could both count cards and they were both adept at slight of hand. Every game ended in the same stalemate.

Liam remembered drifting off again while they were talking about the newspaper. When he woke, Sherlock had all the pages strewn across the floor of the train compartment and was attempting to solve every crime reported in it simultaneously.

“Even if you solved them, how would you report it?”

“By anonymous tip!”

“They’ll realize it’s you right away.”

He cursed under his breath.

After that, Sherlock finally took a nap. Liam was growing accustomed to this pattern—flurries of activity followed by crashes of sleep. He drew the curtains over the car window to block as much of the light as possible.

He managed to save a section of the newspaper from Sherlock’s rampage—one that had an article about a memorial service for the great detective. He could see the illustration by the dim sunlight peeking through a seam in the curtain. The turn-out was a massive. Larger than some royal affairs.

To think, that same most well-beloved man was snoring away in the adjacent bed.

“Hey.”

Or, perhaps not. When Liam looked up, Sherlock’s eyes were open.

“None of those people know me,” he went on, as if he knew what Liam was thinking. “Watson, Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft…. none of them would believe I’m dead, not for a minute.”

“You don’t need to console me. I have never taken actions like these without understanding the pain they would cause.”

He knew it was a subject Sherlock was trying to avoid, or else he would have questioned him about every juicy detail, every twist and turn of his career in crime, as soon as they were safe and alone.

Instead, all he did was grumble and roll over to face the wall.

***

Sherlock’s patience for Liam was far greater than for any other person who lived, and yet—the lack of anything to do and the self-imposed nicotine withdrawal had him fed up with the morbid attitude.

There were three more hours left on this damn train.

Liam was silent when he wasn’t spoken to directly, but that was a part of the problem. Sherlock wanted to talk to him, but every conversation led to the same dismal topic.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and burst out shouting. “Liam!”

Liam sprang up like he’d just heard a gunshot. “What?”

“Explain some math!”

“What?”

“I’m bored and there’s no way you can be sad about math, so start teaching me right now.”

The expression he met him with was equal parts soft endearment and hopeless dismay. “Where would I start with you…”

“I’m not a child. I know arithmetic and even fractions.”

“How about algebra?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Enough to pass physics and chemistry.”

“So. No calculus.”

“Would it help me solve crimes? No? Then I didn’t bother.”

He sighed. “I don’t know how much I can teach you before we arrive in Edinburg, and I doubt it’ll help with your headache.”

“Just talk, okay. About something. Anything. Even if I can’t follow it, give me a lecture like you’re at your school in Durham.”

Liam met his intense expression with a soft one, and began to speak. His voice was clear, as if he were teaching, but has a dulcet quality as always.

“Ah, well, physics and mathematics are intrinsically linked. Many of history’s greatest physicists were also mathematicians, including…”

He went on to explain the basic of mathematical physics, calculus, differential equations, and other things Sherlock had never given much attention to since the subject wouldn’t immediately prove itself useful.

Liam’s voice lilted as he explained, as if he were reciting poetry.

Sherlock found a new drive to understand mathematics, if only to have a glimpse into the world that made Liam’s eyes sparkle like that.

***

By the time they made it to Edinburg, the sun had long set. The station was lit by gas lamps, and a crowd of people were eager to retire to their homes or their hotels.

“Well, we’re out of England,” Sherlock said, as he followed behind Liam with their bags in hand.

Liam was growing so adept on those crutches he was already a few steps ahead. “I fear it’s not far enough. Perhaps we should press on to France, or maybe even America…”

“It’s fine for now.” Sherlock closed the gap and whispered. “Let’s not talk about it in the open.”

They reached the podium to wait for a carriage, and Sherlock flashed him a grin. “The more important thing is we shared a train ride and managed not to kill each other.”

“It was only ten hours. Are you used to people wanting to kill you after so little time spent together?”

“Well, yeah. But at least it bodes well for our future, since we will be living together.”

Sherlock watched Liam’s deep breath leave his chest. He knew there wasn’t any argument to that he could make. “You just decided that, did you?”

“Of course.”

Liam lifted his head and gave him a smile so slight that it was almost impossible to tell, but it was genuine. A ripple on the surface of deep waters.

Chapter Text

As they walked though the busy lobby of the inn, Liam was all too aware of the attention he was getting from other patrons.

Because of the crutches, he reminded himself. The drawings of him in London’s newspapers had never been photo-realistic. He doubted he would run into much face recognition outside of London. Still, with so many eyes on him, he couldn’t help but feel
exposed.

There was a woman in her mid-30’s running the check-in. Strands of dry hair sprung free of her messy bun, and she had no makeup or jewelry. This stood out as strange to Liam when she introduced herself as the building’s owner.

“Looking for a cozy place to stay while my associate here is on the mend,” Sherlock said, leaning over the desk and attempting charm.

She did not respond to it. “I’ve only got one room.”

Better than the last three places which had all been full. Their situation didn’t allow for meticulous planning, a fact which made Liam itch under his skin.

“Is it a nice room, at least? I intend to pay you for two months up front.”

She sighed. Liam had to wonder what story was going on in her life that had made her so jaded and tired. “It’s up the stairs, so your friend is going to have a nightmare getting around.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Liam interjected. His passive tone got through to her more than Sherlock’s cocky attitude, and her expression softened.

“It’s on the small side, and there’s only one bed in it.”

“I’ll get a cot,” Sherlock sighed. “What else?”

“The bathroom is shared.”

Liam couldn’t stop from groaning at that. He’d have to hobble around other people.

“But, the plumbing works.” She gave a weak smile.

Sherlock snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s a plus.”

***

Not only was the room upstairs, but the stairs were narrow. Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that their survival had been out of such amazing odds, otherwise he’d start to think the whole universe was out to punish them.

Liam went up first, Sherlock followed after, carrying a suit case in each hand.

“Slowly now, no rush.”

Liam tensed up at the attempt to reassure him, which rather much defeated the purpose.

His cast was heavy and caught the stair’s edge. His hand slipped on the rail. One small shift here and there, and in a fraction of a second, he was falling.

Sherlock had anticipated such a thing, that’s why he went up behind him. With his hands occupied, he had to choose between dropping all of their things down a flight of stairs, or—

He braced himself and supported Liam’s weight as his back impacted his chest. Liam’s head dropped against his shoulder.

Liam hadn’t made any sound like a normal person might if they were falling. He just went rigid all over, no other reaction.

“Can you right yourself?” Sherlock asked, his tone coming out more terse than intended. “Just push off my shoulder. I don’t want to drop the bags.”

Liam found footing with his good leg and did as Sherlock said. He pushed himself up, and they managed to climb the stairs from there.

“Sorry.”

“I think you meant thank you.”

“Oh. Right.”

But he didn’t say it. He’d been completely out of it since they disembarked from the train.

“Did you take your medicine?”

Liam wouldn’t look at him. “My pain is not beyond the scope of what I can tolerate.”

Sherlock was too tired to argue. He needed to set the luggage down before his arms fell off.

Once inside the room, Sherlock was finally free of the heavy bags. He groaned and dropped onto the bed with his arms outstretched.

“And here I was thinking I might not get enough exercise to stay in shape on this trip.”

Liam said nothing. He lifted the lid on his suitcase and began to unpack the clothes.

“I’ll do that!” Sherlock shot up and grabbed the shirt he was about to hang. “You, rest.”

Liam didn’t let go of the clothes, and gave him a menacing flash of red eyes. “You were complaining of how tired you are.”

“I’m just being an ass as usual, you need to rest.”

His expression went blank as he gave in, and let go of the shirt. “Very well.”

He climbed into the bed. The opposite side of the bed was pushed against the far wall and there was a window with cheap curtains above it. Sitting up, Liam looked outside into the street.

Sherlock set the clothes aside. They didn’t need to unpack right away in any case. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Please take your medicine, Liam.”

Liam looked up at him, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “Certainly.”

***

Liam took his medicine.

He sat on the bed and intended to stay awake, but the footfalls from outside the window of workers making their way home after their late shifts at the textile factory, and Sherlock’s messy rummaging in the room, combined with the drug’s relaxing effects had him fading away sooner than he’d have liked.

And maybe it was for the best, since he couldn’t stop himself from being terrible to Sherlock. That wasn’t what he wanted, but it was so much harder to fake pleasantness with him. He could do it with Moran, Bonde, and Fred, and sometimes even Albert. Never with Louis. Louis knew him so well that he pretended not to see.

But with Sherlock, he couldn’t hide or lie.

When he woke, the sun was rising. Their room faced east, and the light shot through the curtains when it was at just the right angle.

As the sun beam hit his face, he became aware of himself, remembering the night before.

“Sherlock?”

He wasn’t in the bed beside him. He didn’t see him in the room. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed, ready to grab his crutches.

Then he heard a sharp crack of a snore, and looked down. Sherlock was sound asleep on the bare hardwood floor. Liam sighed out of relief and frustration all at once.

Carefully, he climbed down from the bed and knelt on the floor beside him.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible as he woke. His breath was bad and he hadn’t washed in a while. His hair was loose and unkempt. “Eh? What—it’s barely morning, go back to bed.”

“Sherlock, get off the floor.”

“This again? I’m fine.”

“No.” He tugged his shoulder. “Get into the bed, or I’ll sleep on the floor down here with you.”

“What the? Why—“

“If you think it’s so disgusting to sleep beside me, I’ll stay here until you move.”

“The fuck—“ Sherlock groaned and rubbed his head. “That’s not why. I just want you to sleep well. I’m restless. Especially since I haven’t smoked in a while. I’ll toss and turn. I’m likely to kick you if I even manage to fall asleep.”

“Ah. I see. So that’s why.” Liam knew it would have to be something like that. “Well, I sleep soundly. Very little can wake me. It’s a vulnerability that my brother Louis used to cover for. So kick all you like.”

“I don’t need the bed.”

“Sherlock.” He sighed and pulled himself back up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Sleep on the bed, and I promise I will take my medicine just as instructed.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and a moment later a funny grin spread across his face. “All right, you’re on.” He pushed himself up off the floor and yawned, opening his mouth so wide that Liam could see the inside.

Liam couldn’t believe the smell was so bad. “Now that you’ve agreed, can I request that you scrub your teeth first? Lady Penieres packed a paste for you.”

“That’s really pushing it.”

“Ha.”

Sherlock did it, for him.

***

Sherlock spend the next day catching up on well-deserved rest, but that rest was fitful and intermittent.

“Did I wake you?”

He opened his eyes to find Liam sitting up against the headboard and looking out the window. It was midday and he had been like that for hours.

He looked as delicate as a bird resting on a window sill.

“No, I have a headache.”

“It’s because you haven’t smoked. Would you like to take some of my painkiller?”

“Fixing one vice with another won’t solve the issue.”

“It’s not that strong. You shouldn’t have to be so miserable.”

“Well, if you insist.”

Liam smiled. “Just a nip. You did fall off a bridge too, you know.”

“Wrong. You fell. I jumped.”

“You seem so proud of that distinction.”

“Damn right I am.”

Sherlock grabbed the bottle and took a sip as offered. It was opiate painkiller, but not nearly as strong as what he’d have smoked on his own time. He counted it as some kind of progress. He laid there, waiting for it to kick in, until a grumble from his stomach broke the silence.

“You should eat something, since you didn’t have breakfast.”

“You didn’t either.”

Liam was no doubt about to point out that it wasn’t his stomach grumbling, or that his predicament made it impossible for him to be the one to fetch the food, but before he could decide on just how to retort, there was a knock at the door.

Sherlock groaned as he got up and answered it. Behind the door was the innkeeper woman who had been so cold to him. Not that he cared, he had quite a fair bit of experience with feisty landladies.

But unlike Hudson, this woman wasn’t after a fight. She wasn’t taken aback by his disheveled appearance, not even a bit. Too tired to care, if her dark eyes were any indication.

In her hands she was carrying a beaten up old tray holding two bowls, each releasing some steam and delicious meaty smell from a hole in the top of their coverings.

“I figured the two of you may be in need of meal service,” she said. “This one is on me, but if you want to continue then you’ll have to pay per meal.”

“You’re already charging a lot for this room considering how few amenities it has, you know.”

Her stone demeanor didn’t lift at all. “I will let my cooking speak for itself. If you want food service, you’ll have to order it from the front desk.”

She handed the tray to Sherlock and then promptly left.

“Can you believe…”. He stopped short when he turned with the tray and found Liam in a trademark pondering pose, with a finger curled against his bottom lip.

“She checked us in, and she cooks the meals here. and she delivered it herself. Doesn’t she have employees?”

“Sorry you’re so bored Liam, but I don’t think there’s any mystery here. Just a miserly women who overcharges services.”

“We can afford it, so it’s fine.”

“Sure we can with what the Dutchess gave us, but that leaves us with very little for another trip, plus finding some place to live wherever we end up. I don’t need to tell you, professor.”

“It isn’t difficult for two people like us to make money. But to do so without calling any attention to ourselves…. Therein lies the problem.”

“Right.”

He sat down at the room’s only table and chair and inspected the food. It was a hearty stew with braised rib meat. The first bite melted in his mouth like butter. “Ah damn her, this is good.”

***

Their lunch had been quite delicious, and Liam was convinced that the lady of the establishment was undercharging, much to Sherlock’s chagrin.

“Just because we can’t afford it doesn’t mean it is overpriced.”

Sherlock had never been poor (except for of his own design, perhaps) and pouted. “We can’t cook here, so it’s either this or street food.”

Liam smiled. “It just takes a bit of ingenuity. A hot plate and a pot can do wonders. Cheap vegetables have a lot of nutrition.”

Sherlock’s expression focused on him went soft again, and distant. “You must have been scrappy as a kid.”

“Ah, well.” Would Sherlock even believe the sums of money he had collected at that age? He smiled to himself. “I had to be.”

After lunch, Sherlock got back into the bed and went to sleep again. He slept more soundly with food in his belly.

Liam thought, if Sherlock was going to go out looking for a job, he’d have to clean up a bit. These experiences had left him haggard, his hair frayed and his eyes sullen. But even this way, Liam liked to look at him. He found something appealing in the sharp slopes and angles of this man’s face, and how the messy black waves of his hair framed them in contrast.

He wanted to reach out and pet his hair the way he used to with Louis back in those early days, huddled together for warmth.

But, he didn’t.

***

The next day was spent in the same manner, Sherlock miserable with a headache, half-sleeping in a small bed next to Liam.

Liam spent his time gazing from the window. People-watching.

Sherlock hid his eyes from all sources of light and tried to ignore existence for a while. He tried to dip into the medicine only when he was at his most desperate for sleep.

Their day was marked only by the rise and fall of the sun, and the three square meals served by their innkeeper.

The day after that was Monday, and Sherlock dragged himself up and put on a nice suit the Dutchess has packed into his things.

It wasn’t his style.

He saw Liam appear behind him in the mirror that stood in the corner of the room, leaning onto one of his crutches. He wasn’t smiling per se, but his eyes were bright.

“You need a tie. If not for appearances sake, then surely so that no one recognizes you as the detective who never wears a tie.”

Sherlock groaned. “I need a cigarette.”

Liam plucked one of the ties (between them, they were given four different ones) and stepped closer—carefully, his gate still heavy on the side where he wore a cast—to fit it around his neck.

As Liam began the over-under maneuver with the tie that was so second nature to him, Sherlock couldn’t keep his focus on that. He found himself marveling at how even though bedridden for the most part, Liam was fastidious with his hygiene and appearance. As he exhaled so near Sherlock’s face, he could smell mint. His hair and skin were clean and looked to be soft to the touch.

Maybe he ought to start putting in a bit more effort.

“Now, you look dapper.”

Sherlock saw his reflection and realized that Liam hadn’t given him the simple Windsor knot that he himself was partial to, but a bow tie that hung long. A pretty style.

He groaned again. “Why this…”

Liam smiled and tilted his head so that the longer ends of his hair fell over his face. “You’re welcome.”

***

“Do you have need of anything, Mister Jones?”

It was the false name Sherlock had checked in with. He turned to find the innkeeper lady looking at him with her same unreadable expression.

“Everything is just fine,” he said. “Food is good as always. But say, I’m thinking of getting a temporary job to help pay the expenses. Any leads?”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re dressed up. I’m sorry I can’t offer you much pay, but if you ever want to work in return for your meals—“

“I need a bit more compensation than that, I’m afraid.”

“Well, an educated man like you could find work in the city. If not, there’s always the mill.”

He sighed. Not much to go on. “Thanks anyway.”

“Good luck.”

***

Liam waited by the window, watching people pass by as the day dragged on.

He wished he had a newspaper at least, but couldn’t ask Sherlock to spend money on such a thing when he was the one looking for work. It would only be to scour for news of his brothers anyway, and he doubted if Scotland’s newspapers reported on the workings of London’s nobility.

A strange certainty had set in. He was not worried about Louis. For perhaps the first time in his life, he had no worry for his brother. Louis had shown his self-reliance. Liam was certain that his younger brother would live and flourish now free of the shadow of him.

But Albert… he worried for Albert.

His goal was to die and free Albert of the poison that had tainted their relationship for so many years. A twisted love, called brotherhood, but more than that. Albert once looked at him much the same as the Dutches had—as if he were an angel sent here to answer his prayer.

But now, they were both alive. Had he sufficiently prepared Albert to live without him?

Liam pulled at his own hair by the roots. How could he have been so wrong about everything?

There was a knock at the door. He recognized the pattern as the innkeper’s. “Come in. The door is unlocked.”

The woman entered and set down a tray with his lunch for the day,a plate of bread, cheese, and meat.

“I’ll fill your water, while I’m here.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

That got a short laugh out of her. “I’m no lady. Call me Miss Reed.”

“As you wish. Forgive me if I let a madam or lady slip out.”

“How did a polite youth like you manage to you break your leg?”

She was prying. Liam’s guard went up. “Skiing accident,” he said. “We were supposed to be traveling and seeing sights while school is out, and look at us now.”

“Afraid to tell your parents? I understand.”

Liam blinked widely. He did not catch her meaning, but he decided this was as good as any narrative. “Aha… right. We’d rather if no one else knew.”

“Don’t fret. Please rest up, dear.”

She left the room as abruptly as she came.

***

She came again with dinner, and Sherlock hadn’t returned. He told her to leave it, and that he would surely be back soon.

He wouldn’t have worried, but he began to hear a pitter-patter against the roof, and soon the sky opened up and released drenching rain on the town.

Sherlock did return about a half an hour after that, looking trail-worn and crestfallen. He was soaked to the bone, hair sticking to his face, as if he hadn’t even tried to stay dry.

“Liam…”

His voice was so defeated and weak that it caused him some concern. “Sher—“. Liam stopped himself. Although his “new” name was quite common in Scotland, Sherlock wasn’t, and the walls were thin. He had to break himself of that habit. “You look awful.”

“I’m sorry your effort went to waste.”

He ripped the tie off as he sat down in the chair, refusing to look up. “I got kicked out of every place.”

“Is that true?” He hadn’t thought it would be so hard for someone like Sherlock to find work. He hobbled over to get a dry towel and brought it to him.

Sherlock looked up slowly, and took the towel. “Aha… well…”. He laughed sardonically at himself. “I thought I could walk in and they’d just give me any job. I’m so smart, you know. But the other applicants had done so much work in advance, they had all these resumes and reference letters and whatnot, I must have looked lazy and unprepared.”

“They shouldn’t need so much paperwork for a simple clerical job. All you need to do is show that you can write clearly, and you could be an assistant or a clerk…”

“Well… I kinda told them I was too smart for busywork?”

William sighed. “And, did you try any labor jobs?”

“Yeah. I doubled back to the mill, but it looked so tough and they offered so little money….”

“Did you turn it down?”

“Well, I asked if there were any other jobs, maybe some on the engineering side of things? They laughed at me and turned me out on my ass.”

Liam hated that Sherlock was feeling so down, but he couldn’t help but find a touch of humor in it. “What exactly did you say?”

Sherlock began to blush a little as he scowled, which only made his predicament harder to take seriously. “I said, a mindless labor job would be a waste of my grand intellect.”

“Oh? I can’t imagine why they threw you out.”

“You don’t have to laugh, I know I fucked up.”

In his moodiness, Sherlock wasn’t doing a good enough job drying himself off. William walked over to him, carefully, and took the responsibility upon himself. He rubbed his hair with the towel until the curls bounced up, and it was no longer dripping on the chair.

“Come put your pajamas on, and have dinner. It should be warm, still.”

“I don’t deserve it, you eat it.”

He sighed. “Now, now. A day in which you learned a lesson is not a bad day at all. A warm meal will give you energy to try again tomorrow.”

“Are you being the positive one now?” He gave himself another laugh, and lifted up his shirt.

Liam turned away to allow him to dress privately. He got back into the bed and found his spot at the window again. The rain tapped the glass, the pattern random and soothing.

“I will help you to write up a resume of sorts tomorrow, and you can try again.”

“I might have been a little too thorough at burning every bridge in town. They all know I’m an asshole with too much leaning and not enough sense.”

Liam forced a smile. When he turned back to look at Sherlock again, he had changed his pants, but was still shirtless. He began to eat his dinner like that. Liam sighed and supposed that’s how it would be.

“I wish you didn’t have to work. Or that you could do something you find interesting, at least.”

“No, they’re right. I’ve always skated by in life. Born to a good family, sent to a good school. Squandered it all on drugs and fine things because I thought the world owed me a favor. Everything was too easy. I was bored.” He threw his head against the chair’s backrest. “Told Hudson I was broke while I had a Stradivarius sitting in my office, and barely ever played the damn thing.”

His violin, Liam realized with a twinge of guilt. It was back in London. “I never heard you play.”

“We aren’t exactly making violin money now.” He began to laugh, this time, genuinely. “I hope she sold it!”

“Don’t worry about money, Sherlock.” He said his name soft enough to stay between the two of them. “I can always place bets…”

“That’ll call too much attention, you know it.”

“Not if I do it my way.”

Sherlock set the plate aside and stood. “You don’t need to. I’ll get a real job and make honest money—for the first time in my life.”

He sat down in the bed and gave Liam a strange look.

“What?”

Sherlock scoffed. “You begged me to sleep in the bed with you but you flinch when I get close.”

“I… I flinched?”

“You don’t notice it?”

He couldn’t have. Not with Sherlock.

“Well, more like, your eyes get all wide and you start to fiddle with your hair. Stop being so anxious or I’m gonna lay on the floor again.”

Liam turned his head to hide whatever reaction might show involuntarily on his face. A blush was likely. What Sherlock noticed wasn’t anxiety at all. Liam couldn’t stop noticing the shape of his shoulders and the distinctive curl of his hair and it was showing in his mannerisms.

“I’ve always been a bit jumpy, don’t take it personally.”

“All right. Well, I’m beat. Ready for bed?”

“You can turn the light out.”

Sherlock snuffed the lamp and turned over, still half naked, still a bit damp.

Liam sighed and went back to the window, watching the rain fall.

***

Sherlock couldn’t sleep well, but didn’t want to keep taking Liam’s medicine. He’d have to deal with the headache.

At one point, he woke and felt something warm and heavy at his side. The night had gotten colder in the rain, and Liam had unknowingly curled up into his arms.

How sweet he seemed like this, so comfortable, with the muscles in his face relaxed, inhaling and exhaling small breaths through parted lips. Sherlock tucked the blankets around him to keep him warm.

He closed his eyes and listened to Liam’s breath and his heartbeat against the sound of gentle rain.

If it was a choice between his life with everyone else and Liam, was it selfish of him to choose Liam?

He didn’t want to think about that. All he knew was that Liam was there in his arms, and he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

***

Liam woke in the center of the bed. Sunlight was shining, casting rainbow speckles through dewdrops on the window. The spot beside him was still warm, but Sherlock was not in it.

He thought maybe he’d gone for breakfast, but when he sat up, he noticed a scrap of paper left on the table.

Gone to find work.

Liam read it over and over, examining every detail of his handwriting. Rough and quick, but clear enough to read.

He folded the paper and tucked it inside his shirt where he could keep it close to his heart.

Chapter Text

Liam knew that the mill workers were not off their shift until at least eight at night, because he remembered them passing the window long after sunset. Still, he worried when Sherlock was home so late, stumbling in at nearly nine.

A few strands of his hair had fallen out of his ponytail and stuck to his face with sweat. He had dirt stuck to him too, and his clothes were stained. He’d done a poor job of kicking the mud off his shoes at the door.

He dragged himself over to the chair and collapsed into it. His body was limp. He groaned. “I’m hungry.”

Liam leaned onto the dresser for support, took the tray of food from the table, and brought it to him. At least if his legs were weak, he could work on arm strength.

Sherlock’s hunger overcame his exhaustion and he began to consume it greedily, smearing the beef gravy on his face. Liam handed him a glass of water next. The deeper he got into the bowl, the more his eyelids dropped like he might fall asleep right into it.

Liam ran his thumb in a tender motion to move his bangs aside. “You’re drenched in sweat, and there’s grit all over.”

“Ah…” When Sherlock looked up at Liam, his eyes were dull and lined underneath with dark patches. “I don’t think I can make it to the shower. I’ll just sleep here on the chair so it won’t bother you.”

Liam sighed. “Wait here.”

It was more effort to gather the basin and water pitcher than it had been to bring the food. Liam made a note to store these things in a more accessible area. He brought Sherlock a washcloth, a bar of soap, a comb and brush, and the tooth-scrubbing paste. By the time he returned, Sherlock’s bowl was dry of every last crumb and drop of sauce.

“I’ll wash you off.”

“Ah… wait—“

Liam wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Sherlock was much too exhausted to put up a fight. He took the bowl away and dipped a clean washcloth into the water. They only had one basin and a scarce few cloths, so he had to take care to do things in a proper order. Otherwise the water would get dirty, and he wouldn’t be able to rinse the soap.

He started by soaking the cloth and wetting Sherlock’s face and neck. He felt Sherlock sigh. The cold must feel good to him, even though the temperature here was getting cooler by the day. Soon they would be in the midst of winter.

“Liam, I should—“

Liam shook his head. “What did they have you do at the mill?”

“Hauling bales,” Sherlock said. No further details.

“Here, take off these dirty clothes. I’ll wash them while you’re at work—“

“Just air them out. No sense in tearing up more than one set of clothes. Everyone there is stinking and dirty anyway.”

Liam knew. He’d seen it as a child. He bit his lip. “I can’t let you do this. Just let me—“

Sherlock grabbed his hand. He hadn’t noticed himself tugging at his own hair. Sherlock pulled it away and met his worried expression with a clear look in his eyes. “I can do this.”

***

Liam looked like he wanted to cry. And so, although he was exhausted, Sherlock mustered enough strength to smile.

He removed his shirt, and allowed Liam to wash him. After a long day of physical strain, such a cool and gentle touch was a heavenly balm.

It felt good. Sherlock had felt something like this before. A heady, tingly, rush. It was when John dressed a burn on his arm one time when he'd gotten too careless with a flammable compound. He’d chalked that feeling up to being so inexperienced with care. His own family had never been so tender. Mycroft’s brand of care in particular was to make him do it himself so he’d learn. So of course, being shown that kind of tenderness would move him.

John was kind. He wonderedif Marianne’s letter had reached him yet. He wondered if he’d be able to get married soon. Maybe Sherlock was getting a little homesick after all. The monotonous work had left him too much time to think.

Liam was kind, too. His face hovering over him as he wiped his forehead and brushed his hair was set in an expression of gentle concern. He rubbed his shoulders and then turned to wipe his back.

That slight spark he felt around John when they had good times together was like a fire with Liam. His heart raced and he didn’t feel as sleepy anymore.

“With your permission,” Liam said, casting his eyes downward. There was a sweet blush on his face. “I don’t mind going between your legs.”

“Aha, thanks for the help, but I’ll finish it from here.”

Liam smiled a little. This also made him feel hot.

He knew what it meant, but he was too tired to confront it.

That night he slept like a pile of bricks. In spite of nicotine withdrawl and exhaustion, he didn’t wake even for a moment until Liam stirred him.

“It’s morning,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you, but I did promise that I would.”

“Right.” And their innkeeper had delivered fresh coffee and a hearty breakfast.

The days passed like this. Breakfast, a walk, twelve hours of monotonous labor, another walk. Dinner. Liam’s towel bath. The abyss of sleep.

He worked for six days, and had Sunday off. On Sunday, he took a long hot shower and laid in bed all day.

“It’s getting easier,” he said. “I’m not nearly as sore as day one.”

Liam remained unconvinced. He sat in the chair that day, giving Sherlock the bed to himself. “I know some massage if you like. I had to take care of Louis’s pain when he was young, and it helped quite a lot.”

“Ah, uh…”. Again, the warm feeling he was too tired to examine at the thought of Liam’s hands on him skin to skin. “I appreciate it, but maybe another time.”

He looked away. “Very well.”

“So, what do you do all day when I’m not here?”

“Oh, I…”. He seemed at a loss to answer. “Not
much at all. I’ve been trying to work on my body strength. And I keep this place tidy.”

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“How can you say that to me when you’re half dead from laboring?”

That response was surprisingly terse. Sherlock didn’t blame him, that comment hadn’t been very sensitive, once he thought back on it. But Liam was rarely so short with him. “Sorry. I promise it’s getting better, though.”

Liam’s hands twisted at the fabric of the night gown he was still wearing. He didn’t answer.

“Are you sure you’re all right? Anyone would be a little strung out in this place, bored as hell.”

“I’m fine, it’s you who—“

Sherlock shook his head and stood up. “No more of that. I’m going downstairs a bit. Maybe I can find some better work leads if I hang out in the dining room for a while.”

“If you’re up for it.” He took a deep breath and relaxed his arms as he exhaled. “I hope you have some fun.”

“I’ll carry you down there with me, if you want.”

“No, please. I’m fine here.”

He didn’t argue, and it was for the best. He didn’t want Liam privy to the conversation he was going to have.

***

The innkeeper lady’s expression, which had been softening to him as of late, went completely flat.

“You want me to babysit a fully grown man?”

“Not that! Geez. I’m just saying. If you have any books he could borrow—“

“I did used to have several, but they’ve all been sold.”

“Ah, sorry. What about some kind of work? I know he’s limping, but maybe there’s something he could help you with from a chair. You don’t have to pay him, and it’ll make him feel better.”

She looked cross a moment longer and then it was like a cloud clearing away from the sun when she smiled. “All right.”

“Eh? You sure changed your mind pretty fast.”

“I thought you’d pay the room up and leave him here when it got rough. But when you started working at the mill… not many people would do that for someone.”

“He’s uh. Well, he’s my friend. Can’t leave a man behind.”

He tried to laugh it off, but she obviously had some ideas of her own. He rubbed his head and chuckled at himself awkwardly.

She continued. “I take an hour break at noon, I’ll keep him company during that time. He’s a pleasant boy, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

***

Liam couldn’t remember the last time he had come so close to crying. He had seen so much and had to push it down that he didn’t know if he had it in him to cry at anything anymore.

Something about seeing Sherlock off to work again on Monday had him fighting tears. It was like watching Louis have a fit the way he used to before the surgery, or catching Albert scrubbing his hands raw. Something so awful and so beyond his control.

He didn’t cry. He spent the morning doing nothing, and trying not to feel like anything.

Miss Reed’s knock came at the door, but it wasn’t yet time for the afternoon meal. It didn’t come until around two.

“Come in.”

Instead of a tray, she had a basket with yarn and knitting needles in her hands. “I thought perhaps you’d like some company.”

He was perplexed at the offer, but couldn’t turn it down. “But you’re so busy.”

“Well, I have an ulterior motive. If you turn out to be good at knitting, I can sell your work in the lobby.”

Liam didn’t know the first thing about knitting, but it seemed like a pleasant enough pastime. “Did Mr. Jones put you up to this?”

She nodded. “He’s a good man, just a little rough.”

Liam smiled. “He is.”

“I was thinking, it’s going to get cold here within the next few weeks. Maybe we could make Mr. Jones a nice scarf to keep him warm on those walks home at night.”

Cold. Liam was filled with a dread that hadn’t grabbed him since he was a boy. What if Sherlock got sick working himself to the bone like that? Anxious thoughts like this kept rattling in his mind. Maybe he was stir crazy. “I would like that.”

“Good, I’ll get right to it, then.”

She began showing him the loops and the motions that fed the yarn through itself. Practiced movement of the hands. He picked it up quickly.

“You’re a fast learner. Keep on knitting it straight until it’s the proper length. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to do the finishings.”

After spending some time together, she got up to leave. At the door, she turned. “Oh, and you should save it as a surprise for him.”

Liam almost laughed. What a strange woman. So coarse at first, and now so friendly and warm. Almost too much so. A bit awkward, even. He managed to stop at a smile, and thanked her before she left.

***

In the luggage from the duchess, there was a pencil and a pad of paper. Liam sat at the table and puzzled out patterns.

She had only shown him a basic solid color. But each stitch represented a dot that could be a pattern. It came to him like math. He wondered what motif Sherlock would like.

Stars. White stars against a dark blue. Not evenly spaced like a country flag, but varied in size and length of their bursts like in the night sky.

For the first time since long before the fall, he was alive with thought. He’d been scribbling for hours, counting out the number of stitches needed to create each shape. Upon realizing this, he dropped the pencil.

It shouldn’t feel like fun. He shouldn’t be here enjoying himself. He’d killed people, and he’d gotten this same sick enjoyment out of figuring out the ways to do it.

But, Sherlock. Sherlock deserved a warm and beautiful scarf. If he got good at it, he could even make them some money without it being suspicious at all.

He didn’t deserve to enjoy this. He didn’t deserve to eat the delicious food here or sleep in a comfortable bed. He didn’t deserve to feel Sherlock’s warmth beside him as he slept.

But his guilt didn’t matter, punishment didn’t matter. That’s what he told the duchess, and he meant to keep his word. It was helping others— it was Sherlock—that mattered now.

He continued drawing, and was so absorbed in it that he didn’t notice when Sherlock came up the stairs, and had to hide it quickly in a drawer.

Poor Sherlock was so dead tired, he didn’t notice any difference in the room even with his exceptional ability of observation. He did look up at him in askance, seeing Liam’s unusually energetic demeanor.

“Let me rub your feet,” Liam said.

“Uh… okay?”

He smiled. “You deserve it.”

Sherlock managed a laugh. “You’re in a good mood. Looks like my dastardly plan worked.”

Liam shrugged that off. It had. “Certainly, you evil mastermind, just eat and get ready for bed.”

***

The greatest gift that Sherlock could get that night was to see Liam’s smile again. A smile like on the train, or at Durham. Those brief moments they spent together felt dreamlike now.

He wished he’d gone to see him more often. He wished he’d figured everything out sooner. Just a hair’s breadth of time more, and he might have stopped Liam from falling that night.

He sat in the chair and Liam knelt at his feet. It was awkward, but the first bath had been that way, too. And now it was part of their routine. Letting Liam do things like this made him feel better.

The problem was that while the baths did feel good, this was something else. His feet hurt so badly at work, he stepped on knives like The Little Mermaid in her magic legs all the way home. When Liam pressed his knuckles into the arch of his foot, it took a great deal of effort not to moan like he’d got him bent over a barrel.

This analogy his brain came up with on the spot didn’t help. He’d been thinking too much. The job kept his body moving at all times, but his brain was like a child left free to roam at a market. So many thoughts, so many ideas, and nothing to do but bale and bale and bale.

He was glad he couldn’t afford drugs anymore, or this new sobriety kick would be impossible. Sometimes, at work at the mill, he had a feeling like he could kill a man for just one hit strong enough to fry his brain and make the time pass. To kill the pain just for a few hours.

“Am I being too rough?”

Liam’s voice snapped him out of his racing thoughts and he was back in this reality, the one where Liam was on the floor at his feet and kneading the life out of him.

“It’s nice.” Saying God that feels so good definitely wouldn’t help.

Liam chuckled softly to himself as he turned his attention back to the task. “Just a bit more. I was hoping it would be relaxing, and you’d fall asleep.”

“It is a big help,” he said. “But yeah, I ought to hit the hay. It’s only Monday.”

Mercifully, he pulled his hands away and went to douse the light. Sherlock stayed seated until it was dark. He waited for Liam to get into the bed, and made sure he fell asleep facing away from him.

He was going to have to find a set of baggier night clothes if this kept up.

***

The massage did help his feet. The next day, he was still sore, but each step was more like getting smacked with a bat than stabbed with a knife. He could live with that.

He realized that the effects might be cumulative if he let Liam do it again, if he could do it consistently. He was tempted to let him go in on his back, too.

The work slowed, and eventually, he wasn’t receiving anything to pack or load. Not his problem. It was time to sit down. He found a crate in the shade just outside of the building where he could feel a breeze, and took the opportunity to rest.

No, he couldn’t indulge in Liam’s generosity. Not when it was physical. If he got hot and bothered again, Liam would definitely notice, if he hadn’t already.

What he feared wasn’t disgust or rejection, but what Liam would put upon himself to do if he knew. And if he would have the strength to stop it, when he wanted it so badly.

Maybe it was the stress. Going cold turkey. The close living conditions. The shared trauma. There wasn’t any arguing with the desires of his body, but his mind and heart were on their own tracks.

But he was lying to himself. Those tracks always led back to Liam. The only thing getting him through these days was Liam, seeing his face again.

“Hey, smart guy.”

It was the foreman. He was better dressed than most people who worked here, above the muck and all, but his voice was gravelly from breathing in fiber dust for years. No one who worked here was safe from it. Sounded like he had a pack a day habit and one foot in the grave.

“Yeah?” He responded to it like it was his name. If they wanted to take the piss out of him, he’d let that happen, rather than cause more animosity.

“We’re short on incoming today, so you’re gonna train in the weaving room.”

The weavers were high ranking positions given usually to adult men. The job he probably would be been put on, if he weren’t so dickish at the outset.

He hadn’t told Liam outright, but he was sure he was put here in one of the toughest physical roles as some kind of punishment for that. Maybe being here on his second week, serious about working, they would show him some mercy.

That was not the case.

He was led to a large network of looms, monstrous metal things constantly in motion. The click-clack noise was so loud he could scarcely hear the gravel-voiced man even with his voice raised. “Weavers maintain all these things running at once. You think you’re up for that?”

Sherlock nodded. “Leave it to me.”

The foreman slapped his back. “Confident, huh? I’ll leave you with the supervisor and see how confident ya’ are in a few hours.”

Instead of lifting and hauling, he was running back and forth checking things he didn’t understand yet and getting yelled at for even a moment’s rest. He had to keep his hands running up and down the fabric side of the machines to check for broken threads, and if the texture was a little off, he’d have to take the thing apart, rethread the bobbin, and get it running again in under a minute. An experienced weaver could maintain the whole room of thirty automated machines alone. His admiration for this feat of engineering and science was trumped only by how much his feet hurt.

It was a slow day because the product had been delayed, otherwise they wouldn’t have let him near it. He watched after just one machine, then two, then five.

When the foreman returned, he gave a sharp “Huh!” in surprise. “I thought you’d give up.”

“He’s kinda smart after all,” The supervisor said. The supervisor, a smaller man with the same rough voice. Probably looked twenty years older than he actually was. “And he’s not a wimp.”

“Good job. You know, you can make double your wage in here if you’re good at it.”

Sherlock bit back the urge to say he should get paid more for today, then. But he’d learned his lesson. He forced a smile. “I’ll work doubly hard.”

It didn’t matter. He and Liam were going to be a distant memory to this place as soon as Liam could get the cast off and walk again.

***

“I have this idea.”

He showed the drawing to Miss Reed. She had come a bit later that day, while delivering his food. Her eyes widened at the design.

“That’s complex. Maybe you should start with something easier.”

“A fair suggestion. I’ll practice during the day.”

“Good. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful design. But, it’s going to take more wool than you anticipated. Changing the color so often is tricky, I haven’t shown it to you yet.”

“Ah. I understand.” He found himself more intrigued than anything. He wasn’t supposed to be having fun, but he did like a challenge. He liked how Miss Reed gave him firm and realistic critique, without buttering him. All at once he was reminded of his old teacher, Jack. “I’d like to learn the techniques, and then I will revisit the design.”

An average person might find this demand offputting, but he was coming to understand with each of their interactions that Miss Reed was not much for pleasantries or unnecessary statements. She responded best when he was soft spoken but to the point.

Together, they finished Liam’s first full project. A plain scarf with no adornments.

“Are you going to give this to him?”

“No, this one isn’t good enough.”

She reached out to ask for it, and he handed it to her. She looked it over. “It’s made well. I can trade you a meal for it.

“Is it really that valuable?”

“Guests forget things to keep warm all the time. I sell at a convenience rate.”

“Leave me the materials, and I’ll make more.”

“If you like. I’m glad you’ve taken to it.”

She began to leave, but Liam stopped her. “Before you go—“

“Yes?”

“I don’t like to pry, but I’m curious as to why you have such money problems. Your inn is busy, and you cook very well, too.”

She wouldn’t look at him. “That’s, well…. I’m in debt.”

“Ah.”

“I inherited this place from my father who passed on a few years ago. I was determined to keep this place running, it’s my whole life. But as it turns out, my father also left me with a large sum of debt. Gambling.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He could only imagine, having never known his own father. To find a loved one’s hidden vices after he’d died, seemed quite painful in complicated ways. “You should know, my field of study is bookkeeping. If you’d allow me, I’d be happy to look at your numbers.”

“You’d do that? The men in town want to charge me huge sums for accounting work.”

He smiled. “I’ll consider it payment for the lessons.”

“All right. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

***

When Sherlock arrived home that night, he was different. His fatigue was apparent, but his eyes were brighter.

“Welcome back,” Liam said, taking his coat. He was growing used to getting around on a crutch, expanding his mobility a little with practice every day. “How was work?”

“I got to do a different task. Just as dumb and tiring as the last one, but it pays more.”

“A raise? Already?”

“Not exactly. They’re training me. I’m still at the same rate. And it’s inside, and the sun isn’t on my back.”

Liam sighed, disappointed. “So, you’re doing a more skilled job for the same money for the luxury of shade. How exploitative.”

Sherlock brushed past him and sat in the chair where he had his meals. Liam brought his bowl of dinner over and he took it. Before he dug in, he wrapped a hand around Liam’s upper arm, holding him there.

Liam’s eyes went wide and he felt his face flush. Sherlock was kneading his arm. “What… what are you doing that for?”

“You’re getting muscle here already,” he said. “Must be compensating for your leg.”

“Yes, I’ve been doing some exercises. In lieu of my usual routine.”

Sherlock left it at that and released his arm. He was starving, as usual. The dish of chicken and rice was quickly inhaled.

Liam sat and waited. Then they went on with their nightly routine.

“I have a bit of news, too. Miss Reed may need help with finances. If I could find a way to make enough money with this hotel to pay her debts, it’s likely she would comp our meals at least. Depending on how much money I find, she may even pay me.”

“That’s great. Just be careful. I know you know, but…”

He lowers his tone to a near whisper. “I ran a criminal organization, Sherlock. I can handle this.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. Liam pulled away. He was getting too comfortable talking about it. Joking about it. He was falling back into that pattern of teasing Sherlock, testing him with words. That was foolish. Sherlock looked at him like he’d sprouted horns.

“Why do you seem surprised? Did you…. had you forgotten about who I am in the midst of all this?”

Sherlock collected himself and gave him a laugh. “You are under the impression that my reaction is negative, haha. I am just thinking about how fun it was to chase you. The way you said that now, it was like a challenge.”

“A challenge…”

Sherlock reached for him and took his hand. Not in a gentleman’s shake, but with their fingers laced. The look on his face was determined, grinning. His spirit shone through the dark. “Let’s have a game to see who can make the most money by the time we leave here!”

Liam sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Come on, it’s so dreary! Let’s liven things up.”

“But what will I get when I win?”

“A big drink, on me. And same for me if I win.”

“Loser has to pay the bar tab, eh? And I thought the point was to earn money…”

Sherlock seemed to have only just then realized how he was holding Liam’s hand, swept up in it all, and went to drink water from his glass to have an excuse to drop it. “Hey, we quit smoking. We deserve liquor.”

“Only when it’s all over here.”

“Our last night.”

“You’re on.”

Chapter Text

The weaving room was cloudy with tobacco smoke each day, and Sherlock was like a starving man being made to watch everyone around him eating beef dinners.

I could have just one… His internal voice argued with itself. Just one wouldn’t hurt his health, but it also wouldn’t be enough to stop such a ravenous craving. There would be more.

The headaches had now subsided and he didn’t want to invite them back again. Still, he breathed deep and wondered if he could get its effects second hand.

At least in the weaving room, his mind was occupied with all he had to keep track of. It no longer rattled torturously, and the time passed easier. Sometimes he only noticed it passing by how tired and hungry he was.

That night, he came home to Liam working at the little table and chair with a pile of papers spread out across it and some on the bed. The pencil in his hand was moving at such a speed that Sherlock wondered if it might bore through the paper and strike a fire against the wooden surface.

“Hey?” He ventured in, leaning over to try and catch his eye, sure that Liam hadn’t noticed him yet.

Liam looked up with big, wide eyes as if he’d been caught in the act. “Sherlock, you’re—“

“Home for dinner,” he said. Looking across the room, he saw two plates left on the dresser where the landlady would have left them, both equally untouched.

Liam sprang up and began to stack the papers as quickly as he could, dropping one in the process. Sherlock really didn’t need him to clean up, but it was good to see him moving. “My apologies. I lost track of time.” He knelt to pick it up, but his cast made it a cumbersome motion.

“Relax.” Sherlock stepped over to him and offered his arm to help his balance. “Easy, now.”

He pulled himself up with Sherlock’s help. As he tidied the papers into a stack, he looked distant. “I forget I’m not at home. Louis won’t come to remind me when it’s half past eight.”

Right. John or Miss Hudson would always check on him if he’d been absent a while, lost in something. They had to learn to do that for each other now, even if they were both equally hopeless. He laughed. “You’ll know what time it is whenever I come through the door.” He grabbed the edges of the table and dragged it closer to the bed.

“Please don’t push yourself, you must be exhausted.”

He pulled the chair up and sat, then gestured to the side closer to the bed. “Sit there, let’s eat together.”

“Oh… I suppose I neglected my dinner, too.”

Sherlock kicked back in the chair and hung his head over the armrest, watching Liam from his inverted perspective. “Can you bring the plates over?”

“Of course.”

He seemed more focused once he was given something to do. Beef tonight, with potatoes and broccoli. Good as it was always. Hunger made it taste even better.

“So what was it you were so wrapped up in?”

Liam wiped his mouth politely with a napkin before he spoke. “Miss Reed’s bookkeeping,” he said. “I have found several mistakes and oversights. The woman seems intelligent enough, and I think she knows her numbers, or at least the rules of numbers. But she writes things down in such a manner that it becomes either jumbled up or backwards.”

“Dyslexic?”

“I’m not entirely certain. She has no problem with words. Her written notes are clear and concise, elegant even. But look here, this bill was 17.50 and she recorded 15.70.”

He held the paper up, as if a mistake like that was an incredible oddity. Maybe it was, for him. A professor who surrounded himself with the country’s finest math students.

“Simple mistake,” he said, talking in between bites.

“But it leaves a 2 pounds deficit unaccounted for,” he said, his voice just slightly louder. “That could lead to a severe problem if it was repeated several times.”

Sherlock smiled. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

The tone of the conversation turned then. Liam looked into his half-clear plate, and his voice dropped back to the weak and sullen tone it had been for most of their journey. “I told myself, if it’s merely a side effect of helping others, then it should be all right if I get some enjoyment out of it.”

“That’s a good start.”

Liam looked up. “Start to what?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t know how to explain what he meant. “You’re getting there.”

Liam gave him a sour expression. “Getting where?”

“Just forget it.”

Liam finished eating, and gave his lips one more elegant dab of his napkin, even though he was seated across from a grimy and disgusting man.

“Allow me to get you ready for bed.”

“Actually…” Sherlock stood, having cleaned every morsel of food off the plate. He took one of the towels off a shelf by the door. “I think I’m feeling up for a shower. Working in the weaving room makes my feet hurt, but I’m overall better than before.”

“That’s good,” Liam said. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see if there was any disappointment on his face. Perhaps he was hoping there would be. Liam was unreadable, as usual. “Hot water will soothe your aches.”

“John always told me cold water was better for swelling. I just couldn’t soak my feet in ice, it would drive me crazy.”

Liam smiled, pleasantly enough, but hollow. “Hot feels nicer.”

“Yeah.”

He stayed just long enough to make it awkward. Then, with nothing else to say, he had a hot shower. When he returned, their dinner table had been cleaned and Liam was asleep.

***

Liam slept well and woke the next day to find that Sherlock had eaten his breakfast and left.

He did have a problem with sleeping through just about anything, but the thought of missing Sherlock’s departure made him sigh.

Sherlock had been finding excuses to turn down his offers to wash him or rub his feet, and he’d started dressing and undressing on the other side of the closet door. Liam could respect his modesty, but it left him feeling altogether useless.

I shouldn’t even be alive. This thought again. And then another thought came, as if there were several people in his mind now. Didn’t we agree to stop talking like that?

He got out of bed and looked at himself in the mirror. He was like a ghost, pale and wearing a white night shirt that hung to his knees.

He looked over at one of the cases of luggage that had been left open in the corner. His clothes were still folded inside of it.

How long since I wore a proper set of clothes? Since the train. He’d rarely left this room since then, with his only trips being walks down the hall to the lavatory.

He’d get little done except for knitting in here.

***

Sherlock had never needed a smoke so badly.

While weaving, he’d been finding little bobbles. Bits of chalk. They gummed up the machinery for just a few seconds before the soft matter broke apart and disintegrated. This phenomenon happened to occur just after the sweeper went under the machine.

The sweepers were mostly children, forced to clean up around moving machinery all day. He’d read reports of them being maimed or killed on job, and the yarn just kept spinning.

He was soft on them for that reason, and he had a keen appreciation for such a clever little prank, too. Still, if they kept messing up the machines he was on, even his patience would snap.

His bouts of anger had only gotten worse since he’d quit smoking, and he shouted at the next machine to fail, banging on it. Funny enough, that shook the jam loose and it went on just fine.

“Damn rascals…”

But what was the point of such a sabotage? Even children knew better not to bite a hand feeding them, as meager as their meals might be.

A smile spread across his face as he realized there just might be a puzzle there.

***

Liam felt sure of himself, more than he had felt in a long time. He was wearing a real shirt and tie.

He stood in the hall, hair neatly combed and his suit pressed free of wrinkles, except for the bunching around his cast. A man passed him and nodded without looking down at his leg, without even noticing.

A facade though it was, it would pass.

With a cane, he walked rather well. It was trickier than with his crutch. It wouldn’t take as much of his body weight off his legs. But it was possible.

The next problem was the case of stairs.

As he turned the corner, he could see down those narrow stairs and into the common room, where several people were having lunch and would witness him making a fool of himself if he couldn’t do this.

He held onto the railing opposite his good leg, and went slowly. One step at a time.

People looked up, seeing him struggle, but hadn’t seen enough to cause a fuss just yet.

One step, then the next. Just like Louis when he was a child, when he had been bedridden so long he could hardly walk.

The trouble only came about half way down.

He wondered if it was the same exact step he’d slipped on when Sherlock was helping him up. His foot lost its bearing on the wooden step beneath it and skipped two steps down.

The other leg, the broken one, moved instinctively to compensate for the balance and he felt a sharp pain. Everyone in the Moriarty house would have scolded him for this. Overestimating himself, when he’d never wrongly estimated anything in his life. They’d have worried he was losing his mind if they knew.

He was only off for a moment before he was back on the right foot, but tripping had caused a loud bang against the stairs. There was a reaction from the people eating in the common area, a soft gasp—surprise, not yet concern.

Then he heard pounding footsteps as Miss Reed ran to the stairs. She flashed a menacing glower up, no doubt ready to yell at whoever it was playing horse on her hotel’s stairs. Her eyes widened and the expression snapped to one of alarm, realizing it was him.

“Careful, darling!” The sweet term popped out as she rushed up to take his arm. She was only a few inches shorter than him and strong enough to carry a man like him all the way down the stairs if she had to, he would wager.

“I’m completely fine, I assure you.”

She took a deep breath and relaxed, but kept a firm arm around him. “I swear, the two of you will be the death of me.”

“Oh? Did Mister Jones cause you a start as well?”

“Tripped on the landing coming in last night and banged himself up. I swear, I ought to call your mothers.”

Sherlock hadn’t told him that.

She huffed a breath, as the joke went without a response. “Well, you’re half way down, may as well go the rest of the way.”

“Thank you.”

He took her shoulder as offered and together they made it to the bottom floor without incident. She followed behind as he crossed the room with the use of his cane, ready to scoop him up if needed. Thankfully, he made it to a chair without incident

“It’s good to see you dressed and out of bed.” She grabbed a pitcher and poured him a glass of water. “But next time, call for me to help you.”

Liam sighed, he couldn’t argue that. “Yes Ma’am.”

***

Since he had been working in the weaving room, Sherlock had lost track of when the sun was setting. It was always dark and cold by the time he was released. Soon he’d need a winter coat and gloves, things that would cut into his earnings.

As he approached the inn, he saw a young woman standing on the street. She was familiar. Had he seen her before? Mycroft would have kicked him for being so unsure.

The young woman was not as young as he assumed at first glance. Only someone like Sherlock would even notice the small creases around her eyes, but they were there. She blew on her hands for warmth. No wedding ring. Odd, since she was so young-looking and pretty.

Her dress was pink. Not the color most women would favor in winter. Perhaps she only owned one or two. Her coat was old. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and her hands had smudges on them. Not ink smudges like he’d often see on John, but colorful ones. Soft pastels.

Around her neck she was wearing a hand-knitted scarf with a floral pattern woven into it by someone with quite a talent for knitting. Perhaps she wove it herself, or it was a gift from one of her patrons.

Artist. Strange profession for a woman. Now she was approaching him. It served him right for dawdling.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yeah?”

She was shivering and holding herself in her coat. If she were waiting for someone, she could go inside the inn’s lobby. If not that, she could at least stand where the wind wouldn’t hit her so hard. She was waiting in this spot for a reason.

From here, he could see through the inn’s glass windows into the common room, where a warm fire was glowing like a beacon in the cold night.

“You’ve been staying here for a while, haven’t you?”

His sense of alarm went from slight to full as she said that. “Have you been watching me?” Perhaps she had, and he’d been too dead tired to notice her. Mycroft would kick him.

“I saw you once before, that’s all. I meant no offense.”

“What do you want?”

She seemed taken aback by his blunt question, eyes widening and hugging herself even tighter.

“I just wanted to ask you if you’ve met the owner.”

“Yeah, she's a real piece of work, isn’t she?”

“She’s…”. She ignored that response and went on. “How is she doing?”

“Busy.”

“I see. So she’s still running this place all by herself.”

The expression on the strange woman’s face darkened. She cast her eyes aside, and her lips pressed into a firm line. Even her breathing tightened.

“What’s your name? I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

She jumped away. “Please don’t! I’ll be going now. Sorry to bother you!”

She turned and flitted down the street in her pink dress. Sherlock’s sigh of relief puffed in the cold air. No one with nefarious intentions would be so obvious.

He shook his head and entered the inn, sure to watch out for the change in elevation at the landing so that he wouldn’t trip this time.

Dinner was winding down, as it usually was by the time he made it back. A few late workers like himself were at the bar having a bite and a drink on their way home.

Miss Reed was sweeping up after the dinner crowd.

“Question for you.”

She looked up, exasperated. “What is it now?”

“Calm down, I haven’t said anything yet.”

“Well, hurry up with it.”

“Just out of curiosity. Why don’t you have any art up in here? There’s not a picture in this whole building.”

She held the broom aside, presenting herself as if in evidence. “Do I look like I have money for a thing like that?”

“You don’t pay for it. Artists sell in your establishment and you get a cut. You could make extra money that way.”

She went back to sweeping. “I used to have some like that, but I sold it all for whatever I could get.”

Sherlock dropped the question. Whatever history existed between her and the woman artist was not fascinating enough to pry any farther. Not when he was so tired.

***

Liam had enjoyed the time he spent in the common room. The windows there caught the sun better, and he could overhear conversations from the patrons. None too interesting, but better than dead silence. Miss Reed had cultivated a cozy atmosphere.

Of course, he wasn’t trying to enjoy himself. His ulterior motive was to find better work opportunities for Sherlock, or something that he could do even in his condition. He had failed.

It was too risky. There was always a slim chance that someone could recognize him. He would wait a while before trying again.

And so, he returned to their room and continued work on the finances. He requested more records from Miss Reed. Unsurprisingly, those from the months following her father’s death were poorly kept and provided little insight into what exactly happened during that time.

He hoped her father had kept better records of the time before that. What he needed to know most of all was when the loaners first demanded payments. Had it been before or after he passed away?

When he could go no farther on that, he worked on the scarf. Miss Reed brought him a beautiful navy blue yarn to use for the main color, dark and rich. It was expensive. A repayment for his services. He traded her a few more of his practice scarves for the shiny silver thread that he would use to make the stars.

She’d shouted out darling! as if it were instinctive. The way someone did out of habit. The same way his mask would drop if Louis came into any danger. His raw, vulnerable self would come tearing out of the cage he’d trapped it in for years.

For whom did Miss Reed form such a habit? There were no children, no younger siblings. Not unless she was hiding it very well.

Darling.

Sherlock entered, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes were dark as always, but tonight he stopped and scanned the room. His gaze landed on the case and the dresser. Liam had put it back in order, but not enough to evade the detective’s eye. “What did you do?”

“It seems I cannot slip anything past you.”

“Looks like you put on clothes. Where did you go?”

He sighed. “Just downstairs. Miss Reed helped me. Honestly, this patronizing tone of yours is unbecoming.”

Sherlock was not amused by the quip at the end. “Tell me before you go anywhere on your own.”

“And you should tell me when you trip and hurt yourself. Is that why you showered last night? You don’t want me to see the bruises?”

“I’m bruised up every goddamn day. I’m not going to report to you every time.”

Liam opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it before the words reached his mouth. He had also bent the truth, hadn’t he? He didn’t ask Miss Reed for help. She intervened after he’d done something stupid and reckless. Exactly what Sherlock was worried about. Hen-pecking as it might be, it was a fair concern. He took a breath. “Why are we fighting?”

Sherlock coalesced and sank into the chair as if his bones had turned to pudding. “I’m so tired.”

Liam stood up and crossed the room with the cane and not the crutch, as he’d been practicing. He swept behind Sherlock and began to knead his shoulders. This made an already puddly Sherlock even more malleable.

“Poor thing.”

Sherlock leaned into the touch like a puppy. It had been a few nights since he last let Liam touch him like this, and it came as a strong reassurance.

“This job is miserable.”

“I know, I wish you’d quit.”

Sherlock leaned his head and smiled up at him. “I’d lose our bet if I quit now.”

“Perhaps not. I haven’t found anything valuable yet.”

“But I know you will.”

“Your faith in me is encouraging.”

Liam did something strange then, without thinking about it. He touched his thumbs to the dark creases under Sherlock’s eyes, smoothing them out.

Sherlock laughed. “You trying to put my eyes out?”

He snapped to, and pulled his hands away. “Let me bring your meal.”

They ate. Sherlock hadn’t been so quiet since the first few nights when he was too tired to even sit up.

“Did you happen upon a mystery of some sort?”

He looked up. “How’d you know?”

“It’s obvious.”

Sherlock smiled and told him all about the children at work, the little bits of chalk, and the fog of tobacco.

Chapter Text

Little had changed since Sherlock’s first day of work. For a brief stint, he tried sleeping on a cot that the innkeeper lady found in her basement. As exhausted as he was after work, any surface would have seemed comfortable at the end of the day. But after a few nights of this, his back was so sore that he retreated back into the bed.

“I don’t mind sleeping on it if you’d rather not share a bed,” Liam had said.

“I’ll sleep better knowing you’re beside me.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so romantic, but it made Liam smile. Liam’s smile was a partial victory.

Because Liam smiled, but he never said me too. Or, I feel the same.

Sherlock wanted to believe that the tenderness in Liam’s voice and in his touch was real, that it was for him. That it wasn’t just guilt that motivated him. But there was no hard evidence.

None of that now, he thought. It didn’t matter. What mattered was making it through another day. His pay rate had been raised, and he felt oddly invested all of the sudden. Even though it was still only a fraction of what he’d been paid for much easier work as a private consultant.

Mental trick, he thought. Making it seem as though he was well paid now, compared to how little he made before.

The bits of chalk had stopped appearing. He almost missed the break in the monotony, annoying as it was.

Just as he was thinking about them and wondering why they stopped, the mill erupted into whistles and loud thunks. Men were shouting.

At first it didn’t concern him, since his machines ran autonomously. Then after some time the fiber ran out, and he needed to shut down the machines. Something had broken, something big.

He waited a while, hoping he was getting paid for the time. If not, he’d rather take off. Boredom made him crave a smoke more than anything else.

Finally, someone came.

“Hey, smart guy.” It was the foreman again. This time, the moniker wasn’t thrown at him as a joke. It was soft, almost pleading. “You seem pretty good at fixing problems, huh?”

Sherlock held back his urge to scoff. “Surely you’ve got someone on staff more familiar with the machinery than I am.”

“Yeah. But they’re stumped. Something’s jammed, but they can’t find where.” He let out a sigh that was almost a groan, then he took a deep breath and regained his authoritative stature. ”Stop lazing about and come help us.”

Sherlock sighed. So much for his break. He stood and dusted himself off.

“All right, let me take a look.”

He was led into the room where one of the central machines was housed, the one that pulled cotton in and sorted it apart. When this went down, the cotton would get backed up and start spilling over, and pieces that slipped through weren’t sorted. The whole works would gum up before long.

Sherlock looked at it silently. It was clean, like they’d gone through and plucked every stray fiber looking for the jam.

“How exactly did you search this machine?”

The foreman looked exasperated at the question. “We walked over every bit and cleaned it out, but nothing.”

“You walked over it.” He tapped his chin. “Who went under it?”

“The sweepers handle that. A full grown man can’t fit under there after all.”

The sweepers, the children who had been playing around with the chalk. He no longer had any question of what happened. The only question was: why?

The answer presented itself only a moment later. A man dressed in a clean and pressed suit came running, panting, his face all flush. “You’re needed in the office urgently!”

“Can’t you see I’ve got a problem here? What do you need me in there for?”

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “Because you’ve been robbed.”

They turned and looked at him, wide-eyed and incredulous.

When they finally found the keys and opened the office coffer, he was proven right. It had been cleaned out.

The machines began to run again before long, as if nothing had ever been wrong. When Sherlock looked underneath, he found nothing but a pile of white dust.

***

When Sherlock came home that night, he stared at the floor, and mumbled, “Hey.”

Liam stood up. He had been practicing, and now he knew exactly how much weight he needed to shift into his cane to hold himself steady. It was slow going even with that. By the time he’d walked over to meet Sherlock at the door, Sherlock had already crossed the room and crashed into the bed.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Sherlock groaned through the blankets he was smothering himself in, belly flat and face down.

Liam moved back to the bed and sat down beside him. “What happened?” His first assumption was that Sherlock had been laid off. He prepared himself to do all the reassuring needed.

“Some kids got fired,” he said. “My fault.”

Liam sighed. “Oh, I see.” He realized then that he’d been hoping that Sherlock had been fired, that he wouldn’t make himself work at that awful place anymore.

Sherlock rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. “Once I pointed out the evidence, the higher ups were able to put one and two together. The kids are the only ones who go under the machines like that.”

Liam tapped his chin. “Did their little prank cause a major problem?”

“Diversion,” Sherlock said. “Everyone was running around yelling at each other while the machines were jammed and the product was backed up, and nobody saw who snuck into the office and stole the cash for tonight’s payout.”

“Including your paycheck?” Liam surprised himself then. He thought he couldn’t fathom wanting to hurt anyone ever again. He’d caused so much pain. But hearing that someone out there had taken the money Sherlock worked so hard for touched a little dark something still living in his heart.

“It’s a drop in the bucket to them. They’ll just withdraw more and pay us tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“It was terrible, Liam. They tried to make the kids rat on each other, and fired all of them who wouldn’t tell.”

“It is most likely that they were all equally involved.”

“But they didn’t plan the thing. Somebody must have paid them a little to mess around with the chalk. I doubt they even knew what the intent was.”

“The little bits stuck in your machines were practice runs.”

“And today was the big day, yeah.”

Liam looked again and found Sherlock still staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched tight. He closed his eyes and sighed. “You already know who did it.”

“Of course I do.”

It felt wrong to take pleasure from Sherlock’s predicament, but he couldn’t help but smile. He moved an arm’s length farther into the bed, and brushed the matted bangs away from Sherlock’s face. His hair was getting longer. He looked up at Liam, and whatever thought he’d been ruminating over seemed to dissipate at once.

“You would earn great favor with your employers if you reported the culprit,” Liam said.

“I know. But the kids were already punished for it. Crying their little eyes out.”

“For a job where they can be maimed or killed as a matter of course…”

“Yeah. Catching the guy who put them up to it won’t fix that. I don’t want those greedy bastards getting their money back, even if it is inconsequential to them.”

Liam pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s hair. As much as he’d like to comfort him, as much as he wanted to feel Sherlock’s dark black curls between his fingers, he knew that such affection wasn’t what he wanted. “Fixing that,” he said, “…is much more complicated than a week’s pay.”

Sherlock laid there, looking at the ceiling. Liam left the bed, and began to set the table with Sherlock’s meal.

“I was blind until I met you, Liam.”

Liam answered without turning back. “Not at all.”

“I lived in my nice upper class world, thinking I knew what justice was. Thinking I was an agent of it. But you were out there all the while—”

“That’s enough of that,” Liam said, hearing the snap in his voice. He cleared his throat and began again, softer. “Please, eat. I am worried for you.”

“All right.” Sherlock groaned the words and dragged himself to the table. He began to eat. After swallowing a bite, he lingered with his fork over the plate. “Report him, or let him go. Neither option is desirable. I help an institution which I wholly despise, or I help a criminal who hangs little kids out to dry. Neither option helps anyone worth helping. The kids will suffer regardless.”

“But the first option does help you. If both are equally awful; take the option with personal gain.”

Sherlock waved his fork as if counting points in the air. His eyes had a far off look. “What if there is a third option?”

Liam said nothing. He wanted Sherlock to work this out.

“You’re making that face. That ‘My, that’s interesting, Mr. Detective’ face of yours.”

“Do I really have such an expression?”

“Yeah. Your mouth is a little wider than average, so when you smirk like that it’s striking.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“It’s an observation.”

“Ha. You’re not incorrect. I am interested. But now, you need rest.”

He stood up from the table and brought the basin and washcloth.

“Liam, would you— I’m still eating!”

“You can eat while I wash you. It will be efficient.”

He flashed a smile that said he would not be backing down, and Sherlock gave in.

***

The next morning, Sherlock woke in an unusually warm bed. The sun wasn’t up, but there was light in the room. A log was burning in the fireplace. What a luxury, he thought, considering their meager living.

“Good morning,” Liam greeted him.

He had gotten out of bed early and set the table with plates and mugs. Sherlock rarely had breakfast, aside from some leftover rolls and jam from the kitchen the innkeeper lady would leave out for him. Kind of her, but she did make a point of saying it’s only because I can’t sell them.

But that morning, there was a tray of breakfast and a carafe of coffee delivered early enough even for him. The food was not so different from a proper English breakfast, except for the noticeable side of haggis.

“What’s all this for?”

“All this?’ It’s only breakfast.”

“Been so long since I saw actual sausages, it sure seems like something special.”

“Ah, I suppose it does.” He smiled. Faintly, but he did. “I wanted to see you off this morning, and Miss Reed was so kind as to deliver breakfast early.”

“You didn’t have to do anything for me. I’m fine, really.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I had this planned long before last night. There is something I want to give you before you go, so I thought we could eat breakfast together. It just so happened that you had a rough night, but I’m certainly not pitying you.”

Sherlock wouldn’t have minded too much if he pitied him a little, but that was beside the point. “Give me something?”

Liam nodded, and turned to the dresser. He pulled something out of the top drawer, something he handled tenderly. He handed it to Sherlock, a folded knit fabric. “It’s cold out there.”

Sherlock unfurled it and understood. A scarf. Not just any scarf, though. It was speckled with the most intricate pattern of stars. He stammered. “You shouldn’t—I mean, I do need one, but—you must have spent—“

“I spent nothing,” Liam said. “Made it myself.”

“You made this?” Sherlock held it up closer to his face and inspected the stars, how detailed they were. “How did you…?”

“You should eat your breakfast. You wouldn’t want to be late.”

“Liam, don’t dodge the question! This is too much. How did you do it?”

“Miss Reed taught me how to knit, and I've been practicing each day while you were gone.”

Sherlock sat down at the table in front of his plate, drooling at the smell, but became absorbed in examining the scarf’s intricate details once again before he could pick up his fork.

“Eat, Sherlock.”

Liam said his name softly, but it was demanding enough. Sherlock obeyed him and set the scarf aside. “I almost don’t want to take it to work,” he said. “It would get dirty, might get torn.”

“I can make another.” Liam said. “It was made with utility in mind foremost, and aesthetics as a secondary concern. As long as it keeps you warm.”

“Why stars?”

“Ah, that’s…” he looked away, hiding something. It must not have been intentional, or even conscious. Otherwise, there was no way he’d let his mask slip. “It seemed like a challenge.”

Sherlock ached to prod him until he spilled what it really meant to him—but the unfortunate truth was that if he didn’t move fast, he would be late.

***

At work, he hung his scarf on a peg in the weaving room where he could see it at all times. He wasn’t about to let anyone steal a scarf made with Liam’s own hands. When he thought of Liam sitting in their little shared room knitting for hours while thinking of him, he felt warm enough without needing the scarf.

He hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone today. He didn’t want to see the foreman or the replacement sweepers he’d have no doubt pulled off the street already. Their faces twisted up, miserable, but too hungry to say no.

It befuddled him how a man like the foreman, who seemed affable and even understanding at times, could allow such monstrous things to happen to innocent children. A man who had his own children at home.

But that was just the thing. To him, none of this was monstrous. To him, this was life. Sherlock was only here for a short part of it.

He couldn’t do much in such a short time, but helping the people in front of him was something. It might not save the world, but it would help a few people. Today, he was here to explore that third option.

That’s why he didn’t want to see anyone that day but the supervisor. The wrinkly little man. He was certain that was the man who had stolen the money.

He couldn’t help but notice that amongst the workers he had seen running around, his supervisor was nowhere to be found. Sherlock hadn’t seen him again until an hour after the robbery.

He took the money. He hid it. He retrieved it after work. Now he had to show up today, and keep working until the heat was off. He’d keep showing his face here until the case had long been dropped, and only then would he touch that stolen money.

It wasn’t until midday when Sherlock saw his face. The ugly bugger must have been busy letting everyone see how concerned he was to bother checking in on him in the weaving room.

Sherlock trained his eyes on him as soon as he came in. Then, that little creetin’s hand reached up and took hold of Liam’s star-patterned scarf.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouted, and jumped clear over the partition that separated the path around the room from the running machines. “Get your dirty hands off that.”

The little man nearly shat himself. Sherlock supposed he didn’t deserve to die for this particular crime, but he wouldn’t have felt all that bad about giving him a heart attack.

“I wasn’t about to take it, lad. Just wanted to see the quality.”

“Well, don’t. It’s mine, so stop touching it.”

“Fine, fine.” He sighed, then looked Sherlock up and down with his eyes narrowed. “How did a down-on-your luck boy like you get such a nice scarf?”

“Somebody made it for me. What’s it to you?”

“My wife asked for a nice scarf for Christmas, and she loves these smart little patterns.”

Dumb asshole was already spending the money in his head. Sherlock forced himself to smile, but his lips were pressed into a firm line. He wondered if his smile was as scary as Liam’s could be. “Sorry, it’s one of a kind. And I’m not selling it.”

The old man laughed. “I get ya. A lady friend must have made it. A fellow like you doesn’t care for fashionable things otherwise.”

Sherlock got an idea then, but would have to make sure Liam never heard about it. “Yeah, you’re right. My wife made it.”

“You’re a married man? Never would have guessed.” He clicked his tongue. “Well, can’t she make a second one? I’ll pay you well. You need the money, right?”

“Oh yeah, she can knit anything. And she’s pretty. You think I’d bust my balls at this job if I didn’t have a pretty little wife at home?” He emphasized this with a jab of his elbow to the man’s side.

The squat old guy laughed even harder at that, clutching his belly. “Sure, sure! Tell her my wife wants one, but purple if she can do it. She loves purple. And I’ll pay you three times what the materials cost.”

“Make it four.”

“Oh, fine, drive a hard bargain. How quick can she make it?”

“About a week. I can give it to you next day off. Where are you living at? I’ll come by on Sunday, and you can pay me when it’s delivered.”

“Good deal. And bring your wife too, so I can see if you’re lyin.’ We can have some tea like civilised folks.”

Not like the other riff raff who work here, he seemed to say, between his words. He was a higher cut of person, and everyone else was trash. That’s why it didn’t matter what happened to the children who were innocent enough to trust him.

He had seen in Sherlock someone educated and high-minded, and likened himself to him. Not above him, but good enough to make a protege. Sherlock would not be surprised if the need of a scarf for his wife was a pretense to meet him outside of work, and explain to him all about his brilliant robbery, and how they could do even more together. Letting Sherlock bring it up, making him think it was his idea. Manipulating him.

And so, he doubled down.

“I’m afraid my wife can’t make it,” he said. “She was injured not long ago, and hasn’t been able to walk for months.

The man’s eyes widened. Now standing before him was a useful and like-minded person who also had an easily exploited weak point. “No wonder you’re working here,” he said. “Look, come on over and who knows? Maybe I’ll find a way for you to make a little more money for your lovely wife at home.”

***

“Ah.. so, Liam?”

Liam had noticed Sherlock acting strange as soon as he came through the door that night. “Yes? Just come out with it.”

“How hard would it be to knit another scarf like mine?”

“What’s wrong with that one?” Liam pouted. “I thought you liked it.”

“I do, I do!” He was still wearing indoors, and clutched both hands to his neck as if to protect it from being taken away. Liam wondered if he’d even part with it to take a bath. “I’ve got someone who’d buy another one like it.”

Liam narrowed his eyes. “What are you scheming?”

“Scheming? You make it sound so sinister.”

And yet he didn’t deny it. “How much are you going to sell it for?”

“Four times your cost.”

“Well, I suppose that would cover my labor. I haven’t got much else to do.” That was a lie, of course. Liam had his own schemes.

“Can you do it by Sunday?”

“Yes, but whatever you make from it counts towards my score and not yours.”

“Sure.”

“Now I know you’re up to something. You didn’t argue at all.”

“I don’t like it when we argue!”

But again, he didn’t deny it.

***

Sunday came. Liam would have let Sherlock sleep, but he had stayed up late to finish the scarf he’d requested and would be damned if he slept the day away instead of delivering it.

This gave them another opportunity to eat together. He roused Sherlock and served him fried eggs and sausage.

Liam had acquired a paper from downstairs. A patron offered it to him free of charge after he’d read the contents. He’d pored over every letter. There was no mention of the Lord of Crime or the Moriarty family. It came as a relief, but left him feeling hollow without any news of his brothers or their fates.

Now Sherlock looked through it, clumsily poking at the sausage while reading at the same time.

“The theft at the mill made the paper,” he said. “Not what I wanted.”

Liam couldn’t hide a small smirk. “Careful how you solve this one, or you could end up in there as the genius detective, Herlock Jones.”

Sherlock scoffed and flipped the page in such a fashion that it crackled in the cold morning air. “It’s John Jones.”

“Really, could you not have invented a more interesting name for yourself?”

“And Liam Davies is so unique, huh?”

Liam looked at Sherlock and experienced another moment where awareness set in, of how casual their banter was becoming. His gut reaction was I should stop, I should take a step back, and yet Sherlock pulled him into it every time.

Without thinking, as easy as breathing.

Sherlock soon dressed and left. Liam was glad for that, because today was the day when Miss Reed’s debt collectors were coming for their payment, and he was going to observe whoever they sent very carefully.

***

Sherlock delivered the scarf, although begrudgingly. Even though it wasn’t made for him, he didn’t like the idea of the supervisor's wife wearing such a thing hand-crafted by Liam around her neck. She had been just as arrogant and presumptuous as her husband.

Still… it was a dumb, petty feeling.

Using snow as an excuse, he’d left early and arrived back to the inn before sundown. Plenty of time to have a nice dinner and rest.

“How did it go?” Liam greeted him. He was dressed as if he’d been out today.

“As expected,” Sherlock said. He opened his palm and dropped a few coins into Liam’s hands. “Your pay.”

Liam smirked and handed him back one from the stack. “Call it a finder’s fee.”

“If you say so.” He gave Liam another look and then grinned. “Since you’re dressed. Let’s look around.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

He was. But that didn’t matter. “Come on, it’s snowing. It doesn’t snow much in London.”

“I’m sure you’ll be sick of snow before this is done.”

He reached for Liam’s hand and pulled. “Come on.”

***

Liam let himself be pulled from the room with only mild complaints. Sherlock was energetic, like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I didn’t know you liked snow,” he said.

“I’m impartial to snow.”

“Then why are you so excited?”

“Because, uh…”. His energy switched from lively to nervous. “Hey, so what do you want to eat? We could go somewhere.”

What an obvious redirection. Liam sighed. “It would be nice to have something different.”

“There’s this fishmonger I pass on the way to work that runs a pub on the side. It’s been a while since we’ve had fish, right?”

Liam thought of that. “Might they have a stargazy pie?”

“I suppose. Do you like that kinda thing?”

“Ah, well…” Liam realized too late that Sherlock intended to get him whatever food he said he liked. A pie like that could be quite expensive. “My brother makes good pies, but I’m not partial to them.”

He gave him a knowing look. “I don’t think anything can beat your brother’s love, but let’s split one and see.”

He sighed. At least sharing would minimize the cost.

Sherlock helped him down the stairs and past the hazardous step at the front door.

Although Liam had been coming down to sit in the lobby and chat up the local regulars for information, he hadn’t actually taken a step outside the inn since their arrival. He braced himself against the wind.

The sun had only just set, streaking the sky in blue and purple. The lamp lighters were making their rounds, and the street was illuminated with gold light. Soft and flaky snow drifted down from above.

He felt himself slipping on the icy step outside the door and held onto Sherlock for balance. Sherlock’s arm slipped around his waist, like he was some small and slender thing, and helped him steady himself. He hoped the cold would excuse the flush of embarrassment he was sure to have on his face.

Sherlock thought nothing of it, it seemed. He laughed and let him go. “You go first.”

Liam began to walk, and stopped short when he spotted a woman sitting at the edge of the street. Blond and in a simple dress with a flower-patterned scarf.

“Ignore that one,” Sherlock said. “She hangs around asking everybody questions.”

“That scarf must be one of Miss Reed’s. It’s got her signature design.”

“Yeah, she keeps asking about her. Who knows. We should mind our own business.”

Liam agreed. If she wasn’t related to the debt problems he was assigned to, then it was better if he didn’t get involved.

Still, he couldn’t help sympathize when he saw the look on her face. Hopelessness and yearning. Something that would drive a person to sit out in the cold, waiting.

***

The look on Liam’s face when the stargazy pie arrived was worth all the extra effort. His eyes sparkled, and he was licking his lips with anticipation. As he took the first bite, his lips curled up into a smile to beat the Cheshire Cat.

“Good?”

“Hm!” Liam hummed in affirmation through his mouthful of food. He seemed to remember himself all at once, and politely dabbed his mouth.

He moved to take another bite with his fork, but stopped short. Just when Sherlock thought he’d found something to cheer him up, clouds rolled over the sunny smile. He set the fork down and stared into his plate.

“What’s wrong?”

Liam waited until another patron passed.

“Mister Jones,” he said, looking away as he used the fake name. “I promised I would tell you the truth, and so… please forgive me, I shouldn’t behave this way after you went through the trouble of bringing me here.”

The little diner was dimly lit by lamps made of colored glass. Quite a few people had sought shelter from the snow in here, as well as a warm meal. Sherlock and William holed up in a corner, sitting side by side, blanketed in the cacophony of the crowd’s voices. The window behind them was slowly becoming obscured by snow piling up on the frame.

“You don’t have to say it. Just eat.”

Liam ate until his plate was clean, and even licked his fingers to hold onto the flavor a second longer. But if it made him happy, it didn’t show on his face.

It would be another week, another snow, and another day off before he saw that smile again.

Chapter Text

When Liam stepped outside there was still a glimmer of orange light on the horizon and the lantern lighters were only just beginning their rounds. Liam knew it wouldn’t be wise for him to wander alone outside on the off chance that someone did recognize him, but there was still one detail he needed to put into place.

He’d been watching for the last few nights, hoping to see her. The snow let up, but it was still deathly cold. He feared that in the face of winter, she might have given up. That was an underestimation. On the third night, she was there. She sat crouched on the street corner warming her hands over a can with a tiny fire inside.

“I’m not looking for a John,” she said, without looking up.

Liam found that funny, considering Sherlock’s choice of alias. “So what are you looking for?”

Her head turned at that strange reply. Her eyes fell on the pair of knit gloves he had in his hands. Pink, like her scarf. “Did—“ Her eyes went wide. “Did Lori make those?”

“I’m afraid not. I made them myself, and I’ll trade them to you. For information.”

She stood and brushed herself off. He handed her the gloves and she examined the knit. “That’s how Lori ties off her threads.”

“She taught me.”

Her eyes widened.

Taking a closer look at her, he noticed that there was some superficial resemblance between them. She had wavy blond hair in the same tallow shade as his, and eyes like red wine. He wondered in the deep part of his mind that was always working if this had any part in how quickly Miss Reed had warmed up to him. Considering the baggage that laid between these two, it was more likely she’d have hated him for it first. But it might have explained her outburst when he slipped on the stairs. An old habit.

The initial surprise faded and was replaced with a more complicated emotion. “I didn’t think she had any new friends.”

“Yes, I suppose you could call us friends. But it’s an arrangement of mutual benefit. I’ve been staying at the inn while recovering from an injury. Miss Reed has shown me undue kindness, so I am working to help her out of this situation regarding her debt.”

That nuanced expression hardened into outright disgust. “Ha! Good luck with that one.”

She pushed the gloves back at him, and he raised his hand to block her. “They’re yours if you tell me what happened. From your side.”

She gave him a long look, considering.

“Lori doesn’t want help,” she said, in a tone that was spiteful on the surface, but carried a depth of heartache underneath it. “I tried, and a few others, too. We all know her pops couldn’t have racked up that much on ponies. He was giving to the soup kitchen every night for Christ’s’ sake. Did you ever know a man who’s in debt to the mob to be giving food and money away like that?”

“As I suspected, it appears to be an exercise of self-harm.”

She looked up again, not as surprised this time. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m an accountant,” he said. “I settle accounts.”

She held her arms around herself for a moment and then looked down the sidewalk as if she was thinking about running away. Liam appreciated her sense of self preservation, as well as the fact that she stayed in spite of it.

She slipped the gloves onto her hands. The pink color matched her scarf well.

“Loretta was beautiful and happy once,” she said. “I don’t know if she will ever be that way again.”

Although she bore a passing resemblance to him, once he’d seen a few of her vivid expressions, he wondered if she was not more like Sherlock.

***

Weeks passed. He’d expected the idea of getting this cast off his leg and moving on to their next destination to be a relief. But as he thought of it, his heart was heavy.

Sherlock was late that night. He had been late a few nights and out on Sundays, no doubt in pursuit of his own justice in whatever form that was to take. That was all well and good, since Liam had his own leads to follow.

But it was due to Sherlock’s absence that Liam was lonely on that night, and left to ponder where they would be going, and what they would do there. Of course he had ideas. He always had thousands of ideas and the plans to go with them. They came to him without thinking, like one of Sherlock’s automated machines spinning cotton into cloth.

He looked out the window into the night where the glow of the street lamps barely cut through the fog and snow. In London it rarely snowed, and he hadn’t spent long enough time in Durham to see a real winter snowfall. And this was Scotland. It only snowed here some of the days in winter. If they ended up in Norway or Sweden, it would be immeasurably worse.

No, he must take Sherlock somewhere warmer.

Sherlock’s steps in the hallway drew him out of his thoughts. He turned as the door opened to find Sherlock absolutely caked in snow. The blue star scarf had only sufficed in protecting his face. But in spite of looking like some yeti creature of the north, he stood up proudly and held a briefcase in one hand.

“I’ll have a whisky neat,” he said.

Sherlock’s confidence was so bright as to make anyone smile, but Liam resisted it somehow. “I suppose that’s the stolen money?”

“Sure is!” Sherlock stomped in, a treat for anyone sleeping in the room below theirs to be sure, and slammed the case into the table, popping it open.

Inside were bills and coins amounting to the entire mill’s labor for the week that went missing. Doing a quick approximation, Liam considered this to be roughly equivalent to a year’s worth of the wages Sherlock would have made on his own as an accomplished weaver. Nothing to scoff at.

Sherlock went ahead into the explanation of the case without any further prompting as Liam began the tasks of undressing him, hanging his clothes to dry, and serving his food, just as he would any other night.

“I knew the old man had taken the money, but I wouldn’t have been able to prove it without hard evidence. When I spoke to him the next day, he was all friendly and joking even though I didn’t make it a secret how much I hate him. He was trying to recruit me.

The entire stunt left him exposed. In an isolated incident, nobody would believe the word of a street urchin child against his. But if he were ever close to another crime, they’d suspect him. Not to mention, he’d barely been able to accomplish the physical effort it took to steal it and run away, as old and out of shape as he was.

If he was going to pull any more heists, he was going to need a partner—and hoped to make one of a vulnerable young man new to the area and in need of quick money.”

“And that other scarf I made, the purple one. It was for him?”

“Yeah. When I went to deliver it, as expected, he chatted me up for a good long time. And these past few weeks I’ve been growing a rapport with him. So when I told him urgently that the police had found a stash of money and were asking questions around the mill—he believed me, and ran off.”

Liam folded his fingers and an amused smile spread across his face. “He ran directly to the location of the stolen money to check on it.”

“Of course. So I followed him, waited for him to confirm the money was safe—he counted it three times, by the way— and headed back home. Then I took it.”

Liam clapped his hands a few times, which came off as a bit more patronizing than he had intended. “Very good. But what happens when he realizes that you cocked up the story?”

“He can suck eggs then, because I told him my address was on the other side of town.”

The implication of that made Liam’s heart skip a beat. “You’re done at the mill, then?”

Sherlock grinned. “Yup! Never going back to that infernal place, and I’m a ghost to everyone there.”

Liam wasn’t sure why this next thing happened, he wasn’t aware of any thought in his head prompting his body to move, but he walked over to where Sherlock sat eating and threw his arms around his shoulders, embracing him.

“Uh… Liam?”

“I’m so glad. I’m so happy you never have to do that again. Thank god. I was afraid you’d get sick or hurt—”

He felt Sherlock’s hand on top of his head, a gentle stroke of his hair. “I’m fine, Liam. Really.”

Awareness came back to him, and he pulled away. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, several steps back.

It seemed Sherlock thought nothing of it, because he was right back to being cocky, waving his fork in the air as he spoke. “So, combined with the nearly two months of my regular wages, I would like to officially declare myself the winner.”

“I’m sure you would.” Liam collected himself and regained his graceful and sly posture as he stood up again. “But I’m afraid it’s too early to count our chips.”

He walked over to the mirror, the same one in which he’d looked into to fasten Sherlock’s tie at the beginning of their stay. That seemed so long ago. It was a glass pane set in wood, with a pivot on either side so that it could be tilted up or down to accommodate the height of the looker.

He spun it all the way to the back side, revealing a patchwork of notes, drawings, newspaper clippings, and pins all connecting them with the same blue yarn as was used to knit Sherlock’s scarf.

“What the hell…” Sherlock groaned. “Damn it, I noticed fingerprints on the mirror but I’d been too tired or distracted with my own case to check the back side.”

Liam smiled in the sweet and dominating way that only he could. “That wouldn’t have stopped me, but it would have spoiled the surprise.”

“Well all right, professor.” He waved his hand openly as if in invitation, or to give up. “Present your findings.”

Liam used one of his knitting needles as a pointer and tapped each item as he came to them.

“I began to suspect early on that Miss Reed’s predicament was not only due to massive mathematical mistakes in her records, but as a psychological need to pay for some past wrongdoing. Although, I didn’t know exactly what that was until I met the woman outside, her name is Maggie.”

“Maggie is an ex of hers or something,” Sherlock grumbled. “Her lover, despite that they’re both women. The resentment is palpable.”

“Good job, detective. Although, if you were my student, I would ask you to raise your hand before telling me what I already know.”

“Oh for Christ’s—“

Liam tapped a newspaper article with his pointer needle, cutting him off. “Following up on her story, I confirmed that the father, Ryland Reed, was known for charitable contributions, confirmed by the snippets of many newspaper articles stored away in his things which Loretta Reed was too struck with grief and guilt to look through. Also in those things, I found a small packet containing a ring. A woman’s wedding ring.”

He groaned. “I feel like my thing was half this long…”

“Mr. Holmes, were you perhaps that kind of student who often found himself in the principal's office?”

“Great deduction. Could you move on?”

“If you know what I’m about to say, then why don’t you solve it?”

“You’re a math teacher to the bone,” Sherlock groaned. “Fine, I was getting bored anyway.”

Liam took pleasure in watching him sink his mind into a case, no matter how banal. His fingers tented together in front of his face looked like branches of an old tree, accentuated by the skull ring he always wore.

“Obviously the loan is a fraud, and that means the loan shark’s business headquarters are nothing but a front for the mob. Either there was never any debt, or the debt was insubstantial. He died, she blamed herself. They saw an opportunity. But that ring—that’s an old wedding ring. Made of low grade silver, unassuming. From a time before the man was a successful business owner, perhaps.”

Sherlock got up and examined Liam’s board, walking back and forth in front of it. Liam felt an unexpected glow of pride and anticipation.

“A safety deposit box receipt,” he said, and pointed one finger to that article. “The only item withdrawn was this ring. Such a thing isn’t valuable enough to pay any debt, and has too much sentimental value. The only remaining motivation I can think of is that he intended to pass it down. He has no son, but if his daughter had such an inclination…”

“He died the next day. Aneurysm of the brain.”

Liam could see it in Sherlock’s eyes when the dots connected in his head. A sad story. “This is one of those cases,” he said, eyes still gazing at the board. “The truth’s been obscured for so long that bringing it to light will be like opening an old wound. But that’ll let it finally heal up proper.”

“I agree. I’d tell her right away, but I’m afraid of what she might do. She may alert the loan sharks inadvertently. We have to plan our moves first.”

“Agreed. So what’s next?”

“My primary focus now is the loan shark and how to prove their fraud. I think I know of a way, and so I would like to firmly declare myself the winner.”

Sherlock snapped out of his serious crime-analyzing mode at the mention of the game. He wrinkled his nose at the assertion. “How do you figure?”

“Because if I can prove the fraud, Loretta Reed stands to regain all of the money she has paid into their hands, as well as damages. She has already agreed to cut me 20% of whatever money I can bring into the shop. I calculate this amount to be three times over what you’ve presented in total tonight.”

Sherlock dropped back into the chair, chuckling to himself. “You haven’t done it yet, though. What are the odds on pinning down a mob front? They’ll disappear the moment they’re sued. That’s if you can even find a lawyer brave enough to write it up.”

Liam set the knitting needle aside and went back to sit at the edge of the bed. “Right. I was hoping we could talk about that, and then, with your consultation—we could consider it a draw.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Since I stand to lose anyway, I guess that’s fine. We can buy drinks for everyone if this works.”

“The problem is that even if I present the evidence to a court myself, there’s no guarantee that things will end the way I want them to.”

“And what do you want, Liam?”

He hugged his legs up to his chest in the bed, and leaned back against the headrest. He looked at the far wall. “You don’t intend to keep that money, do you? You wanted me to see it, but you are going to split it up amongst the children in the end so that their families can survive another day. Aren’t you?”

“Right. It’s not much, but it’s what I can do.”

“I don’t want to only help Miss Reed, I want to expose this entire group and burn out the corruption they’ve infected this city with.”

Sherlock sighed. “That’s a tall order.”

“It is. And I don’t trust myself to choose the right path.”

Sherlock stopped to consider that for a moment. His food had been eaten during the lecture, and the empty bowl laid in front of him. “What would you have done before?” He said. “I mean, what would the Lord of Crime have done?”

Liam looked through the window. Outside was a still, frozen landscape. “I’d infiltrate them, locate their records and accounts, then I’d kill them all and post their deeds in public sight. Such an act would reveal the corruption to the public, and stand as a warning to anyone who tried to do the same.”

“Not too bad, aside from the part where you kill them all.” He smiled like it was a joke, but Liam didn’t laugh.

“And what would you have done, Mister Detective?”

“I’d bend the law a bit, sure. I’d place a false tip to get Lestrade into the building. Or I’d break in and cause a commotion so he’d have grounds to enter and investigate. Then Lestrade would do what he does, because he’s a good man people can rely on.”

“Your Lestrade is not here, and I cannot say that description suits most police whom I have met.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then he looked up with an assured smile. “Listen. These guys aren’t up to your standards.”

Liam turned to meet his look. “My standards?”

“Yeah. They’re not masterminds, and they don’t have the power of countless nobles. They’re just petty criminals. Sloppy. Maybe they have a few cops and officials on the payroll to sweep things away, but I doubt a group as dull as this one has corrupted the entire police force. They can’t have dirt on everyone in town or they’d be a lot more powerful.”

Not like Milverton, he seemed to be saying, without wanting to invoke the name. Liam swallowed hard remembering that Sherlock had killed before, and for this very reason.

“I’m sure if we find ‘em, we can get some solid evidence. We can do it if we work together.”

“I agree.”

“When your leg’s all healed up and you can walk again, we’ll hit them hard.”

“And then we can drink to celebrate.”

***

Sherlock left the inn that day to drop off packets of money to the families whose children had been wronged at the factory.

They lived in meager shelters, all the family holed together in one bed, if they had a bed. Many used their domiciles only to sleep a few hours each day sitting straight up, shoulder to shoulder with their spouses and siblings, and spent every hour of waking at work, or walking to and from.

It made the little abode he shared with Liam look downright fancy.

He managed to slip the money into their rooms without causing any suspicion. No one spotted him except for one little boy at the last house. Not old enough to work yet. Sherlock worried he’d been left alone in the ramshackle house while the others were at work, but wasn’t sure what to do about that. He wasn’t sure of much of anything.

At least the boy looked well fed, and had a big smile on his face. He said nothing, but held out a tiny fistful of puffy pink flowers. Chrysanthemum, near the end of their bloom.

He took the flowers and stuffed them into his buttonhole. “Thanks.”

The boy beamed a funny grin at him with two baby teeth missing.

***

Sherlock reserved a little money for himself from the heist, although it wasn’t for a selfish wish. It would be paid forward as a tool that Liam could use. Whatever Liam did in the future, it would certainly do good for a great many people.

The gift wrap was a little extra, but some things are worth it.

The sun was beginning to set when he approached the inn, but the weather had been warmer this week. Less cold, anyway. His breath didn’t puff in the air as he walked with the long, heavy package under his arm.

It was to his dismay when he spotted Liam in the downstairs restaurant through the inn’s front windows. Sherlock had been hoping he’d be upstairs. He considered retreating before Liam could see, but those red eyes connected with his through the window as soon as he was within range of the place. Like he could sense he was coming.

Liam no doubt saw the package in his arms, because he gave him that weary smile of his. Sherlock could imagine what his sigh must sound like.

He stepped through the door. It wasn’t wall-to-wall crowded in the common area, but his appearance there with a gift in tow did draw a few eyes to him.

“Come sit,” Liam said, waving to the seat across from him at a table for two near the window.

Sherlock waded across the people in the room, apologizing as he bumped one patron with the box.

He forced a smile and set the package on the table. “A little embarrassing to open it in front of the whole crowd, isn’t it?”

Liam waited for him to sit. “On the contrary, if I open it upstairs, the embarrassment would be mine alone. At least here, everyone can appreciate how sentimental you are.”

Damn. Liam had seen him coming and got his act together before he came through the door. And here he was hoping he’d be flustered, or something. Wait, was he hoping that? He felt stupid all of the sudden.

“Are the flowers for me, too?”

“Ha, no way. These are mine.” He tapped the cute little flower in his buttonhole.

“Good, they suit you better at any rate.”

Sherlock groaned and Liam opened the gift. He made a show of carefully unwrapping the paper, but when his eyes fell on the contents, his movements slowed and his expression went soft.

Out of the box and the pretty red paper, he lifted a lacquered cane with a plain, steel knob for its head. He gave the cane an experimental lift, feeling its weight.

“There’s no saber inside, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“But it is metal,” Liam said. “Inside the wood casing there’s steel, isn’t there?”

“For self defense,” Sherlock said. “And a good weight for your training, I should think.”

Liam smiled. It wasn’t weary, nor was it abundantly joyful. Just honest. “Thank you. I will put it to good use.”

Sherlock snapped his fingers out of pure exuberance. “Ah! You accepted it!”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock expected him to say you shouldn’t have and to argue with him about returning it to the store. To see him accept a gift without question made his heart bubble up with excitement. “Well, want to try it out? I hope I got the right height for you.”

“We’re the same height so it should be just fine.” He stood, straining a little, and put his weight into the cane. It fit him perfectly, and he moved with it as naturally as he had once used the bladed cane that fell away into the river.

The men at the table next to theirs having a beer after work turned towards them, all smiles. One gave Liam a friendly clap on the back.

He’d been working on these people. No doubt he’d been assisting them with minor financing issues, or suggesting solid bets to place. The men regarded him like one would a nephew you’re proud of, and the women all scrambled to think of which daughter or niece would make a nice match for him.

Sherlock wondered, since it seemed that Liam was naturally more of an introvert than a socialite when they were alone, how much of this Liam was real? As Liam smiled and accepted a drink from the table, Sherlock wondered if this part was an act, or did being around common people bring something joyful and honest out of him? Most of all, he wondered if Liam knew how much people loved him.

Because when he smiled and laughed like that, it was difficult not to.

***

The two month mark.

Before any celebration could take place, Liam needed to see a doctor. A middle aged man came to the inn to see him. Loretta Reed had referred them to him. The first thing he did when they told him the bogus story about a vacation accident was scold them both for hiding from their parents.

When he took the hand saw to remove the cast, Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair he sat in until there were impressions of his fingernails in the wood.

Liam was as cool as ever. His face remained unreadable until the cast popped off in two pieces. Then he grimaced at the sight of his leg.

It was dirty and blemished from being inside the cast for so long. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed. All he felt was relief when he could see Liam’s leg whole and unbroken again.

The doctor continued his assessment, asking Liam to move and to try stepping.

Liam did so, and it seemed from the smile on the doctor’s face that he was doing well.

“This is the power of youth,” the doctor said. “You’re healing up excellently.”

“May I walk?”

“Yes, in moderation. You’ll need to continue using the cane, and I want you to get daily exercise. But you must pace yourself. If you notice any inflammation, take care of it immediately.”

The doctor continued to show him a routine of stretches. Liam was instructed to move his foot around into these positions several times a day.

“You may feel some pain or soreness, but it shouldn’t persist. If the pain worsens, call me back here or come to my office.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be on our way before long,” Liam said. “But I will call the best doctor I can find, if that happens.”

He moved on to check Liam’s shoulder and his ribs, and found those to be well healed.

“It could take all year or even longer before you’re in shape to do any serious athletics,” the doctor said. “Take it easy, unless you want to suffer permanent damage.”

He left Liam with a few anti-inflammatory drugs and a moisturizing balm.

Once he was gone, Sherlock exploded with the excitement he’d been holding in. “Liam, you’re better now!”

“Not quite,” Liam said. “Looks like I’ll be using that cane you got me a while longer.”

“Still! Come on, we should celebrate.”

“Our celebration will be held tomorrow night,” he said. “And then we will be leaving to do our work, and move on.”

“No fun at all…”

That got a tiny smirk out of him at least. He looked at his leg. “Would you help me to the shower?”

“You’ll have to wait an hour for your turn if you go now. Why don’t you let me wash it for you?”

“I would rather… I suppose, I mean, it would be asking a lot of you…”

“Nonsense. You’ve been washing me every night, so don’t claim it’s some huge thing now.”

“You were working then and I wasn’t—“

“I don’t want to hear anymore about it.” Sherlock was already walking to the water closet where they kept basins of clean water. He followed Liam’s usual routine, taking the washcloth and the two bowls and soap.

“Im perfectly capable—“

“I told you, not another word.”

Liam obeyed him for possibly the first time. It felt monumental. Sherlock knelt but the bed where he sat and began to wash him.

At first he rinsed him with a gingerly touch, but seeing how much filth had collected there, he began to scrub. The water grew cloudy as he dipped it again.

Once the skin was clean and he toweled him off, he began to spread the balm.

Liam’s skin was dry from being in the case for so long. It drank up the moisture like a sponge. He had little blond baby hairs on his shins, barely perceptible. Otherwise, completely smooth. Sherlock found his hand lingering a second too long, lost for a moment in the soft feel of his skin. He wondered what that expanse of soft leg above his knee would feel like, and snapped his hand away.

“Done,” he said. “You can take a proper shower later when most the residents have gone to bed.”

“Oh, may I? Doctor?” Liam teased, but there wasn’t any bite in it. He pulled his bare leg back underneath the sheets.

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock noticed Liam double checking himself for modesty, that his legs were hidden underneath the sheets in the bed. Then he called out to the visitor through the door to come in.

It was Miss Reed bringing their regular dinner. A nice excuse to check on Liam, Sherlock thought.

“So? Did you get the cast off?”

“He did, but he’s too shy to show a lady.”

Liam scoffed at that, but his cheeks became a telltale pink. Sherlock laughed.

“I’m glad. Although, it’ll be sad to see you go. Is tomorrow really your last night? You can stay if you like.”

“Our families will be wondering where we are come Christmas time,” Sherlock said. “We have to come clean eventually.”

Her expression darkened into melancholy at that. Her voice sounded somehow more distant. “Be careful, both of you.”

“Miss Reed,” Liam said, interjecting before she could turn to leave. “I’d like to meet you tomorrow for an important discussion. Downstairs, before your restaurant opens.”

“You can’t tell me right now?”

Liam gave her one of his very convincing polite smiles. “It needs to be tomorrow.”

She wasn’t a stupid person and not used to following others’ instructions, either. Sherlock wondered if maybe Liam got along better with people who didn’t just do what he said. “Till morning, then.” She left.

“She’ll be sore if she finds out we’ve booked a room somewhere else,” Sherlock said.

“It can’t be avoided. Once the operation is underway, we can’t risk contact with her.”

“Two more nights.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m gonna miss this place in a weird way.”

“As am I.”

Chapter Text

Early that morning, Liam and Sherlock descended the stairs to the common room. Through the inn’s front window, the day was dawning. Rays of light broke over the line of buildings beyond. The common area was quiet except for the sound of Miss Reed placing silverware at each table setting, making ready for the early crowd.

She saw them at the top of the stairs but kept going, never wasting a single moment. It wasn’t until they reached the bottom that she finally set aside the silverware and gave them her attention. A smile pulled at her lips as she looked at Liam standing with only his cane. “Good to see you without that heavy thing on your leg.”

“It feels good,” Liam said, smiling pleasantly. He motioned to the table. “Please sit.”

Sherlock followed. “Not taking you away from the oven are we?”

“The rolls are already done baking, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”

“Ha, then everything’s fine.”

Liam sat, and they followed his lead. Sherlock took the seat next to his, and Loretta sat across.

He placed the folder down in front of himself where a plate would have gone had they not interrupted her work and opened the cover to review the contents.

“Here’s what I’ve found as far as discrepancies,” Liam said, and passed a paper to her. She took it, and the way her eyes widened was a reasonable response to the number written there.

“But this says… this says I’m over paying?” She turned her eyes up, searching Liam for some explanation.

“Yes. Furthermore, the number they have quoted you as the total debt plus interest isn’t correct. Both you and they have been sliding the numbers. But while you were doing this unintentionally, they certainly did their part on purpose.”

“I…”

He decided to omit even more detail—that the loan was likely never signed in the first place, and her father may have never had a gambling problem at all. He would prove that with evidence after the strike.

“You could try to sue them,” Sherlock interjected. “But we’ve got a better idea.”

She looked at him, worried. “What are you talking about?”

Liam sighed. It was a lot to explain. “The agency that loaned you money isn’t legitimate, and at the first sign of trouble they’ll disappear. And if they’re exceedingly resourceful, they could come knocking in the future with demands and threaten violence. That’s why we’d rather you didn’t confront them directly.”

“Should I go to the police?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock said this firmly enough that she took it to heart, Liam could see it in her eyes. She was smart, after all. “We want to deliver the information to the police, but in such a way that won’t implicate you as the one who tipped them off.”

“Mister Jones and I will take care of things, so don’t worry at all.

Sherlock groaned. “Could you say it any more ominous than that?”

Loretta’s brow wrinkled and he could see the premature aging in her face. Her eyes darted between his and Sherlock’s, trying to keep up. “You two are into something fishy, aren’t you?”

“That’s no concern of yours,” Liam said, smiling. “We are well practiced at this sort of thing, I assure you.”

“Don’t the two of you go doing something stupid on my account.” She frowned, and her tone was like that of a mother scolding two small children. “Stay out of trouble, I mean it.”

Liam chuckled. “We will.” A lie, he knew. He was still good at lying. That settled, he slid an envelope across the table. “Please open this.”

She did, and her eyes opened even more than when she’d read that large number. She took out the silver ring. “This belonged to my mother. Why do you have it?”

Next he handed her the receipt, the same one Sherlock had noticed on his board. “On the day of your father’s death, he went to the bank and withdrew this ring from his safety deposit box.”

She stared at the ring, as if trying to find answers inside it. “Why would he have done that?”

“I would say the most common reason to retrieve a ring like this would be to pass it down to the next generation to marry. You have no brothers who would have been considering a proposal, so I am left to assume it was for you.”

“Was he going to give this to me?” Although she was still firmly in the denial part of this shock, the gears were turning. “To me?” She repeated, like a whisper to herself.

“I don’t see any other reason he would have withdrawn it.”

“Maybe he needed to think about her, maybe he was going to pray.”

“Aren’t there other possessions of hers he could have used if that were the case?”

After that denial came the anger. Her eyes flashed up at him. He had never seen that kind of expression on her face. Teeth grit and brows pressed tight. “Why are you digging into my personal affairs? You said you were an accountant, not a private detective!”

The private detective was Sherlock, but it was a fair thing to say.

“Come on, Liam,” Sherlock sighed, and pushed himself up from the table. “You gave it to her. If she can’t take the truth, that’s all we can do.”

Liam ignored him and spoke to her. “I promise, it was an accidental discovery I made while looking at your accounts.”

He watched as her tough veneer crumbled. Her left hand gripped the ring in a tight fist and the other went to hide her face as she took one sharp gasp and then began to sob.

Sherlock grimaced. Big shows of emotion Werner his forte. Still, he raised a hand to pat her shoulder, and however awkward his comfort was, it seemed to soften her up a small amount.

“There must be some other reason,” she said. “He wouldn’t have—“

“I believe this ring is important evidence that your father loved you. This love must have overcome the initial anger and disappointment he might have felt. In the end, even if he didn’t approve wholly, he was on the road to acceptance. His death was a tragic but unrelated coincidence.”

She sat there for a moment, crying. Then she went silent. After some time she stood up, still visibly shaking despite her best attempts to hide it. “Thank you for bringing this to me,” she said. “And thanks for your warning, too. Now, I think I’d prefer to be alone until the restaurant opens.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. “Come on, Liam.”

Liam helped himself up using the cane Sherlock had given him. “Thank you for listening, and for your help.”

***

The rest of the day was spent preparing for their move.

Sherlock distributed the weight in their bags so that Liam could carry the lighter suitcases. They’d be on their way the next morning to another hotel, a switch that served to cover their tracks and to protect Miss Reed from any involvement.

“Ready,” Sherlock said. He had everything packed except the suits they intended to wear the next morning.

Liam’s eyes scanned the room. “We don’t have much, and yet the room seems so empty now that it’s been packed away.”

Come on now, don’t be glum. It’s time to celebrate!”

“My apologies. I may be nervous. This isn’t the best plan. Perhaps if we waited, I could think of something more solid.”

“We can’t wait,” Sherlock said, and laughed and slapped him on the back. “Look, you just hate this plan because I thought of it instead of you.”

“Not at all. I wanted you to guide my plans, but…”

“Liam, it’s a joke. C’mon, could you smile or something?”

Looking at Sherlock trying so hard to cheer him up, it became difficult not to grant his request.

***

When dinner time passed and there was no appearance from Miss Reed, Liam feared perhaps they’d gone too far with their presentation.

Sherlock slipped his shoes on and took his jacket off its peg. “Hey, it’s time to drink. Let’s go.”

“I’m not sure if we’ll be served down there.”

Sherlock sighed. “You can’t assume somebody’s ticked at you when there are plenty of other explanations. And if she is…” he shrugged. “We’ll drink somewhere else.”

Liam couldn’t believe how easily convinced he was when the reassurance came from Sherlock’s mouth. He gathered his coat and cane, and joined Sherlock.

Before they could descend the stairs at the end of the hall, Sherlock tightened a hand around his arm and pulled him away from the railing. He pressed a finger to his lips to sign for silence, then pointed to the downstairs.

Down there, amongst the evening crowd, the two women were sitting face to face at a table by the window. Loretta and Maggie.

Sherlock leaned forward.

“You’re eavesdropping,” Liam said. He hadn’t considered it before, but was unsurprised to realize that Sherlock could read lips. “I never imagined you’d be so nosey.”

“I’m a detective. Nosiness is part of my primary skill set.”

Liam looked away in attempts to protect their privacy, but he caught enough without meaning to. Expressions of mixed fondness and regret. Apologies on their lips.

“Perhaps we should cancel for now. I wouldn’t want our presence to disturb them.”

Sherlock got a funny little smirk on his face. “Stay here.”

Liam folded his arms across his chest and frowned as he watched Sherlock sneak down the steps. Heleft Liam’s eye line, but he could very well imagine the path he’d be taking around the darkest corner of the room.

Soon, Sherlock ascended the stairs again having drawn no attention to himself whatsoever, and especially not from the two women.

Not that he doubted Sherlock’s abilities, but he attributed his success more to the two women’s absorption in each other.

When he returned to him, he had a bottle of scotch whisky.

Liam sighed. “You left money for it, right?”

“‘Course I did. Who do you think I am?”

***

Liam thought they’d go back to their room, but Sherlock suggested a change of scenery.

“I’ve never been up here,” Liam said as he followed Sherlock up the stairs and out onto the building’s roof. There was a wide flat area ringed with a brick half wall. Twelve posts stuck straight up into the sky, each strung together with empty clothes lines like a spider’s web.

The night was dark blue and cloudy weather blocked out all but the most brilliant stars. Liam’s breath puffed white.

He watched Sherlock move to the most scenic corner of the rooftop, from which you could look down the city streets for about a mile.

“I checked it out a couple times,” Sherlock said. “Casing the place.”

“I wouldn’t be offended if you needed some time to yourself,” Liam said with a laugh. “It has been two months and a week at this point.”

Sherlock looked back at him blankly. “I never thought of that.”

Even when they argued, he never left the room in anger. Liam wasn’t certain he’d have had such self control, if he could have walked. At any rate, he’d have to try something different if he wanted to tease him. “This would have made it quite simple to cheat and have a cigarette.”

Sherlock cocked his head back and gave him a sly look. “You’d have smelled it.”

That look of his took him right back to the Noahtic, with a pant of mixed regret and warmth. He knew as soon as their eyes met that this man was going to be influential in his life, but if he’d only known….

Liam swallowed back that emotion and gave a laugh to Sherlock’s comment. “Well? You’ve won. Let’s open your winner’s prize.”

Sherlock looked at the bottle in his hand and then back at Liam. “So I won after all?”

Liam joined him by the brick wall that edged the building’s roof and rested his arms on it, looking over and down at the city. The wind made his hair whip around his face. He pushed a strand behind his ear and found it had grown long enough to stay there.

“My plan may have greater returns in the long term, but we’ll be far from this place before we see them. So with only my earnings in the shop to show, you’ve beaten me with a healthy margin.”

He sulked. “It’s no fun when you hand it over to me like that…”. His ponytail flickered behind him in the wind along with the tail of his scarf as he struggled with the cork of the bottle.

“Don’t break it,” Liam said.

“I’m not gonna—!”

The cork popped and Sherlock splashed the dark liquor on himself. He looked down, worried, then laughed as he realized it had only gotten on his shirt—one of only three shirts he owned—and not on the scarf, which was darker in color and much easier to replace.

Liam sighed.

Sherlock, accepting his win, took one long swig. Then he held the bottle out.

Liam took it and drank in small sips.

“You ain’t gotta be polite.”

“I like the taste.”

Sherlock wagged his hand demandingly to pass the bottle back. “Booze that doesn’t burn on the way down isn’t worth drinking, that’s my motto.”

Liam agreed, but remained silent on the matter. As Sherlock drank more, Liam noticed a sparkle in his hair. It had begun to snow ever so lightly. Sherlock looked up, and in one moment of ethereal beauty, a snowflake landed in his eyelashes. Then he wiped it away with a grimey hand and snorted.

“Should have worn your hat.”

“I’m fine, stop worrying all the time.”

Worrying. He had been doing nothing but worry. Worrying about Sherlock, about his brothers. The worry was almost as terrible as the guilt. Now that he could walk again, he could take an active role, and that anxiety would be diminished. “Next time, I’ll make our money, and you can rest.”

“That sounds like a different kind of worrying.”

“It’s repayment.”

“You’re paying me back right now. Just share this bottle with me. That’s my lofty request. We can both work next time—and not at some damn sweat shop, I’ll tell ya that.”

Liam shook his head in dismay, but accepted the bottle extended to him. He took a swig this time, much less dainty, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He felt his head begin to swim. It was time to stop. “Is that enough? We’ll need our wits about us tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay.” Sherlock took another deep gulp, but showed no signs of drunkenness. Liam supposed his tolerance was high.

The city below them was alive with lantern light and the sound of distant laughter. City people were out having drinks and food after a hard day’s work. The gold light of the street made a strong contrast to Sherlock standing beside him in shadowy blue hues.

He found Sherlock looking at him. His eyes were the same inky blue as the night sky. His expression was complicated in that moment in a way that Liam rarely saw in him. Hopefulness and trepidation. “Liam?”

“Yes?” There was no one else around. No need to say his name like that. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no. I just, I decided I’d tell you before we move on. So I guess I should just…”. In spite of that declaration, he broke eye contact and stared up at the snowflakes peacefully drifting down.

Liam waited.

“I think maybe I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock kept looking at the city after saying that. He didn’t ask for a response. Between them there was only the distant sound of merrymaking and the rush of a gentle wind.

It wasn’t shock that Liam was feeling. He wasn’t surprised to hear it. All at once he realized it was something he’d known and had been ignoring. He’d tried to deny it because regardless of how obvious the truth may have been, it should not have been this way. Sherlock should not love him. All the many reasons why he shouldn’t played out in Liam’s head like a circus act, and it took an effort to shut that part of his mind down and think through it.

Regardless of should or should not, it was so. That was apparent. Liam’s next question was what he should do now with the fact made unavoidable.

For the second time in minutes, his thoughts returned to the Noahtic, and how he knew. He knew, somehow, that the two of them were linked—but he was too logical and detached from emotion to listen to what his heart was telling him even then.

He wasn’t certain of where along the journey that feeling had evolved into romantic love. Perhaps it was after the first test. Maybe it happened when they solved that murder together on that train to London. It had set in without a doubt by the time they met in Durham. When he met him at his flat that night in the dark, his heart was twisted into deep knots.

None of that mattered. What mattered was what good telling Sherlock any of this would accomplish. All it would do would be to pull Sherlock even deeper into hell with him.

They were on a shadowy path now, darkness and light dappled together. But Sherlock belonged in the sun.

He wondered if he said no, if he said he could not return those feelings, if he could convince Sherlock to finally return home.

How awful, he thought. I am terrible.

He couldn’t lie to Sherlock and tell him he felt nothing. To do so would be like striking his face with the bladed cane as he held him dangling over the river all over again.

What, then? What would be best for him…

“You don’t need to answer me,” Sherlock said, looking at him now. He was smiling, although there was already visible pain beneath it. Liam’s time to think had expired.

“It isn’t that I don’t—“ He stopped, unable to say the words love you aloud as if they were a terrible spell. It’s not that I don’t love you with every fiber of my immortal soul he thought, but couldn’t say. “I can’t accept it. Your love. It’s a beautiful gift that I don’t deserve.”

“It isn’t about deserving it,” Sherlock said. There was a frustrated laugh in his voice as he looked back up at the stars. “Ah, damn. What am I trying to say here…?”

Liam shrank back a step and held himself. He was cold, but that wasn’t the reason. “Perhaps we should revisit this topic when both of us are sober.”

“I’m not drunk! I just…”. He sighed, and went on in a resigned tone. “I wanted you to know.”

Of course. Sherlock was honest. He would never hide such a thing from him. Especially not when they lived in such compromising circumstances.

He wondered how this must seem from Sherlock’s side. He must have assumed I wouldn’t love him back.. Perish the thought.

“In that case, thank you for telling me. I wish I could answer with certainty, but… I…”

“Ha!” Sherlock laughed, and this time he meant it. He turned, grinning. “I doubt any problem in this world has ever left you stumped. That’s got to mean something.”

“Indeed,” Liam said. He wasn’t as mirthful about it, but if Sherlock could smile, that was all he needed then. He could force a smile of his own. “You may congratulate yourself for the accomplishment. I am quite… stumped.”

“I’m cold,” Sherlock said, and took a few steps towards the door to the stairwell. “Let’s go back. And don’t worry about it. Forget all about it, at least for now.”

“Sherlock, I…”

I don’t deserve you. I feel like I’m chaining you to a miserable life. I want what’s best for you. I want you to be surrounded by your family and friends. I want you to be happy.

He could have said any of those things, but instead, he followed Sherlock silently down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Better words came to Sherlock much later as they often did. It occurred to him that perhaps this was going too fast and too much had happened—but by that point it was too late to go back.

Liam asked him if it was right that they shared the bed one more time. Sherlock reassured him that things didn’t need to change, and they took to either side as usual. He worried that Liam would be too fretful over his confession to sleep, but Liam’s aptitude for sleep proved stronger than that.

His own sleep was more elusive. He wasn’t one to worry about if he’d done the right thing, or what was going on in other people’s heads. He had only ever profiled people in reference to their criminal motivations.

Part of him was happy, because Liam hadn’t said no outright. But it nagged at him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Liam smiled at him when he jumped that night on the bridge, and how similar it was to the way he looked on the rooftop. Like it was too late.

When Liam turned over in his sleep reaching for him as he often did unconsciously, Sherlock gently turned him back and tucked his arms under his blanket.

The next day, they were greeted at the stairs by the two hopeless women. The blonde he’d spoken to on the street, the artist—she was standing next to Miss Reed.

He wondered how that had gone. Not a disaster, if they were both here. Not a perfect success, since Maggie still wasn’t wearing that ring, and the two stood apart from each other as if they were afraid to touch. He wondered if it had been more or less successful than his conversation with Liam last night.

That would be apt. Being aware of whatever it was between them, but both uncertain of how they should feel. As if simply feeling any kind of way could ever be wrong.

Sherlock nodded to both and then spoke to Miss Reed. “Ya all right?”

“Getting there,” She said. “Do you need help with those bags? We’d be happy to help you.”

“Don’t even try. What kinda able guy would have two women take his luggage?”

She shrugged off his attitude and turned her attention to Liam. Maggie laughed and hung around. She seemed more interested in pestering him.

“One for the road?” Maggie said to him, grinning and leaning over as he set down the heavy suitcase. “I know you took that scotch.”

“Pff. Thanks, I’ll have a shot—but that’s all.”

Liam looked away from his own conversation with Miss Reed, scolding him with a flash of his eyes while wearing a smile. At least that hadn’t changed.

Maggie went to get a shot from the bar.

“You know, you’re an artist but I never saw your work,” he said, following her. He took the shot and knocked it back.

“Then you’ll have to visit again.”

“If it’s in the cards.”

They returned to Liam and Loretta, who seemed to have gotten themselves into a thanking match, each trying to convince the other how grateful they were.

“We’re square,” Miss Reed said, and waved her hands frantically to stop Liam from taking out his purse. “I can’t thank you enough. I wish I had money to pay you for what I’ll be saving in the future. But as it is, well… I can settle your bill, and send you off dressed up warm and fed.”

“That’s more than enough. Thank you, sincerely.”

They were served their last breakfast in Edinburgh and enjoyed it in the company of new friends whose faces they’d likely never see again.

***

Walking away from the inn felt like leaving a home of many years. Sherlock hoped that their adventures would lead them here again someday.

As they waited by the corner for a cart to arrive, Sherlock looked down the hill where the textile factory was churning away as always. He had spent his time there trying to keep a low profile, and so, by his own design, he hadn’t grown close to anyone. Still, he wondered how many of them would develop cotton lung, how many would be maimed by machinery. Even if they managed to live to an old age, what kind of life was that?

“One thing at a time,” Liam said, as if he knew. Like he always knew.

Sherlock realized that he hadn’t seen Liam in the sun in such a long while. They’d only left the hotel together that once for dinner. He liked the way the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his eyes in the bright morning light. How they peered at him from under it.

“You really took a liking to that old bag, huh?” He said, seeing the fondness is Liam’s expression.

“Please.” Liam closed his eyes momentarily, shaking his head in dismay. “She can’t be more than ten years older than either of us.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I wonder if those two worked it out. They didn’t say.”

Liam’s expression seemed distant. His eyes looked aside at nothing in particular. “If they’d go so far as to reconnect after such a deep wound, I’m sure they only need time.”

“I’d hope so, yeah.”

The horse-drawn cart came to take them to their destination, a smaller hotel on the opposite side of town.

It was a modest thing. No roof, but clean at least. When the horses began their trot, the gentle breeze knocked Liam’s hat off, so he held it in his lap. His hair fluttered around his face sparkling in the sun. He didn’t smile, but his eyes were bright.

During the ride, neither spoke for a while. Liam was thinking.

Sherlock found that he didn’t mind sitting in silence with Liam. Looking back to how restless he’d been on the train, he could help but notice the change in himself over such a short time. Peace and quiet. Free time. Precious things he had taken for granted.

“She may have fed us a little too well,” Liam said with a sigh. “I feel like I can hardly move.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” Sherlock said, amused. “Don’t worry, we’ll get a good walk in later.”

Liam gave him a wane smile, and that was the end of their conversation.

***

They unloaded their items at the hotel, prepared themselves for the mission, and left soon after.

The target was a building downtown. The criminal organization which had scammed Miss Reed and many others used this building to front their illegitimate businesses. An old building, he’d been able to find some blueprints and records about the structure. Three stories tall and located between two adjacent buildings just as tall.

Getting there was the easy part. Nobody would be following them yet. Returning from their destination would be more difficult. But instead of apprehension, Sherlock was giddy at the prospect of learning a few of Liam’s tricks.

By the time they reached the location of the loanshark’s building, it was about four in the afternoon and so deep into winter that the sun would be setting before long.

They walked down a city street, filing in with a group of similarly-dressed men heading home from work.

At the end of the street, they split and walked in opposite directions without a word.

Liam was in charge of the smoke. Sherlock had used his expertise in chemistry to cook up a few special bombs. The contents wouldn’t explode, but would emit smoke in a dramatic fashion.

Liam would use his analytical abilities to place the smoke bombs in strategic locations with the goal of convincing the inhabitants that the building was on fire, and leading them to the exits that he preferred.

That corralling of the people inside would allow Sherlock to sneak in relatively unseen and find crucial evidence.

The down side to this plan was that Sherlock would have to find something that would surely be very well hidden and escape from the building before the ruse was discovered.

That was the part Liam hated, of course. Sherlock was tickled at how deductive Liam’s reasoning was for entirely different purposes than his was.

Plans where something could go wrong, no matter how small that possibility may be, were not acceptable. He told Sherlock he’d had as many as twenty contingency plans for a single operation. As many as it took to account for every possibility. Sherlock would love to see them all laid out…

He shook his head clear. One thing about that grueling work at the mill was it took his mind off things. He wouldn’t have that luxury anymore. Time to focus.

***

Liam did his part, making two circles around the building. The first round was to pinpoint the weakest areas and count the guards. The second was to deliver the bombs.

Sherlock’s bombs wouldn’t start smoking for a few seconds after Liam dropped them, giving him plenty of time to sneak one inside a back alley door that was thought to be locked. He tossed one a waste basket and another into the nearest corner he saw inside. He repeated this at a few points.

If there was a guard at a door, he’d kick the bomb over to them without stopping or turning his head, making it hard to tell which direction it had come from even if they did happen to spot it.

They were such clever little things, he really needed to commend Sherlock for that later. Their delay was long enough for Liam to be long gone before the smoke began. The smoke was so gradual at first that it might not be noticed until it finally burst into billowing black clouds. If someone did see and tried to put one out, a good stomp or a bucket of water wouldn’t do the trick. They would go until they ran out of fuel, and needed to be smothered with an airtight container.

Once he’d finished his task by leaving a total of eight bombs in and around the building’s outer hallways, his job was to sit and wait. He needed to rest. If he pushed his leg too hard he could injure himself and the whole process of healing he’d endured thus far may be undone.

Sherlock would give him a signal, and he would calmly head back to the hotel along his own course, separately from Sherlock, in different directions and using various modes of transportation to throw anyone off his trail, just in case. Sherlock would do the same.

He waited, hidden away in an adjacent alley, listening. Men were screaming and scrambling to find the source of the fire. The bells on the firefighter’s wagon approached from far away. He calculated that Sherlock had about twenty minutes before they reached the site, and it became clear that there was no fire. The building was oozing smoke through every window and door, but there was no flame.

He watched the sky for the signal, a spark in the air—just a strange phenomenon born out of the fire to anyone else, but recognizable by its blue color as Sherlock’s custom flare. Time passed. He saw none.

In the case of no signal, he had agreed to the plan being that he’d alert the police and firefighters to another person’s presence in the building, and leave it in their hands. It might get Sherlock arrested, but he’d be alive and Liam could escape.

But that was Sherlock’s plan B, not his.

***

Sherlock wore his scarf over his nose and mouth and a cap pulled down over his head to hide his identity. Not that anyone could have seen him in this smoke. He had to crouch low to see.

Should have burned the place down for real, he thought. The decor was as superficially lavish as it was tasteless. Everything was trimmed in cheap, false gold. On the second floor, in a large central office, there was a stuffed tiger frozen for eternity in a leaping pose. What a disgrace to the proud creature.

No trace of the man in charge. Either he didn’t come to work today, or he’d fled. The desk was showy and pointless, too. Not a pen or a typewriter to be seen anywhere near. The desk drawers were full of drugs and liquor. With a little more time he might have snatched that, but he didn’t.

If the boss didn’t keep the most important files close at hand, they must be in some sort of records room where they’d look legitimate until further inspection.

Down the hall, he found such a room. Tricky to pick locks in the darkness and smoke, but nothing more than a nuisance.

And what well organized records they were! He quickly found Loretta Reed as well as a few others from the same pile. That way they’d assume he’d simply grabbed a bunch—not that he’d come here at her behest.

He scanned through them quickly, striking a match to try and see in the dark. The smoke was getting worse, and even crouched on the floor, he had to resist the urge to cough. And it was hot. Why was it hot?

There was no way one of his own bombs could have sparked a flame, and yet heat in the floor had to mean there was a fire. Soon that was confirmed as light flickered from underneath the floorboards.

He had to get out and signal Liam. He had to do it now.

But all would be for naught if these papers were wrong, so he scanned them for the points of information they needed.

Yes, they were great. He began to pack them into his briefcase.

When he rose, he was looking down the barrel of a gun.

He couldn’t see the face of the man who held the gun very well, but he could make out a beefy figure stretching his shirt around the arms and waist—mass produced. Gaudy shoes with a plaid pattern and gold buttons.

“Don’t move,” he said, and coughed.

Sherlock groaned. He thought about disarming the man, but he was a goon, and goons could be better in a fight than you’d think. He wasn’t quite close enough to reach out and knock the gun away, or to sweep his feet.

“Back up, get away from that shit you got there.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He knew he had to bullshit, and in a Scottish accent. “Put the gun away, ye bampot. Shits burnin’! The gaffer told me ta’ save the important bits that I could!”

He wasn’t buying it, but the act took him so off guard that he hesitated a bit. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’ve got five seconds to make your peace with god.”

What a generous guy, giving him the chance to repent his sins. Sherlock looked around the room for something or anything he could use to turn the tables here, and he was about to at least make an attempt to disarm him even if it meant he’d take a bullet—

“Drop it.”

It was Liam’s voice. Through the shadow of smoke and against the orange and red flames coming up through the floor, Liam stood holding the guilded pistol given to him by Lady Penieres. The business end was against the man’s temple.

The goon’s gun fell to the floor and Liam kicked it over to him. Sherlock grabbed it and closed up the briefcase all in one fast motion, then jumped up and ran behind him.

“They’re not looking for you,” Liam said to the man frozen at the end of his gun’s barrel. “I suppose you were taking advantage of the situation to rob your boss? If you value your life, run. Get in my way again, and you won’t get even those five seconds to repent.”

Then Liam shoved him down with his cane. Not hard enough to injure, but to buy them a few more seconds. He and Sherlock ran as fast as they could down the hall before he would have the chance to get up.

***

They ran down the hall, Sherlock making way with the briefcase in hand, and Liam following as fast as he could with his bad leg.

As they ran, orange flame licked through the corners of the floor and real smoke from burning wood choked their lungs.

“I didn’t put anything flammable in those bombs!” Sherlock shouted.

“Your bombs performed admirably, but we failed to account for human behavior.”

“Shit.” Did someone figure out the bombs were fake and decide to take advantage of the situation? Maybe they assumed it was a police raid and decided to burn the evidence. Maybe they thought it’d be the perfect situation to steal from their boss.

He stopped at the stairwell for Liam to catch up. “Why are you here? We agreed—“

“You were taking too long.”

“For fuck’s sake—“

The stairs below them dropped down into a hellish fiery room.

If they ran down the fire escape, there’d be a crowd of people including residents of the building who would all spot them. They’d end up arrested and on the front page news that way. They had to go up.

Liam’s steps on the stairs were too slow. He heard him coughing.

“I ran into a tiger, what’s your excuse?” He returned to the step where a Liam was struggling.

“My leg is broken!”

His exasperated expression would have been funny if not for their impending peril. Sherlock halted and turned. “Hold onto this briefcase.”

“What are you doing?“

In spite of that question, he did as told and held the briefcase tight. Sherlock doubled over, grabbed Liam with both arms around the legs, and hoisted him up and over his shoulder.

Liam shoutedSherlock!, which would have been problematic if anyone else was stupid enough to run upstairs in a burning building.

Sherlock summoned all his strength and hauled Liam up the stairs. Liam began to hiss objections at him and he’s pretty sure he heard him call him a brute and a foozler, but he didn’t struggle.

They reached the roof where they could at least breathe clean air, but the building was going up.

“Something’s not right,” Liam said, wiggling like a cat that doesn’t want to be held anymore. “Put me down, you lunatic!”

“Not yet.”

Something wasn’t right. The fire was out of control. Sherlock figured the owner of the stuffed tiger must have bribed the fire fighters to work slow enough that the evidence of his crimes would be erased, or something like that. That was unfortunate, it meant the police wouldn’t be able to find the remaining records. Sherlock only stole maybe a quarter of what he could find. Liam was right. It was a stupid, messy plan.

But none of that was important to him as they stood atop a burning building. He had to get Liam and himself out of there alive and worry about the rest later.

He scanned the roof’s edges quickly and saw a point where the next building nearly met, short by just the width of a few feet. A tiny alley.

Still holding Liam, he started running.

Liam seemed resigned to the fact that his life was now in the hands of an idiot, and held him tight.

He took the leap.

***

For a moment in the air, Liam felt pure excitement. Whether it was the adrenaline or the pure chaos their plan had unfolded into, he was exhilarated. He felt joy.

Then Sherlock crashed to the surface of the nearby building’s roof and that heartbeat of joy was shattered by pain.

Sherlock—poor, sweet, Sherlock—tried to take the brunt of the impact, but Liam was knocked off his back and the both of them tumbled for several feet.

Liam managed to save his bad leg by rolling and ended up with nothing more than a few bruises. But it hurt. As accustomed as he was to pain, there was no denying that.

“Mother fucker,” Sherlock swore and sat up. “You all right?”

Liam remained lying on his back, catching his breath. “I’m good.”

Liam heard a match strike and sat up to find Sherlock smoking a cigarette.

“Are you serious now? After all this time spent on quitting, that’s what’s going to break your good record?”

“I figure I inhaled enough smoke tonight anyway, may as well get some nicotine in there.”

“Uhg.” Liam coughed. He didn’t want to move. “At least give me one.”

Sherlock spoke in a mumble with the cigarette pressed between his lips. “I only had one on me, just in case.”

“Oh, you’re a right bastard aren’t you?”

Sherlock cackled a laugh up at the sky. “I like it when you curse like that.” He held out the lit cigarette. “I can share.”

Liam stared at it, dumbfounded. They’d been sharing everything else, after all.

He took the cigarette from his hand and brought it to his lips. The drag he took from it was laced with Sherlock’s scent.

One puff was all he needed, and he handed it back. “What was that about a tiger?”

“Stuffed,” Sherlock said.

Liam took that as if it explained everything.

***

Battered and bruised, they rode home part way in a carriage. It was the same circuitous route they’d planned to avoid suspicion, but seeing as how spectacularly fucked their plan already was, they decided to at least do it together

Sherlock kept looking over at Liam’s face. It was only seven or so, but he caught him nearly dozing off and back jolting awake.

“Come on, Liam,” he sighed. “Just rest your head on me. You always do.”

“But…”

He didn’t want to get into that. Not tonight. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

Liam’s head dropped like a heavy weight onto his shoulder. His breaths went slow and steady, instantly asleep.

Sherlock smiled as he thought. Even if Liam didn’t love him in the end—at least not in the way that lovers loved each other—even if it turned out that way, this was enough. Being with him, having these adventures. He’d be happy.

He thought that, and yet the way Liam’s eyelashes tickled his neck made his heart ache.

***

They never intended to stay the night at the other hotel, it was merely a meeting place and storage for their bags. However, since Liam was too tired to walk far and Sherlock could use some rest himself, they decided to indulge in their hotel room.

It wasn’t as nice as the one at Miss Reed’s inn. You could hear everyone else in the inn through the walls, and there wasn’t even a running shower. But it was bigger, at least. It had two beds. No more awkward conversations about was it okay to share the bed and so on.

They split a meal of crackers, cheese, and dried meat.

“I’m gonna miss that food most of all,” Sherlock said, and washed down the food with plain water.

“Do you know how to cook much?” Liam looked at him with that curious expression that hid nothing. Cute.

“Only a little. But I’ll learn.”

Sherlock finished his share and sprawled across the bed that was all for him. At least it was soft and comfortable. “All said and done, I think the mission went pretty well.”

Liam looked up from the bits of food he was picking at. “How can you say that? The building caught on fire and you were nearly shot.”

“All in a day’s work.”

Liam sighed, dismayed, and got up from the table. “Even if some things are beyond my control, I should have accounted for those possibilities.”

“You’d better get used to thinking on your feet. These things tend to happen when you’re with me. You can ask John.”

He could barely catch Liam’s expression in the mirror that stood in the corner of the room before he doused the light, but he could swear he was smiling.

***

They woke before the sun rose the following morning. There were still some matters which needed to be dealt with, and then they could finally be on their way.

Sherlock did most of the walking as they visited a series of notaries and post offices. Liam stayed close, sitting at a cafe or on a street bench. Sherlock was never out of his sight.

They had the documents copied and verified authentic. A copy was sent to each victim whose papers Sherlock managed to grab in the chaos. Another copy was sent to 221B Baker Street, and another to London’s Universal Trading Company.

Hopefully the authorities could catch the culprits and get the victims their money, but if not, Liam had a contingency plan for that. From outside of the country there wasn’t much that Louis or Watson could do, but they would at least keep those documents safe for a time. If the police didn’t do their job, Liam would be back.

With that done, it was just after noon. A train would take them north to Aberdeen where they’d be boarding a boat to Norway by the end of the day.

“It seems like we already said our goodbyes to this place yesterday,” Sherlock said. He was holding both luggages.

Liam gave him a weak smile. The night’s rest had done him well, but he still felt guilty to make Sherlock carry everything.

A paperboy near the entrance shouting the news caught his eye. “Oh, wait a moment, Sherlock.”

He gave the boy payment for a paper as well as a tip. The boy seemed excited about that and thanked him.

“Are we in it?”

Sherlock hovered beside him as they stepped under an awning. It was still chilly, but the sun was blazing bright enough to sting their eyes. Liam opened the paper under the shade and Sherlock read over his shoulder.

“Crime ring busted,” Liam read. “Firefighters discover suspicious rooms inside the building of last night’s fire…”. He read on and summed it up. “This says they’re still investigating, and the police haven’t made any public comment.”

“That means they found something,” Sherlock said. “And nobody died, or they’d have said that right away. So it’s a win, right?”

Liam smiled again, and this time it was honest and bright. “Yes. It seems like everything is well.”

He began to feel bashful as Sherlock grinned back at him. Had he never realized before how adoring and fond that expression was? Had he been blind the whole time?

The moment they shared was ended abruptly by an angry man’s shouting. “Jones!”

Neither of them looked up at the voice. It was a common name and they were trying to get out of this town without notice. But he kept on calling to Sherlock. “It is you, Jones! You bastard!”

“Oh fuck,” Sherlock said under his breath. “Time to go.”

Liam looked up to see a short and squat balding man of about fifty years in the crowd, running at them, fuming mad. This still wasn’t cause for alarm in itself. They could dispatch one man. But then he pulled out a gun and the crowd gasped and began to flee, screaming.

“Run,” Sherlock instructed. “Just run.”

“What?” Not that Liam didn’t trust him, he began to run right away. But who could have followed them this far? Who’d have heard that name “Jones”? It had to be someone from either the inn or from the textile factory. Was Sherlock this prone to bad luck?

“Jones I’ll kill you!” The man shouted, running after them and waving his gun in the air. “I’ll kill you and your wife!”

Liam followed Sherlock into the train station. “What is he talking about?”

“Haha! I don’t know! Just a crazy guy! That’s all!”

Liam suspected something more to that, but this was not the time.

Although they had tickets, they couldn’t very well stop and have them punched. Liam shoved them into the attendant’s hands before jumping the turnstiles right after Sherlock. Everyone in the station with any authority was more concerned with the gun-waving lunatic than with them. None of them were brave enough to stop him, however.

Liam and Sherlock had to push through the crowds, but they broke and made way for their pursuer. This made it quite difficult to get any distance and lose him.

“This way,” Sherlock called back to Liam, pushing another passenger out of his way with a rushed apology. “Sorry pal—That train there!”

Past the entrance and the passenger loading deck full of people, there were several trains stopped to load and unload. But in the back, beyond the carnival maze of trains, was one slowly making way.

Liam shouted over the clack of the train’s tracks. “You’re going to jump on?”

“That’s the fastest way to get out of here, isn’t it?”

Even if the man was disarmed and arrested, the two of them would be investigated in connection with the incident. That would not end well.

“Got it!”

His leg ached and he could barely keep up. He didn’t dare to look back, but the sound of a gunshot firing and ricocheting off the side of a train car was good enough. He didn’t stop running.

Sherlock reached the slowly moving train car first and threw the luggages into the first open door he saw. “Now you!” He held his hands out.

Liam jumped into his arms with all his momentum and Sherlock hoisted him up into the moving train. “Sher—“ He bit his lip to keep from shouting his real name.

There wasn’t enough time to process everything. The car was transporting some farm equipment, and held no passengers—a small reprieve from their bad luck. Liam was more concerned with Sherlock still running beside him.

By this time the train was moving fast, and Sherlock broke into a full sprint to try and catch up, cursing and straining himself. All the while, a madman was firing shots in desperation. Liam held onto the train car’s door and reached his arm out.

When he felt Sherlock’s hand grab his, he used all of the strength he had been building in his upper body to compensate for his leg and pulled. Sherlock’s feet left the ground and Liam had all of his weight. In that split second he decided, more like an instinct kicking in than a conscious decision, that if he couldn’t pull Sherlock up then he’d fall onto the tracks with him—but he would not let go, not under any circumstances.

Like in midair between the two buildings the previous night, he felt an uncanny joy in spite of the situation. Adrenaline surged. He had caught him, he was pulling him in. They had done it. They had won.

Sherlock clawed his way into the train car, collapsing and rolling inside along with Liam who was pulling him with all his might. Another tumble ensured, one that would leave even more scratches and bruises.

Then things were quiet except for the click clack of rail underneath them. The sun flashed through the train car’s open door as they passed by trees dotting the hills. The train car was empty except farmer’s plow and some crates and bales, but Liam was only partially aware of his surroundings.

He was vaguely aware of Sherlock’s weight on top of him. Their legs tangled together. Arms embraced. But the only things that were clear to him were Sherlock’s eyes looking into his.

“These things tend to happen when you’re with me,” he said.

It was so funny. The situation. What their lives had become. The fact that he was alive at all. It was so ridiculous. Liam began to laugh. Sherlock started to laugh with him, and then he couldn’t stop. Tears streamed down his face. He laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

And when he lost his breath, he felt a mindless pull. His heart was beating fast. Sherlock was looking at him. Everything was so joyfully perfect.

He lifted his chin and closed the few inches between their lips.

Or was it Sherlock who lowered his head to kiss him?

He would never know, and it didn’t matter. They were both caught by an inescapable pull. Mathematical physics.

And when they parted, for the first time in his life, he only had one clear and simple thought in his head.

“Sherlock. I do love you.”

Chapter Text

Liam was splayed out beneath him in a pile of hay and cornmeal from a broken container. His hair was a messy halo around him, sparkling in the glimmers of sunlight that broke though the train car’s open door as they passed through the wooded landscape.

Sherlock didn’t want to talk about the feeling welled up in him anymore. All he wanted to do was act on it.

And still, something in him remembered that Liam was in vulnerable state, and he managed to control the urge he had to kiss him again, press him against the floor, and never stop.

He smiled and opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say. “Liam—“

The train whistle blew.

He pulled himself off of Liam like it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“The train is stopping already?”

Sherlock laughed. “Maybe they got wind of some stowaways on board, huh?”

They looked at each other again, and Sherlock knew they were thinking the same. After so long spent stuck together in that room, things now were maybe a little too adventurous. No time to settle.

Liam sighed. “Never a dull moment.”

“Is your leg all right?” Sherlock asked. Liam nodded, but he was already digging through the hay to find their luggage. One of the pieces had popped open and its contents were spilling out. He handed a pill and a flask of water to Liam. “Here, take this.” Then he scrambled to put their belongings back together.

Those were the last words they spoke privately for quite some time.

They had to sneak off the train as soon as it stopped to avoid being caught. The first mode of transportation they found was a hansom. At least they could sit together, but it was not private or soundproof. Then, far away from their original destination, they were forced to take the first boat to anywhere.

A boat to Reykjavik. Iceland.

The passenger level was communal, no private cabins. They slept sitting up shoulder to shoulder with the other passengers.

There was very little chance for words or actions, but Sherlock tried the best he could. “Remember to take your medicine” replaced a proper I love you, and a covert touch of his hand against the small of Liam’s back had to suffice in place of another kiss.

Liam fretted over the state of Sherlock’s hair or if he was eating enough. It seemed their love language was rooted in this mutual hen pecking they’d developed over spending such a harrowing time together.

“I’ve never been to Iceland,” Liam said. “I’m afraid it may be too cold for you.”

“We can stay warm in some little place and hibernate until spring.”

Liam smiled. When he smiled like that, open and honest without holding anything back, it emphasized the unique shape of his mouth and how bright his eyes were. Sherlock couldn’t feel cold while looking at him, even if they were shivering while huddled together with strangers in a boat on the open sea.

“Loretta gave me her recipe for beef stew.”

“Oh. Oh, you should have led with that.”

They laughed together. Liam slept with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, and they were thankful at least for the rest.

***

Reykjavik was dark, enjoying only five hours of sunlight in a day’s time during the winter months. When they arrived after a few days, it was only 4pm and dark as midnight.

Cold made people appreciate comfort more, Sherlock had come to believe. The town was dotted with hospitable inns glowing orange with warm light. Every place was busy cooking up their own spin on fish dinner.

“You’re in a fish pie paradise,” he laughed, and pat Liam’s back as they walked through the street.

Liam reacted very little except for a mild smile, better than none. “You’ll spoil me.”

“Someone has to do it. Come on, let’s try this place.”

***

They hadn’t had a decent meal in days, so Liam allowed Sherlock to take him to one of the taverns at the port of Reykjavik, although he’d much rather have found a hotel room immediately.

It was quaint and the food was good. Most people spoke English, but their accents were thick, and everyone who spoke to them used an upward inflection that made it seem they were asking questions even when stating facts.

William gathered it quickly and thought he could do a decent approximation with a little practice, but the natives were so enamored with his posh British speaking, he decided to continue on as natural, until otherwise needed.

While dining in the noisy tavern, they met with a bit of luck for once. After establishing themselves as speculating entrepreneurs looking for a cheap place to stay long term, a kindly old widower approached and offered to rent his old home.

It was small, but equipped with its own utilities. More importantly, it was remote. Located out of town. And they could go to stay there that very night.

The cabin was invisible from the road, nestled in a thatch of trees at the foot of the mountains.

“This is almost too perfect,” Liam said. “I thought surely something else would go wrong.”

“We can’t have constant bad luck, right? Odds are, something good has to happen eventually.”

“I believe you are describing the gambler’s fallacy. In fact, patterns are more likely to continue without interruption.”

“I don’t want to hear about any maths until we are inside with a fire going.”

It was mid-40’s and clear, but the last snow was still frozen on the ground. Liam made a mental note to stock up on provisions in case they became snowed in at any point in the winter.

Cut off from the outside world with only Sherlock by his side. It wouldn’t be horrible. But it wouldn’t be productive, either. He needed to start making good on his promise to atone.

They entered and Sherlock struck a match to see with. The cabin was well furnished with rustic and well-worn interiors. Sherlock was able to find a gas light quickly, then they could get a better look at their surroundings.

The front door entered the living room, which had once been the spot of children’s play in front of a stone hearth. Liam could make out the indentation in the hardwood floor as well as accidental burns from cigarette ash where the father’s lounge chair must have been. The old man had left this house to live with his children who’d grown up, and he must’ve taken the chair with him to watch the grandchildren play.

The rest of the furniture was likely standing where it had always been, but the personal touches like pictures and trinkets were gone.

Sherlock walked slowly down the hall with the light in hand, peeking into each room as he passed. As he reached the end of the hallway, Liam brushed up behind him and placed a hand on his lower back, the same as Sherlock had been doing since the train. He wanted to show him he felt the same way, but he wasn’t sure how to.

The thought of being together with Sherlock as lovers made him feel suddenly hot, and he was grateful for the dim lighting to hide any blush that might be on his face. For all he was—a genius, a professor, and a murderer—had never been a lover, and hadn’t the faintest idea of how to be aside from the obvious mechanics.

“A nice little getaway, ain’t it?” Sherlock laughed and slipped his arm around Liam’s waist to pull him close.

Liam liked that. Sherlock wanted him to be closer, and he liked it.

The bathroom was old, with a pump for water.

“There go my dreams of a hot bath…”

Sherlock squeezed him. It was both wonderful and uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what to do in return. When should he try to kiss him again? Perplexing.

“We will burn wood and get our water from a well like real men,” Sherlock laughed. His laughter echoed through the empty house.

“I do want to wash up,” Liam said. “Why don’t you start the fire in the bedroom?”

“There’s three of them,” Sherlock said. “Which one do you want?”

Liam twisted his fingers together and tried to smile. “The master bedroom, ah… Could we, perhaps, share? Like we did before…”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before answering. No longer than a heartbeat, but long enough for Liam to get anxious. “I’d like that,” he said. The dim light made his face hard to see, but he was smiling.

“It’ll save on firewood, if nothing else.” Liam immediately regretted saying that. Why did he say that? He didn’t need an excuse. But Sherlock’s adoring smile had made him jump to the first thing he could think of.

Sherlock lit a candle in a glass cylinder by the basin that lit up the bathroom enough for him to see by. “Call if you need me.”

He left the door ajar so that he could hear such a request if made, then left Liam alone. Liam waited until he could hear him fiddling with wood in the bedroom fireplace before he undressed and washed.

The water was cold, but that was what he needed to think clearly. He was thorough with cleaning, getting off all the salt and grime from their days on the sea.

Just when he was thinking it might be too cold to continue on, he heard a knock at the door. Sherlock said nothing, but left him a set of flannel pajamas that Miss Reed had insisted on giving him. Their wardrobes were a patchwork of gifts now, which was a comforting thought.

He put them on and felt much better.

Sherlock knocked again, and this time Liam let him in. “I should probably wash up, too.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait? It’s freezing in here.”

“I’ll be fast.”

William found the largest bedroom of the house where Sherlock had already begun to lay out their things. On the other side of the bed, one large bed, was a crackling fire.

Liam thought to himself; he had known poverty and he had known wealth, but he had rarely known the in between. Modest comfort. A family home with just enough space for children. Food on the table and wood on the fire. Simple.

He sat on his knees in front of the fireplace where there was a wool rug, worn in and soft. While the fire warmed him, he brushed his hair with a horse hair brush and powder to absorb any lingering scent of the sea stuck in it. Then he cleaned his nails and filed down the ones that had grown too long, or had sharp edges.

It had been a long time since he put this much effort into his appearance. It had once been a daily ritual. Only months ago in reality, but it felt like another life.

Sherlock burst in a moment later with all his usual energy, throwing his towel over the back of a chair with a stretch and a yawn so loud Liam could swear the floorboards shook. He was wearing an identical set of pajamas, but it was tighter on him.

“My god, we’re gonna have to do something about the light. It feels like we’ve stayed up until early morning, but it’s not even late.”

“The house is well furnished, but we need a few things like lights. Groceries and supplies, of course.”

Sherlock circled the bed and sat on the floor next to him. “We’ll go get what we need tomorrow.”

Liam heard Sherlock sigh and then it was quiet except for the crackling of the fire.

When Sherlock spoke again, it was with a soft voice. “Liam, I didn’t get to say what I wanted to on the train.”

Liam took a breath and stared into the fire. “What was it?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t know if I even figured out what I was gonna say. I know I wanted to say something.“

Liam couldn’t suppress a small laugh at that. So, Sherlock was floundering at this, too. That was comforting to know. Liam relaxed and let his head rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you know how frustrating it is for someone like me to have absolutely no idea what I should do next?”

“Yes, and I’m kinda proud, honestly. Who else in the world could ever get you so confused?”

Liam searched for Sherlock’s hand and locked their fingers together. He felt Sherlock relax into him, and he liked that feeling very much. “You’re warm.”

Sherlock took his hand and began to rub it. “Ha… and you were worried about me. Your hands are freezing! You need a pair of thick socks. And slippers. And a bath robe.”

“All I need right now is you.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Liam found it puzzling how over these last few days, he’d wanted nothing more than to have a private moment with Sherlock, to be able to talk to him, to tell him everything, and clear the air. He wanted to tell him everything he’d been too cowardly to say before.

But he couldn’t think of how to say it. What’s more, the need to say it in words slipped away. The fire burned as they held hands and curled closer together in silence, and it seemed Sherlock knew. The way he always knew.

***

Sherlock turned to face Liam and cupped one hand to his cheek. Liam looked up at him as he held his own hand over Sherlock’s against his face and smiled in his mild way, eyes soft with adoration. Sherlock had never been looked at in such a way and it gave him pause.

He overcame this momentary paralysis and leaned in to initiate a kiss. Their second kiss, but the first one he’d ever had to think about.

He’d only ever been kissed by others before, and he’d never enjoyed it. Failed experiments conducted in his youth.

He’d been called cold a few times.

Kissing Liam was like sparking a fire in a room that had always been dark. Now he understood. Now he knew what everyone was chasing after. He knew what poetry was for.

Liam’s mouth was warm and he tasted like the sweet mint he’d brushed his teeth with. Nose pressed to skin, Sherlock could smell the soap he’d washed with and the powder in his hair. He could feel his hot breath on his face.

He hated to pull away, but he needed air. The parting and meeting of their lips was better than the first time as they quickly learned to anticipate each other’s subtle movements. Again and again, just to feel it.

Sherlock had started this, but Liam escalated it—parting his lips, inviting Sherlock to kiss him deeper. Liam clutched at his hair, and Sherlock grabbed his waist.

They didn’t need words much anymore.

***

Liam knew even before opening his eyes that it must be day. From how rested his body felt, the morning must have come and passed. Yet it was dark as night.

Relief came as he heard Sherlock’s sleeping breath beside him. Though he wasn’t sleepy enough to need to stay in bed any longer, he curled up against Sherlock’s body, inviting and warm under a heavy duvet in the dark.

Sherlock stirred and mumbled as he woke. “Morning.” He made no effort to shake off sleep and held Liam close. “Are you all right?”

“Hm?” Liam realized he meant about passing out last night. “I’m fine.”

“I know you told me it happens on occasion but uh…” Although he couldn’t see, he knew the silly flustered expression that must be on Sherlock’s face. “If it happens every time you, uh… well, it could be a problem.”

“It won’t happen every time. I was tired from travel.” Liam also wished he could have stayed awake. He wished he could remember falling peacefully asleep in Sherlock’s arms. All he remembered was how wonderful it had felt—then blackness.

“You sure it was because you were tired?” Sherlock pressed a little kiss against his forehead. “Maybe I was just that good.”

The lights were out and Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see him blushing, so in spite of the embarrassment such a crude comment caused him, he retorted. “Next time, perhaps I’ll be the one to knock you unconscious.”

It landed as sure as any jab at each other ever had. He felt Sherlock’s arms constrict around him and felt his giddy laughter vibrate in his body. “You might need a bit more practice first, love.”

Love. Liam sighed, content. “Are you saying I was inadequate?”

“No, oh no-no-no. That’s not what I—“

Liam laughed and sought him out to plant a light and lazy kiss on his lips. “I’m only joking, Sherly.”

“Hm. I see. And will that be my name from here onward?”

“You like it.”

“That I do.”

They laid there in the quiet dark and each other’s warmth. Liam drank in Sherlock’s presence. Those nights after work in the mill he had been rank with odor; but in bed after their night together, his smell was comforting like a buttery scone.

Or maybe Liam was just getting hungry.

The sun did find its way into the shadow of the mountains, over the hills, and through the curtains of their bedroom window. Pale light entered the room and slowly brightened until Liam could see the slope of Sherlock’s bare shoulder and the color of his eyes as he gazed at him.

“I want this every morning,” Sherlock said and grasped Liam’s hand under the blanket.

“I never realized you could be such a romantic. That, and, it’s not actually morning.”

“Eleven is morning!”

“It’s midday. I should be having lunch by now.”

“Should I start the fire and find us something to eat?”

Liam squeezed his hand and nosed his way into the crook of Sherlock’s neck where it was warm and inviting. He could hear each breath, and the vibration of the happy hum from deep in Sherlock’s chest as he held him in return.

“Not yet,” Liam said. “Stay with me.”

They basked in each other’s warmth until the sun was bright and the rumbling of their stomachs was too loud to be ignored any longer.

Chapter Text

London rarely saw snow, but the chance was in the air that morning as the temperatures dropped below freezing and clouds darkened the sky.

In spite of that, Mary Watson found her new husband standing by the road outside 221B with his hands on his hips staring up at the building.

“John, what is it?”

She broke his attention and he turned to smile at her. “Good Morning, Mary!”

They’d only been married a week ago, and still weren’t living together. John’s attempts at buying a house had been interrupted, as one could imagine, by the death of his good friend.

He was out in the frigid weather in only his regular jacket, no overcoat. “You must be up to something if you haven’t even noticed the cold.”

“I’m putting up a sign,” he said. “To advertise our consultancy.”

“A sign?”

“Yes, I want it to say Watson and Watson Consulting Agency! Sherlock hated to advertise, but we really could use the business.”

Mary smiled and held back her first response. Of course she knew that money wasn’t the matter. Sherlock Holmes had left everything he owned to John. While the man had never held onto much in the way of fluid assets, this inheritance included a share of his ancestral home, which Mycroft Holmes had offered to generously buy them out of.

This sudden business focus had cropped up because he wanted to continue the legacy of his friend in his own way, and he wanted her to be part of it. That warmed her heart when she thought of it.

Still, she considered it a part of her role in the business to help him make good decisions at times like this. “Let’s think about it a little longer.”

“Oh? But Miss Hudson gave me the clear.”

She took his hand and tugged gently. “Come inside won’t you? It’s cold out today.”

“Bad weather is bad for business. I bet I won’t see anyone until the sun comes out.”

Inside, there were boxes in the hallway where John had begun to pack his things. In spite of the distraction, he was looking forward to life in the new house.

The living room area where Sherlock Holmes had once conducted interviews was largely unchanged.

It seemed as if Sherlock Holmes had taken out some ridiculous and yet legally binding insurance which protected Miss Hudson in the case of his death. A lump sum equivalent to a hundred years of rent was deposited in her account.

Mary knew better than to pry into non-existent government offices, but she could surmise that Mycroft Holmes had arranged this, as well. Sherlock had not left them without means to provide for themselves.

So they no longer needed to run an office, and Miss Hudson no longer needed to rent it to them; yet they kept up the charade because it was somehow, to them, like keeping Sherlock alive.

“I was wondering,” John said. “If people would think I’m callous, or trying to profit from a tragedy, if I put up a new sign so soon.”

“While I don’t think a sign would put that into people’s head, I do think the fact that it has entered your mind that way shows that you really should take more time to process Holmes’ absence before jumping off into business ventures.”

John sat on the couch that was still stinking of cigarette smoke long after its primary user had gone and never come back. “It’s no wonder I’m not processing it.” he said with a heavy sigh. “I don’t even believe he’s dead. I’m not racked with grief—I’m frustrated. I’m angry with him sometimes. I miss him terribly, for one thing. I’ll be glad to move into our house because at least then I won’t be constantly reminded of him. And at the same time, I’m jealous, too. Jealous of a man who could possibly be dead because I’m sure...” John hung his head and covered his face, as if that was a huge betrayal of his friend’s memory. “I'm sure he’s out there somewhere having grand adventures. I should be happy if he is alive, and I don’t even have evidence that he is. But here I am, and I’m mad. I’m angry.”

“Even if you are,” she said, “It’s normal. You were mad at him quite often, and yet you still loved him as your friend.”

“True,” he managed a laugh at that. “Maybe I should feel reassured that he’s still annoying me from wherever he is—whether it is the grave, or somewhere out there.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Look, we have a visitor after all,” Mary said, brightening at the thought of something to distract
John, and went to open it. Behind it was a black-haired young lady with a stoic demeanor in spite of the bandage she wore over one shoulder. Her posture was nursing that side slightly, and she moved with careful purpose.

“Doctor John Watson? This letter is for you. I apologize that I couldn’t have delivered it earlier, but I have only recently regained the strength to walk, and I was tasked with handing you this personally.”

She held an envelope and raised her good arm to extend it towards John. Mary stepped in and took it from her. The black-haired girl allowed this, but watched carefully as she delivered it to John.

Then the girl turned on her heel and began to leave.

“Won’t you introduce yourself?” Mary called after her.

She stopped half way down the stairs. “My name is Marianne Penieres and I’m opening a clinic on the outskirts of town. If you want to speak to me about that letter, I can be found there.”

Then she left. Mary was puzzled, thinking the girl didn’t seem intentionally rude. There wasn’t any malice in her voice. It was more like she simply didn’t know any proper protocol when meeting other people.

She returned to John. He had opened the envelope and was frowning at the message inside.

“Mary, this letter is strange.”

“How so?”

The letter read,

Dear John,

I heard you’d gotten married and I could scarcely believe it.

Don’t you remember that it was supposed to be me? Have you even TOLD her about us? You said I’d be the one to wear your ring someday! You’re a liar and a cad.

Well, I don’t need you anyway. Just writing to let you know that I’ve been married too, and you weren’t even invited to the wedding. He’s tall and blond and rich, and smarter than you’ll ever be. He and I are vacationing abroad for our honeymoon. You’d have never taken me on such a luxurious trip!

You will regret passing me up. I, however, will never think of you.

We will never meet again,
Charlotte

“John, could that really be…?” She read it again. This was most definitely Sherlock Holmes relaying the message that he’d successfully made it out of the country with William James Moriarty, alive. It was just like him to hide his message in such a ridiculous joke.

She saw tears spill down John’s face and went to hold him.

“Charlotte was the name of a black cat I found on one of our cases,” he said, muffled teary words against her chest. “I said: the cat really acts like you, Sherlock. The way it acts like it doesn’t want attention.”

“You never told me that story.”

“Right. I should write that one down. Later…”

“I’ll remind you.”

She pet the back of his head as his tears abated. That last statement seemed to hide a truth in reverse:

I’m thinking if you, and we will meet again

***

The clinic John found was nestled in a poor neighborhood just outside of London. The fact that it was on the river, downstream from where Sherlock and William had fallen, did not escape him.

He thought then and there that if he found out after all these months of worry that Sherlock had been here in town the entire time, the first thing he’d do was punch him. But that didn’t appear to be the case.

He wondered if Sherlock had sought medical care in this clinic, but that couldn’t have happened either. It was brand new. The opening announcement was still on the door and dated only a week ago.

The building it had opened in was old and run down, but it was the nicest one for a few miles.

He was stopped from entering by a boy who he assumed to be an adult man by the height of him, but upon seeing his baby face, couldn’t place him older than 17. “Who are you?”

John was taken aback by the gruff attitude. “John Watson, who are you?”

He turned and yelled into the back rooms. “Hey, Marianne! It’s that guy!”

The young lady he’d seen briefly at 221B emerged and scolded him. “Please, Michael. You have to be more polite, it’s not just for appearances sake.”

But hadn’t she been rude, showing up without introduction and leaving again? What a strange duo. Obviously kin. Perhaps raised under strange conditions that affected their social abilities. Both wore nice clothes though, much nicer than anything sold within miles of here.

“Sorry, sis. I’ll say the whole bit next time, I promise.”

“You’re Marianne Penieres,” John said. “You brought the letter from—from a friend of mine.”

She smiled and her cold demeanor broke for a second. “A mutual friend,” she said. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to a more secure room where I can explain the matter.”

***

In an exam room in the back, Marianne told him the whole story.

“He could have just told you to tell me without writing such a silly letter!”

“Mister Holmes seemed adamant that he wanted to tell you himself, in his own way.”

Just like that, all the anger and worry in his heart cleared away like clouds parting after a stormy night. Sherlock really was out there having adventures, but they weren’t glamorous ones. He was struggling and fighting for the sake of another, for his friend. Sherlock had changed since they first met. The dark thorn of jealousy was dislodged, and he found himself actually quite proud of him.

“Thanks for delivering it, even if it was unnecessary. It’s something from him that I can hold onto.”

“I was hoping you could grant me a favor in return,” she said. “You were easy to find, but I have had no luck tracking down even a trace of the Moriarty brothers.”

“I last saw Louis Moriarty at the funeral,” he said. “He gave me his regards, but I’m afraid I don’t have any leads on his actual location, and I have never met Albert Moriarty. I heard last that he’d turned himself in to the police who were investigating him for conspiracy. Nothing since then.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Liam never said so, but I’m certain he’d be relieved if I could tell them.”

“Liam?” He laughed. “Did Sherlock rub off on you with that little nickname for him?”

“It’s what he wanted to be called.”

“Then I suppose Sherlock really did win him over.”

“I don’t understand, but… Doctor Watson, you seem happy.”

“I am! What an odd couple those two make, but I’m sure they’ll be fine.” He stood up and clapped his hands together. “So. What can I do around here?”

“Do you truly want to help?”

“A clinic in this area would do wonders for the poor and needy. I’ll help you out any way I can.”

“What I really need, Doctor Watson, is for a man like you to lend your name. No one will work with me if they know the doctor here is a woman, and a young one at that.”

“I imagine you’ll get plenty of gentleman customers, but not for the right reason.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “I’m rembraning a consultation office and a clinic in the same week. How exciting!”

“In exchange for your assistance,” Marianne said, “I’ll gladly send Michael to help you at your offices. He’s wasted here, but he’s actually quite good with intel and connections.”

“Then it’s a deal!”

That’s how John began splitting work between the office and the clinic. While he was at the clinic, Mary would run the offices under his name with Michael’s help. While he was working a case with Mary and Michael, Marianne would run the clinic under his name.

All the activity helped keep his mind off Sherlock, but the silly letter he’d written remained folded into the back of his diary, which he kept in the left pocket of his coat, close to heart.

***

Fred Porlock knew the building 221B better than most, and perhaps better than a few of its current inhabitants. He had been tasked with casing the place during operations which involved spying on Holmes, and little had changed about the place in the months since then.

There was a new woman working there, Watson’s wife, and a tall boy they’d hired. But that was all.

The papers Louis had shown him had no special significance to him. They detailed the financial details of a few middle class business owners in Scotland. The only thing interesting about them was that these people had been scammed by whatever entity once owned these papers, and so they were evidence of a crime. But that crime had nothing to do with MI6, or any of their endeavors.

Despite that, Louis had tasked him with watching the Baker Street house again, specifically the mail coming and going. If Louis asked him to do this, it must have some incredible importance beyond his knowledge. Something that may even relate to William.

He always took his job seriously, even if it seemed unimportant, but the prospect of any detail about William’s fate made him throw his heart and soul into what would otherwise be a mundane stake out.

The postman brought the same kind of package, a real Manila envelope, to John Watson’s door.

***

John was busy writing, or more like staring at blank pages of paper. How could he bring back Holmes—the fictional detective, that is—after such a finale?

“John?” It was Miss Hudson’s voice at the door. “You’ve got a visitor.”

He opened the door and she clamped her hands around his arms tight, glaring up at him with an intense expression. “There’s a handsome nobleman at our door! Who is he? Do you know him? Why haven’t you introduced me?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea who you’re talking about.”

“A blond man with a scar on his face!”

It clicked and John brushed past her, bounding down the stairs.

“Mister Moriarty?” It was Louis, sitting in Miss Hudson’s drawing room, looking as annoyed as ever.

“Doctor Watson. Pleasure to meet you again.”

“I am so glad you came by, I really need to tell you about—!”

Louis flashed his eyes at him so scary, he shut up immediately. “You aren’t about to expose sensitive information to uninvolved parties now, are you?”

John looked around and found Miss Hudson trying to hide herself behind the stair railing. “Oh, don’t mind her. She knows all of it. We’re kind of like Sherlock’s family.”

“Very well. Then as William’s family, please share this information with me.”

They sat down and began to talk.

Louis had put things together after receiving the files from Edinburgh. Very few people knew the address of MI6. He had their mail watched on a hunch, and upon seeing the Manila envelope, concluded that the files must have come from Sherlock and/or William.

But he didn’t know anything about the letter or the clinic, so John showed him those things.

“Are you angry?” John asked.

Louis answered in a mild tone. “I’ve just learned that my brother is alive, so why should I be angry?”

“I don’t know, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t grip the letter that hard…”

Louis looked down and seemed surprised to find himself clutching the letter so hard it was crumpled. “My apologies. This must be precious to you. Even if it is insulting to my brother… it’s code. It’s just a crude and humorous code your Holmes uses to get his point across.”

“Aha. Yeah. Right, just a code.”

“I’m pleased to hear Sherlock Holmes is caring for my brother. He proved himself an admirable man, I just…”

“I’m certain you’d rather be with him. I feel that way, too.”

“So you understand that strange divergence in my heart? Ha… it was nice to meet you again, Watson.” He stood and brushed himself off, straightening his hair. “Let’s stay in contact this time. I’m unable to give you a proper address, seeing as my work is highly secretive. But I’ll leave you a post office box that Fred checks for me.”

“That would be great. And tell Fred I send him my best, too. The two of you were a big help to Sherlock.”

“I don’t think we helped much either way. But I will tell him.”

“Oh, and… I hate to ask you for a favor after everything, but there’s one more person who I haven’t been able to contact.”

“Hm.” Louis had to only think for a moment before realizing. “Director Holmes doesn’t know.”

“Ah! So you do know him! After all he’s done for my family, I still have no idea how to reach the man.”

“With that man, it’s safe to assume anything that you know, he knows already. But I will pass the message, just in case.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much, Mister Moriarty.”

Louis excused himself and left the building. Miss Hudson finally came out, after a pause that was a little too long. “You didn’t introduce me!”

“Don’t you think a guy like that is too young for you?”

She glared at him like she might kill him and then drink his blood. “John—“

He escaped up the stairs before any murder was committed.

***

Louis entered the director’s office, the room itself a secret from most of the government.

Director Holmes turned in his chair to meet his gaze, but didn’t stand. His face was expressionless as ever, but there was a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. Did he already know what Louis was about to say?

“I have no idea why you’ve come here today, Moriarty,” he said. “And that in itself is a pleasant surprise.”

“It is good news.”

“Hm, not sure if I prefer it that way. Bad news can be more interesting. But let’s hear it anyway.”

Louis explained what John had told him, that both Sherlock and William were alive and had made it as far as Edinburgh.

The sparkle in his eyes managed to reach his mouth in not quite a smile, but something close. “I’m not surprised, but it is pleasing to hear.”

“I thought you might appreciate knowing the details.”

Director Holmes even chuckled a small, short, laugh. Amazing. “I’m sure the two of them have moved on from Scotland. Nevertheless, I’ll send an operative to look into this petty crime ring and make sure the innkeeper is paid her money. And more, perhaps. That will keep the story from spreading, I should hope.”

“You believe they were working with the female innkeeper listed amongst these business owners?”

“It’s a sound speculation. Two men on the run would have little to do with a carriage operator, a stable man, or any of these other businesses, don’t you think?”

“Of course, sir.”

His eyes narrowed. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

Louis clenched his fists. “I must presume to ask you a favor,” he said.

“Funny how this story has spread all due to favors,” the director answered. “First with the dutchess and her adoptees, then John Watson and his wife, and now with you and me. I’ll have to keep careful track of each of these little favors. But since they’re all leading up to this—I’ll accept. What would you have me do with this information, Moriarty?”

“If you have any affection for my brother—any sense of loyalty to him at all—please tell him of my brother’s condition. Tell him William is alive. I fear the worst for Albert if he goes on believing—“

“So now it’s a favor I owe to Albert? Ha. Well, consider it done. I don’t wish to see your brother hanged, not by the government and not by his own hand, either. I will tell him.”

“Thank you. Thank you, director.”

“But Louis—“

Louis looked up, having thought the interaction was over and he’d succeeded. But he found the director looking at him menacingly.

“Please tell me how you learned about my communication with Albert, and what exactly you have intercepted. Because if you know, then I really must shore up my security.”

He had succeeded, although at some cost.

***

Albert James Moriarty had sentenced himself, and not to death. His punishment was the worst possible fate he could think of for himself.

Boredom. Trapped in a closed room with only his thoughts and memories, with not even a drop of wine to scatter them.

William was gone. The plan was over. He shouldn’t be alive, and yet no one had come to kill him, and no one had demanded his head roll. He wouldn’t have been imprisoned if not for his own guilt.

A grey bird appeared at his window. The messages kept coming.

The first message had instructed him to send his own messages back, but he did not. Messages continued. They asked him what he needed, they asked if he was well. All things Mycroft could have gathered from the guards, but felt this need to ask him personally. To reach out to him.

Albert never answered. He didn’t deserve to take that hand extended to him.

On the bridge that night, not only had Liam fallen to his death—not only had the light in Albert’s life, his sun and his savior, been extinguished that night—but also, Sherlock Holmes was killed. The only man William wanted to protect, and Director Holmes’ own brother. A bright and genius brother, like William was to him. A young man who might well have been William’s only other half in this world.

If Albert ever loved William, if he’d ever had any friendship toward Mycroft, then he should have saved Sherlock Holmes. But his plans could only burn and kill, he didn’t have the propensity to protect life. Not like William.

That was why, of all the people in the world, it shouldn’t have been Mycroft trying so desperately to reach him.

And yet, Albert kept reading the notes.

He thought if he truly meant to punish himself, he should shoo the pigeon away. But, he kept taking the little capsule from the sweet little bird’s leg and reading the strip of paper inside.

They’re alive.

That’s all it said. That was all it needed to say.

Albert stood, clutching that paper, reading it again and again. Time was frozen. He might have been there for hours.

The bird waited patiently, and when Albert moved again, he took the bit of graphite and turned the paper over. On the back, he wrote a response.

Thank you.

***

“Thank you so much for your help,” the woman said with her Icelandic upward inflection.

“Don’t worry about it.”

She was a heavy-set woman, more muscle than fat. She’d been working on a farm in the countryside since her childhood and had at least fifty years experience.

Sherlock liked these people. They were simple. Not to say that they weren’t smart. Quite the opposite. They were crafty as all hell, inventing ways to work around the oppressive darker months. And everyone he’d met so far had been immeasurably kind and welcoming to them.

He stood in the woman’s kitchen, wondering if it would be rude to skip out before she could find her coin purse to pay him. He was fine just taking some food for dinner. All he’d done was fix up some greenhouse lamps, after all. Not like he’d labored all day.

“Here you are!” She grinned and handed him some coins.

“Come on, this is too much.”

She continued on as if she hadn’t heard him. “And take Mister Teacher these biscuits. I made them earl grey flavor just for you two.”

“That’s way, way too much.”

“You’re saving to rent that office on the corner of main, aren’t you?”

“Come on now, who told you that?” He’d only gone to take a look with the building manager a few times and now the whole town knew about it.

“Word travels fast!” She laughed and shoved the cloth tied around a dozen biscuits into his hands. She was so strong, he couldn’t have won if he tried.

***

Sherlock returned home after his day filling odd jobs and shopping at the market. He had begun to relish the few hours of daylight he got to enjoy. Whenever he came home like this, it was pitch dark.

Their temporary home was beginning to look lived in. Their coats and hats hung by the door. A vase of flowers by the window was a little withered, but they didn’t want to throw them out just yet.

There was a fire burning in the den’s hearth and the smell of coffee in the air. Liam sat there by a drawing table in the corner scribbling away at some kind of plan, the fire’s light painting orange color on his white shirt and pale skin.

“You’ve been working hard,” Sherlock said. He stopped behind William, who looked up at him from behind a coffee mug. Sherlock took the cup from his hand and leaned down to give him a quick kiss. “You’ll be up all night.”

Liam frowned up at him, but he was weak to that soft kiss, and Sherlock knew it. “I haven’t planned the next lesson.”

“They’re ages eight to twelve, Liam. I’m sure you’ll come up with something to keep them occupied.”

“Hmf.”

“I’ll make you a cup of chamomile instead. I got some fresh honey at the market to go with it.”

“You shouldn’t have bought honey. I don’t need that. Save your money for—“

Sherlock held out one more item. A newspaper. London’s National Review.

“A trader at the market offered me a paper from home,” he said. “And I noticed this column in the back.”

Liam’s eyes widened as Sherlock folded back the paper and laid it out for him. Tucked away in an inside article, the text read:

A. MORIARTY RELEASED, CHARGES CLEARED.

Albert James Moriarty, the head of the Moriarty family, was released from prison today. Three months ago, Moriarty turned himself in and has since been cooperative with police. The former lord was cleared of any charges relating to the crimes of William James Moriarty, his younger brother, who was responsible for the string of violent murders that shook London earlier this year. The Moriarty family name remains in disgrace.

“I would like it if the name Moriarty would fade into obscurity,” said Albert Moriarty to one reporter, but the name of London’s most hated villain will not soon be forgotten.

The paper shook in Liam’s hand and his eyes became shiny with the beginning of tears. “I’m so glad…”

Sherlock sighed. He could chalk up tears to relief, but why was his brow so furrowed as if in agony? “You don’t look glad.”

“But I am. I’m so happy that Albert wasn’t sent to prison long term, but…”

Sherlock reached over and rubbed the back of Liam’s neck. Another simple but intimate gesture he’d gotten into the habit of. “Your feelings are doing something different than what your brain is saying, huh?”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay. Here. The farm lady sent some biscuits.”

Sherlock left the little bundle of treats on the coffee table and went back to the kitchen to make Liam’s tea. When returned, Liam had moved to the couch, leaving ample room for them to sit together. He was gingerly untying the napkin that held the fragrant biscuits.

“I understand now,” Liam said.

“Yeah?”

“I miss them.”

Sherlock chuckled softly as he sank into the space next to Liam. No matter the situation, Liam always got a cute look on his face whenever he ate sweets, like he was trying really hard not to gorge on them. “So it’s not that complicated, huh?”

Liam nibbled at a biscuit as he let his head drop to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m so happy here with you that sometimes it feels as if I’ve betrayed them.”

“But they’d like it if you were happy,” Sherlock said, softly, content. Hearing Liam attest to his happiness was something precious. “Even if it’s with me.”

Somehow he knew, even though Liam hid his face, that he couldn’t help but smile at that. “Do you think they know?”

“They’re smart. I’m sure they figured it out after we sent those papers.”

Liam lifted his head and went for another biscuit. “Even if I take that into consideration, I still miss them in the regular way.”

“I know.” Sherlock watched the fire burning and his mind drifted away, thinking of John and Hudson and even Mycroft and what they all might be doing right at that moment.

“Hey, Sherly?”

“Yeah?” He turned his attention back to Liam, who was especially lovely then. The fire had a way of hitting his eyes and making them sparkle. His expression of combined joy and sadness was all the more endearing for its subtle quality, like the flavor of earl grey that made these biscuits taste like home.

He could faintly taste it when Liam pulled close again and kissed him. He held the kiss for a moment before resting his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Your hair is so long now.” Liam’s fingers combed the locks that fell down over the back of his neck. It gave him goosebumps.

“You were looking at me too, huh?”

Liam answered with another kiss, one that wouldn’t end for a good while.

Chapter Text

There was no formal classroom for him. Liam’s class met in the courtyard of a church during the daylight hours so long as it wasn’t too cold or raining.

Liam had a slate on an easel and some pieces of chalk. The children sat in the grass all around him, happy to be out in the sun and eager to learn.

The children spoke a mix of their native language and English, and Liam was learning Icelandic words as quickly as he could. The resulting communication was choppy, but that made the interactions all the more fun, as his kids would often teach him just as much.

“Six point two five!” cried out an excitable girl who always sat on the front row.

“That’s correct,” he said. “But Anna, you must raise your hand before answering.”

“Oh, I forgot!” She clapped her hands over her mouth.

She was only seven and able to keep up with the older children. He had several girls in the class, which was a nice change from his work at the university.

He smiled. “Try to remember next time, please. Everyone deserves a chance to answer.” He looked around at the roughly twelve children who had gathered that day. There was one ten year old boy in the back who had never raised his hand.

“Gunnar, what if you solve the next one?”

He saw the panic in the boy’s eyes as he stood and slowly approached the board. The boy picked up the chalk and started to solve the division problem, but Liam could see the frustration mounting.

“It’s all right if you need help,” Liam said. “Which part are you lost at?”

“I don’t…”. The poor boy looked like he might cry. “I don’t understand it.”

“When we divide 625 into three parts, first take the six. How many times does three go into six?”

“Two! I know that part. But three doesn’t go into two.”

“In cases like this, you bring the two down.”

“But I don’t…”. The boy looked down at the ground and his lip trembled. “I don’t understand why.”

“Ah, I see.” He made sure he was positioned beside the boy, as if facing the problem together, and touched a hand to his shoulder. “Why is always an excellent question. Perhaps I can use an example to make the concept less abstract.”

The boy smiled up at him, the confidence rekindled.

“Hm, an abacus would be perfect for this. But for now, maybe I’ll try to draw it.”

He erased the formula and instead began to explain the concept of a decimal system, and how the numbers relate to each other with dots as visuals.

“Why is it ten?” Gunnar asked. “Is it always ten?”

“Excellent question! In fact, most human cultures use metrics of ten because of how often it occurs in nature. We have ten fingers and ten toes. But there are many number systems! For example, the hexidecimal system uses a base of sixteen instead of ten.”

At this point, it looked like he’d lost most of the students who were, as he had to remind himself often, aged between eight and twelve. But Gunnar’s eyes were shining.

“Long division is just a shortcut that helps us visualize division into larger numbers that aren’t so easy to do in our heads. It works because of the nature of decimal numbers. Kind of like how a recipe helps to make food, or how blueprints represent how a building is built.”

“I think I understand,” Gunnar said. “Can I try the problem again?”

“Of course. I’ll walk you through it.”

***

Today it was Liam’s turn to come home and find Sherlock working his way through a stack of paper.

Sherlock was wearing a wool sweater that Liam had knitted for him over his favorite shirt he still kept from Lady Penieres. His hair was down, long enough now to spill over his shoulders. Liam marvel at how fast it grew. Sherlock had stopped wearing his starry scarf indoors, but it was always draped over a chair close by. His head popped up as Liam rounded the corner into the living room. “How was school?”

“They’re smart children,” Liam said, resting his hand on the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Sometimes I wonder if they challenge me more than the university students.”

“You’re good with kids.”

Liam cleared his throat at that. “I could say the same for you, although your ways of motivating them are a bit different from mine.”

“Ha.” His expression went soft and wistful, the way it always did when he was thinking about home. “You know, I wonder if those street kids are okay…”

“I’m quite certain.”

Liam left his side to brew some tea in the kitchen, but only made it a few steps when he heard Sherlock rise from his seat. He stopped as he felt a hand take his.

“Hey. I didn’t see you this morning.”

Liam turned and indulged Sherlock, allowing himself to be pulled into his arms. “I knew you didn’t have work today, so I decided to let you sleep in.”

“Liam,” he said, and his tone had a bit of a whine to it. “At least wake me up to say goodbye in the morning okay?”

“Of course, of course. My apologies.” He leaned in to give Sherlock the kiss he knew he was wanting, even if he didn’t say so. “But don’t complain when I wake you early.”

“Heh.” Sherlock grinned at him, bright as the sun. Simple things made him so happy, and his mood could for the brighter so fast, it was a marvel. He let Liam go, giving one last kiss to his hand, then returned to the desk.

Liam made a pot of tea to share. When he returned to the den, Sherlock was still busy filling out forms.

“Is that for the offices?”

“Sort of. Still waiting to approve the lease, but in the meantime, I figured I may as well get the business paperwork done.”

“I’m a bit concerned about our travel status.”

“They said they wouldn’t require our birth certificates or anything. And if they ever do, we can come up with fake ones.”

“Ah.”

“So what should we call our new business?”

Liam had been thinking on that. “I have a suggestion,” he said, forcing a calm and even tone despite the sudden spike of anxiety he felt. “Although, you may not like it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I was wondering, if we could call the new venture Jones and Jones, or perhaps J&J for an easy shorthand.”

Sherlock considered that a moment. “Who’s the other Jones?”

Liam had long since rid himself of any physical signs of the anxiety he so often felt, like wringing his hands or pulling at threads. Regardless, he found it difficult to hold eye contact when it came to this particular kind of thing. This thing that he could only have with Sherlock. “I know we’ll never share names, not officially. But I’d like it, even if no one else understands what it means.”

Sherlock stared at him silently for a moment, as if a gear in his head was turning and clicking into place. “As if we were married, and you took my name?”

Liam hated how his red face gave him away when he felt embarrassment. He could feel it happening and could only turn himself at an angle so perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t catch it, folding his arms to make it seem as if he were cross. “I warned you that you may not like the idea.”

“I didn’t say that.” Sherlock grinned up at him and took his hand. With a light tug, he pulled him down to sit in his lap. Sherlock holding him this close, he couldn’t hide his face. “It’s quite forward for you, that’s all.”

“Am I not allowed to be forward?”

“Oh, don’t pout.” Sherlock chuckled and looked up at him, brushing the bangs away from his face. “You’re taking my words the wrong way again. I could say you’re adorable, but you’d be insulted.”

Liam pouted more. “You’re the one saying the wrong words.”

“Oh fine. What are the right words?”

“You could say yes.”

Sherlock was quiet for one held breath, as the teasing look in his eyes went soft. He lifted his chin and kissed Liam’s forehead. “Yes, we’ll be Sherly and Liam Jones.”

Liam smiled, banishing the pout and the nervous blush.

***

Within the month, just a few days past the new year, Sherlock was given the keys to their new office. He and Liam spent that weekend together looking for a cheap or unwanted desk to furnish it with, and subsequently hauling it up a flight of stairs.

That Monday, J&J Consulting was open, but it wasn’t a detective agency. Not yet. For there to be a detective, there had to be crimes, and the city was too peaceful for that.

“Somebody always gets killed eventually,” Sherlock said. But Liam only looked at him like he’d said something ridiculous.

With nothing more to do, Sherlock found himself sitting in for one of Liam’s school lessons, since he’d been rained out of the church courtyard.

Children sat on the floor all around while Liam scribbled drawings and math equations on the slate that sat up on the desk, which they didn’t even have a chair for yet.

Sherlock had other things he should probably be doing, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away from Liam’s lecture. Liam’s voice had the same clear and dulcet tone as he had in that giant class room at Durham, but the presence of children made him so much brighter.

Brightness was something he’d been lacking in since the fall, and something they’d both needed in this dark place.

“Teacher, who is this man?”

All the children turned to look at Sherlock.

“This is my good friend, Mister Jones.” Liam smiled and beckoned to him to come to the front. “Mister Jones is an accomplished scientist in the field of forensics.”

The children started blankly at the sound. “Is forensics an English word?” a girl asked.

Sherlock gave Liam a look that said I know what you just did and Liam only smirked back at him, but Sherlock dragged himself to the front of the gaggle of children. “It’s French in origin,” he said. “Okay, everybody look at your fingers for a second.”

Liam watched him, pleased as punch, as Sherlock explained about how everyone has different fingerprints, and these can be used to prove who touched a certain object. The children were enchanted by his enthusiasm for science, and he found himself getting carried away, feeding off their excitement.

“Next time, I’ll bring my luminol kit and we can check around for blood spatter.”

The children erupted into a series of new questions about what luminol was, how does it work, and so on.

At this point, Liam gently stepped in. “I believe that’s enough for the science portion of our lesson,” he said. “Thank you very much, Mister Jones.”

“Oh, fine.”

Sherlock pouted and sat down again. He had just been getting into it, and Liam spoiled his fun. He segued from from chemical formula right back into equations without losing the crowd, which was a feat. Sherlock had never seen children so interested in algebra, but then, Liam was a very special teacher.

He pulled himself off the floor and yawned loudly, with a big stretch. Liam looked at him with that irritated little glare of his for interrupting. Sherlock laughed. “Seeya kiddos, I’m gonna go scrounge up a few more chairs.” With that, he waved goodbye and left for the market.

***

Both Liam and Sherlock were the type who needed to stay busy. By the time Sherlock had come back from his quest for furniture, Liam had already returned home and was sitting by the fire with a cup of tea. His hands were moving furiously, knitting something.

Sherlock approached and sat beside him on the old, worn, couch. “What’s in the works today, love?”

“Socks,” Liam said, and looked away, bashful. Sherlock’s terms of endearment were still enough to make him blush, so of course he wasn’t about to stop.

He chuckled to himself and nuzzled the side of Liam’s head in sloppy sort of a kiss. “Don’t you get bored of doing that?”

Liam set the knitting work down and lifted his head confidently. “If you want my attention, you only need say so.”

“Heh, but pestering you is much more fun.”

“Oh, I see how this game is played then.”

Sherlock stood up from the couch once again, and walked over to a bookshelf, where he and Liam had managed to start a modest collection. “I was being somewhat serious,” Sherlock said. “Your mind can’t be satisfied with just knitting for hours.”

“It’s better than doing nothing at all.”

Sherlock pulled a book from the shelf. “Have you read this one yet?” It was a random selection, which happened to be North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell.

“I’ve read every book on that shelf.”

Sherlock sighed a deep breath. “Of course.”

Liam saw his disappointment and tilted his head, studying him. “What are you driving at?”

“Well, I could read a book while you’re knitting away. But I imagined, if I read it aloud, then we could enjoy it together.”

“Oh…” He trailed off, as if into a dream. “I’d like that. But perhaps not that one.”

“Why is that?”

“You may find the subject matter to be a bit too familiar.”

“The mill, you mean.”

Liam nodded.

Sherlock had only turned to fiction out of boredom. “On the contrary, if it’s relevant to my experiences, maybe it won’t be such a chore.”

Liam rolled his eyes. They often had arguments over the merits of fiction and could never agree.

Sherlock returned to his side and cracked the book. He began to read.

Liam knitted and he read, while they sipped tea and watched snow fall through the den’s window. The night would be long and there was nowhere else to go.

By midnight, Liam had set his knitting aside and curled up with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Is it time for bed?” Sherlock asked.

He shook his head, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s neck in the process. “Keep reading.”

So he did. It became apparent that the words hardly mattered. It was the sound of his voice which soothed Liam. Sherlock had never thought he could have such a power.

Liam soon slept on his shoulder, and had to be roused to relocate to the bed. “You’ll wake up with a sore neck if you sleep slumped like that.”

He held the half asleep Liam upright as they walked to the bedroom, and they laid there together under warm blankets in peace and quiet.

***

The next day, the ground was buried in six inches of snow. Regardless, not a single child had stayed home, as much as Liam truly wished they’d have forgotten Sherlock’s promise.

“Today is luminol day!” they chirped back and forth with each other. “Today we will be detectives!”

He had only himself to blame for introducing Sherlock to them.

And Sherlock couldn’t be happier, grateful for any mystery, big or small. He wore a big beaming grin on his face, and stood behind the assortment of chemistry components he had set up on their desk. Liam had no idea where he’d gotten a while lab coat, but it did lend credibility to his part.

“I have prepared a test sample of cow’s blood,” he said, holding up a beaker of the stuff. “Now, we spill a bit—“ he let the dark liquid drip onto the desk’s surface.

Liam narrowed his eyes as menacingly as possible. “We only just bought that desk.”

“And now,” Sherlock went on with quite a theatrical flair, “what would you do to hide the evidence, kids?”

“Clean it up!” A girl said.

“Yeah, and use bleach,” a boy answered.

“Paint over it just to be sure,” said another.

Sherlock let them clean the stain using any means they chose—though Liam vetoed the paint, he liked the lacquer finish as it was.

“And in spite of all that,” Sherlock said, like a magician about to reveal a magic trick. “The luminol will certainly react!”

He drew the curtains, and sure enough, the spot glowed faintly. The children murmured in awe.

“Let’s check for blood!” the littlest girl said. “We can check all over!”

Liam laughed softly. “Where do you think you’ll find blood, Anna?”

“There could be a murderer among us!”

“I doubt that,” Liam said. “But since Mister Jones has gone to this trouble, I don’t see any harm in testing more spots.”

There was some discourse amongst the children over who would get to go first. William decided on lining them up tallest to shortest, admitting that this was an arbitrary rule but one that worked as well as any.

Anna, smallest of the group, took umbrage to this, but that was expected. She was extremely smart, a fact which had gone unrewarded for most of her life due to her rural upbringing ringing and her role as a girl in her house. But as much as William wished to encourage that spark within her, he needed it tempered with at least some measure of patience, which she did not possess at all. She stood there, face red, stomping her feet as she waited for her turn.

One child after another got their chance to douse a square foot space of their choosing. Unsurprisingly, none found a patch a blood. Most of the older children lost interest after so many misses, and went to play with their marbles and tiddlywinks in a corner.

Until it was Gunnar’s turn. He was so small as to be second to last in line, and took a big gulp as he picked his spot and carefully applied the solution. Sherlock dropped the curtain. A coin-sized patch began to glow in the dark.

“Ég trúi þessu ekki!” the boy exclaimed in an inhale, which roughly translated to I don’t believe it!

Anna, behind him, squealed in frustration that it was not found on her turn. All the children stopped what they were up to and came over.

“Now. Now,” Sherlock said, raising his voice over their chatter. “Who can theorize an explanation for this?”

One of the older girls with a cool head said, “Teacher Liam rented this building just now, right? Kannski… maybe the last person simply cut themselves on a letter opener or some such?”

“Or it was a murder!” Anna shouted.

“Calm down now,” Liam chuckled, and pat her shoulder. “Now I must give you a lesson on Ockham's razor. In truth, the simplest solution is the most likely one.”

“And I’ll give you another lesson,” Sherlock interjected. “As I like to say—“

Liam flashed a deadly look at him that he intended to mean do not, for the love of god, say your trademark line which is well known in fiction, while we are living under assumed identities.

He swallowed hard and changed gears. “Well, we can’t completely rule out foul play as of yet, so it’s still possible.”

“And it’s my turn now!” Anna held her hand out for the luminol which she took from Gunnar, and then against all rules, began to spread it all around the floor.

First there were a few more drops. Then a few more. Then, Liam and Sherlock looked at each other in disbelief as the tiny girl revealed a blood stain roughly the size and shape of a human being on the floor.

“Murder! Murder!” Anna began to chant, and the others joined in like a macabre church choir.

Liam his his face in one hand and groaned. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

Sherlock gave a half-hearted well, would you look at that kind of chuckle. “Yeah, we paid way too much for this place if some bloke was killed here.”

“That’s is not the point, not at all.”

“Come on now, Liam.” Sherlock grinned and nudged him with his elbow. He leaned close to speak without drawing the attention of the children, although they were quite distracted with Anna’s findings. “Isn’t this the most interesting thing that’s happened since we got here?”

Liam couldn’t deny the twinge of interest, the desire to solve the puzzle.

Chapter Text

Author Note:

First, so I was dumb and kinda misnamed the substance as luminol in the last chapter, which wasn’t invented until later. I considered rewriting, but I liked the scene, and the source material isn’t very historically accurate, and also this is a fanfiction, so I’ve been told not to worry so much about it. But still, if you can apply the “modern filter” logic on my mistakes maybe it all will make more sense 😅

Second, I am so sorry to anyone familiar with Icelandic culture. I haven’t had the time to do a whole lot of research so I am relying on google translate and such, please don’t take too seriously (and I’m sorry to any Icelandic people who have to read it lol).

Third: you may recognize parallels in the story to A Study in Scarlet from the OG Holmes lore. I did read it again recently and pulled a bit from it.

Lastly: Sorry it’s taken so long to update. I don’t have a clear vision of where to go at this point, so I’ve been kinda focused on other things but I will continue returning to this fic whenever the inspiration strikes.

Thanks everyone for reading it, and thanks for your supportive comments.

---

“It’s getting dark,” Sherlock said. “Shouldn’t we turn home?”

Liam was walking down the road ahead of them with purpose. “Thanks to your brilliant lesson, we no longer have the luxury of time.”

Sherlock followed behind Liam as they walked, struggling to keep up to his pace. “What are you on about?”

Liam stopped short on the pebble stone road and turned to him. He stood tall. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face from the setting sun. “It’s like the train,” he said, his eyes cast aside in fond remembrance. “We have only a limited window of time to catch the murderer. But unlike then, this trail is long cold.”

“A time limit?” Sherlock stared at his face in profile as he puzzled over what Liam was driving at. “What kind of ideas are getting into that head of yours?”

“The children were delighted. They will surely tell their parents all about the blood stain.”

“You’re probably right.”

“The parents here know each other, they talk. They’ll soon realize that it isn’t just a few children with wild imaginations. They’ll know that something happened.”

“You think they’ll get the police involved?”

“I do.”

Sherlock thought. There weren’t even proper investigators here that would be able to detect a stain like that without the help of someone like himself. But they’d be suspicious and they’d dig up anything they could find. “If they do that, we might have to leave.”

Liam’s expression softened, and there was a sadness in his eyes that others might have missed. “Or, at least I would.”

Sherlock groaned. Of course, Liam’s brain had already connected the dots fast as a billiards ball bouncing around after a perfect break. He stepped forward and took Liam’s hand with no concern for who might see them on the street. “You aren’t leaving without me.”

Liam merely tilted his head and smiled the way he did when he was hiding some raw, unpleasant emotion. That false smile. “It would hurt to leave you. I don’t believe I could survive it. But I would, to protect you. I’d do anything for that, you must know.”

“And I’d chase you to the end of the earth for doing such a stupid thing.”

“Im not planning on it. It’s only the final option.”

“It’s not an option at all!”

“Sherlock…”

He let go of Liam’s hand and allowed him to continue walking. “Nonsense. We’ll catch him before the police even stop by.”

Liam agreed by way of silence.

***

As a first course of action, they headed to the realtor who had rented them the office space.

By the time they arrived, it was dark as midnight. An overcast sky hid the stars and the moon. The only light came from a lamp post on the corner, orange and flickering.

They caught the elderly man who owned the realty locking up the building for the night along with his much younger secretary. The two men, young and old, looked up at them in recognition as they approached.

“Oh, it’s the Englishmen,” the realtor said, as many of the locals called them. The moniker always hit Liam with a pang of guilt, as England had not been kind to the world at large. “Is everything all right?”

“Just a small matter,” Liam said in his most polite and cordial manner.

The old man was spry for his age, but his eyesight was going. He wiped his monocle with a handkerchief and squinted to see them better in the dark. “Could we perhaps see to it tomorrow? The two of us are headed home for the night.”

Liam had taking a liking to this man, though he cared not for landlords on the whole. This one insisted on doing everything himself in spite of his age and privilege. His secretary, a young man just out of college, was there only to open doors and carry things, and he’d take notes occasionally.

Sherlock stepped up beside him and played his role without having even been briefed on the plan, naturally folding himself into their game. “Liam, can’t it wait until morning? The old man’s so tired he can’t see.”

“I’m quite all right, I assure you!”

This sort of thing came easy with Sherlock. The hard part was trying not to smile. Liam played it off as if he were apologetic. “In that case, the previous tenant—could you tell us who it was?”

“Well that’s a bit private,” the old man said, stroking his bearded chin. “If there’s any damage, I can have it fixed without involving them, it’s not a worry.”

“Oh no, it isn’t damage. The place is lovely. Rather, we found something personal stashed in the wall, and we’d like to return it to them directly.”

“A ring,” Sherlock said, just as the man was opening his mouth to ask something more. “Looks like it might have gotten lost under a floorboard. It might have been an heirloom, so I’d rather make sure they get it back.”

“That’s mighty strange,” the man said. “The woman who rented that before was a seamstress, she vacated once she retired.”

“Maybe it’s not hers, but I’d like to ask her about it.”

“I don’t see why not. She lives at the end of Kirauber road, number 623. A little brown house.”

William nodded his head politely, almost a bow. “Thank you kindly.”

***

As they made their way to the specified house, the mood was strange. Liam was aware of how his suggestion had disagreed with Sherlock, but he rarely held onto such things. Seeing him walk ahead facing forward, it was disconcerting.

The air was growing colder by the minute, and as they approached the residential neighborhood, there were fewer lamps to light the way. The roads wound through bare winter trees casting wiry shadows from what little moonlight there was.

Liam began to shiver from the cold and walked closer to Sherlock, where he could feel a hint of warmth. This feeling was likely a figment of his imagination, as they both wore thick coats, but it was a comfort even if only in his mind.

“Why a ring?” Liam asked, only because it was so quiet.

“Small enough to be left behind, valuable enough to go to some trouble over.”

“Of course.” He hummed a thought to himself, playing coy. “But what might you have done if he asked to see the item?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, and chuckled. He came to a stop on the dirt road. “I just so happen to have a ring in my pocket.”

“Ah.” Suddenly the cold seemed far away. Liam was flooded with warmth at the revelation. “Is that what you were doing at the silversmith this morning?”

“Ah, so you spotted me? I can’t ever surprise you, can I?”

Liam laughed. “It is a surprise. I couldn’t think of any reason why you’d be there.”

Sherlock turned on his heel to face him. In the dark, Liam couldn’t quite make out his grin, but he knew it was there. “I was thinking of when to give it to you. We had that spat earlier, and I wasn’t sure about the timing.”

“I’m so sorry.” He took Sherlock’s arm. It was hard to see on this old road and there was no one around. No reason to act like simply the best of friends. He let his head drop to Sherlock’s shoulder and lingered there a moment, letting his cheek absorb the warmth from Sherlock’s body. “When I suggested…” He stopped and looked up. “Sherly. I’d never want to leave you. I never meant that.”

“I know.” He lifted Liam’s chin and kissed his forehead. The slight, chaste touch of his lips warmed him through.

Sherlock rustled in his pocket and held up a silver ring, unadorned, no stone or engraving. “Here it is.”

“It’s a perfect ring,” Liam said, observing how the ring in Sherlock’s pinched fingers caught the weak moonlight “I wish I had one for you.”

“There’ll be time for that later.” He took Liam’s hand and held up the ring like a bargaining chip. “Now, I’ll put this ring on your finger, but I want a promise out of you when I do.”

William felt his cheeks burning at the romantic sentimentality of this situation, and was glad for the darkness to mask his blush. “Anything.”

“If you accept this ring, it’s till death do we part. No running out, even if you somehow convinced yourself it’s in my best interest. It’s not. If you want to be Liam and Sherly Jones, that’s what it means.”

Liam had never expected Sherlock to say a thing like that, not while holding his hand and a ring to put on it. He’d done everything but get down on one knee. “I do.”

“Ah—“ Sherlock visibly bristled, realizing what exactly had been said. “We’re not at an altar, you don’t have to say that.”

Finally, an opening to tease him a little. “I know you are a modern man, Sherly. You don’t care for the trappings of traditional society. Still,” he looked at his hand, still held by Sherlock who’d yet to adorn it with his ring, feigning dismay. “I’d like to call you my husband, if you’d allow it.”

As he anticipated, Sherlock looked as if he’d choked on something. “I suppose, if it makes you happy.”

“It does.”

Sherlock slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. Liam turned his hand to see the glint of light it caught.

“That’s enough messing around,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get moving before they’re in bed.”

“Wait, you didn’t kiss your bride.”

“Now that’s a line too far.”

Liam laughed and followed after him. In spite of his teasing, Sherlock granted him a quick kiss before they stepped out onto the paved road.

***

The house at the end of the dark street was an unassuming home for a small family, not unlike their own house on the other edge of town. Light shined from within, some residents still awake.

Sherlock knocked while William waited beside him on the stoop. A young woman, perhaps still a teenager, answered the door. “Yes, can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you,” William said. “I am—

“Teacher!” A small voice rang from inside. It was little Anna. She came running and stopped at the woman’s side, grinning up at him.

“What a coincidence,” William said. “Is Anna your sister?”

The young woman laughed and shook her head. “Oh, you flatter me. Anna is my daughter. My name is Laura. I assume you must be Mister Liam Jones?”

The two were led inside where they found a cozy living room, all the residents gathered around the fireplace. Aside from Anna and Laura, there was a man about the same age as Laura who sat whittling at a bit of wood, making the shape of a dolphin. Closer to the fire in an old rocking chair, was an older woman working on embroidery.

“This is my brother Sigurdur, and my grandmother mother, Helgi.”

The old woman looked up and smiled at the sound of her name. “Hallo!” she said.

“She doesn’t speak much English, I’m afraid.”

“I want to show Teacher my lizard!”

Laura gave Anna a stern look. “You may show Mister Jones your lizard, then it is off to bed with you.”

“Ahhh! But what about my rocks and my stamps?”

The brother chuckled. He said some word, which Liam knew to mean “stubborn girl” more or less.

“If Mister Jones has come here this late in the afternoon, he must have something to speak to me about, and hasn’t got time to look at rocks and stamps, I am sure.”

Liam hesitated to intervene, but smiled warmly. “Anna, you can bring your wonderful things to show and tell next class.”

“But not the lizard!” Laura scolded. “I can’t bring my lizard to class.”

“Yes, I’ll have to take a look at that lizard right now.”

“Teacher and Mister Jones, too!”

Until this point, Sherlock had been hanging back quietly. “Oh, right. Yeah, let me look at it too.”

Laura looked at the both of them in slight confusion. “Are you two brothers?”

“Eh, no relation,” Sherlock said. “It’s a very common name in England. I’m John Jones, pleased to meet you.”

She seemed to accept that easily and turned to Anna, who was already pulling a small reptile out of a makeshift terrarium. “His name is Thunderbolt!”

It was a common lizard, the kind that would normally be in hibernation at this time of year. “He’s very lucky to have a warm home,” Liam said. “You must take very good care of him.”

“All right,” the stern mother declared. “Time for bed. Sigurdur, will you take her?”

“Ja, ja, come along, girlie.”

Liam took note that while the young man had been whittling the most delicate toy with skill and precision, once he was up and walking around, his movement was something clumsy, almost childlike. Anna evaded him easily, and grumbled in frustration, scolding her gently in their language.

The little girl pouted, but seemed to know quite well where her boundaries lay and how far to push her uncle and mother. Once the two were upstairs and away from earshot, Laura turned to them.

“Anna told us something troubling today,” she said.

“I have a feeling that is the matter that brings us here.”

Her expression quickly turned to anger. “Why would you let children play around with something so morbid?”

Sherlock piped up in his own defense. “It was only meant to be just a fun experiment! We didn’t expect to find anything in our own office.”

With a sigh, she returned to a neutral composure. “It is unfortunate, I suppose.”

Liam considered weaving some elaborate fabrication, but he had a gut feeling that the truth was closer at hand than he had first anticipated. Truth for truth, he had to be direct. “That office was used by your grandmother before, wasn’t it?”

The old woman looked up. She may not have understood much in English, but she came walking over, understanding the gravity of what was said no less.

“Yes,” Laura said, shifting her weight a bit as if she had just become uncomfortable. She stood between the men and her grandmother. “I’ll ask her about it, and translate for you.”

“We would appreciate that.”

Laura asked her grandmother a few questions, and then the woman began to speak at length. Although Liam had a limited grasp of their language, he could not mistake the serious tone in the old woman’s voice and the glare in her blue eyes as she spoke.

Then, Laura spoke again. “She said one day, she forgot to lock the offices. It was the coldest night in years, and a homeless man had taken shelter there. He had cut himself, and was using some of the fabric in her supplies to dress the wound. He couldn’t understand her, foreign probably, and ran away. By the time she chased him down the stairs, he disappeared. This was about two years ago.”

“I see.” Liam nodded. “And you didn’t report it to the police?”

“The roads were icy for days after, and the police had more important things to deal with than a random homeless man nobody had ever seen before, and no one saw him after. He hadn’t broken anything, or stolen anything other than some cloth. She didn’t see the need.”

“That’s a relief,” Liam said. “I was afraid it was something more serious.”

“Anna exaggerates,” she replied, forcing a smile of her own. “Her imagination is a powerful thing, and it runs wild. She tells stories like this all the time. The truth is much less dramatic. You needn’t worry about legal matters, if that’s the trouble.”

Liam nodded again and vowed to the older woman. “Thanks for clearing it up, and sorry for troubling you so late at night.”

“It’s no trouble. You’re welcome here. Anna enjoys your class, and I’m thankful to see her applying that precocious nature of hers to something productive. Although next time, please come early enough for dinner. “

“I promise we won’t surprise you so late at night again.”

They said their good evenings and left the quaint home. Turning back one more time, Liam could see Anna pressing her face against the glass of her bedroom window on the second floor watching them, and could imagine the brother’s voice faintly scolding her to go to bed.

“Liam,” Sherlock said, once they had walked a fair distance. “To be fair, I haven’t yet mastered the language, but I’m pretty sure the woman said ég drap hann.”

“Yes, as she looked me dead in the eyes.”

“I killed him.”

“Yes.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do about that? I don’t want to lock up some old woman.”

“Let’s head home, and I’ll tell you what else I surmised from that conversation.”

***

A few hours later, they were back in their own cozy home with a fire blazing.

Moments like these, where they played off each others minds and compared their pieces as they solved the same puzzle were as intimate as the ones they shared in each other’s warmth in bed, but there was discomfort this time. The weight of their own lives and of others.

“The father’s out of the picture?” Sherlock mumbled to himself. “Interesting family unit, I must say.”

“Many of the men here work on long expeditions at sea,” Liam said. “So he’s either dead or often away. And the parents are the same—leaving only the grandmother, grandchildren, and a small child.”

“The brother is some sort of simpleton,” Sherlock went on. “Not much in faculties, but artistic and great with children. I’ve seen wares like that dolphin he was carving at a few of the stalls in town.”

“Helgi is the matriarch of the family,” Liam mused. “Her husband has passed, her own children are gone or passed, and her only grandson can’t work at the docks or on a ship. He contributes in his own way, but it isn’t enough. The granddaughter is an attentive mother. So Helgi became a business woman, she took care of her family’s financials well into old age with her sewing business.”

“The type who’d protect her kin like a lioness.”

“Indeed.” Liam had taken off his coat, vest, and shoes, but had yet to settle into a chair. After pacing the den one last time, he sat. “I gleaned some bits from her story, and here’s what I’ve put together.”

Sherlock sat opposite him and leaned forward in rapt attention. “Do tell.”

“Laura worked with her grandmother while Anna was at home cared for by Sigurdur. Anna was a beautiful and youthful woman, as it’s plain to see. She looks like a teenaged girl even now. So imagine, a man comes from America, and follows her around, even though she rejects him. Finally, he follows her to the office—a seamstress’s atelier at that time. He puts hands on the young mother, or threatens to take her.”

“The lioness bites,” Sherlock said. “We both know the amount of blood spilled there would have been fatal. Even our girl Anna couldn’t exaggerate that.”

“One thing I don’t fully understand.” Liam sighed and looked into the fire. “Why would she confess to me so easily? Even if she underestimated how much of her words I would understand, why look me dead in the eyes and confess?”

Sherlock stared intently for a moment, then tilted his head. “Maybe she could sense it,” he said. “That you are… uh, that you were… someone who helps people like her.”

“You mean, as a consulting criminal?”

“Ah,” Sherlock sighed in dreamy remembrance. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard you say that.”

In spite of the guilt that ate at him every day, and the grim circumstance, Liam couldn’t help but let a smirk pull at his mouth. Those days leading Sherlock around, the thrill he’d get as he closed in on the truth—nothing could ever replace that feeling.

“And you? Are you still a detective who believes criminals should be punished, no matter the crime?”

“It’s still the core of my belief, yes,” Sherlock said, and chuckled to himself. He relaxed into the chair and his eyes began to study Liam’s figure. “But, I’ve come to understand that the entities like the state and law enforcement aren’t always competent at dealing the right punishment to the right people.”

Liam looked down at his hands laying in his lap. “Perhaps Helgi feels guilt, and that’s why she was so direct with me. Perhaps she thinks it is her time to be punished.”

“Hey, it’s not just her problem anymore. If they go looking for some American they could dig up dirt on us, too.”

Liam took a deep breath. “It’s a relief, at least. I think our deadline has been relieved.”

“Want to wait and see what happens before we go shaking up the whole town?”

He nodded. “I have a theory, but only time will tell.”

Sherlock stood and leaned against the arm of Liam’s armchair. He lifted Liam’s hand from the papers he held, the one wearing the silver ring, and kissed it. “If we’re in the clear, then could I take you to bed early?”

Liam set the papers aside and looked up at him, unable to hide the mischief in his eyes. “I suppose we can’t be considered married until the union is rightfully consummated.”

The blush that painted Sherlock’s face as he smiled was everything he could ask for, all he’d ever wanted. “That—That’s not what I meant!”

Liam stood with him and wrapped his arms around his waist, letting his chin rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherly…”

“Liam?”

“I love you.”

“I know that.”

He huffed a little objection against Sherlock’s neck. “Let me tell you, anyway.”

“All right, all right.”

“I’ll never leave you. I promise. Not unless I die. And I will try harder than I ever have before to keep that from happening prematurely.”

Sherlock’s hands rubbed his back and shoulders. He kissed the top of Liam’s head, and they stood together in their living room swaying every slightly, like dancers to a slow song.

“All right, love. I’ll do my best, too. Let’s be in each other’s hair a good long while. If it makes you happy.”

“It does.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock intended to use the sunlight hours of the day to do a bit of digging while Liam was holding class as per usual. It would call even more attention to the matter if he suddenly canceled school.

Their rural neighborhood just outside the city was a change of pace for him, having always lived in London. He hated it at times, being so far from action and adventure; but after all they had seen and been through, the gentle sea breeze rustling the trees and dappled sunlight was a balm to his spirit, and a small relief against the freezing weather.

He passed a rough looking woman on the road to town. Her face was familiar to him, but he didn’t know her name. She was another one of the mothers from Liam’s class.

“Mister Jones,” she greeted him, all smiles, with that delightful upward lilt. “The children, they scare you?”

“Yesterday, yes,” he chuckled, feigning amusement at her best attempt at English small talk. Inwardly, his guard was up. As he thought about it, there wouldn’t be much reason for her to walk in this direction. It was possible she was paying a visit to someone in the country where his little house was nestled, but there were no businesses or points of interest out there. People grew what they could eat and had little more.

“Oh, they tell stories. They like those books. Rannsóknarlögreglumaður!” A long string of a word that he had learned was their equivalent of “detective.” Detectives were popular and romanticized all the way to the glaciers of Iceland, it would seem.

Her smile began to seem a bit too friendly. “Only a smôl, lítill drop of blood, I’m sure it was!”

“It was,” he said. “A big exaggeration.”

She nodded and smiled. “Never worry, Mister Jones.”

“Of course, and you have yourself a good day.”

After that strange encounter, Sherlock decided to change course. He suddenly got the feeling like asking questions about this situation may not be good for his health.

***

That evening, Liam was home before he was. A rare occasion. There was a delicious smell in the air and the house was warm.

“Liam? Home early?”

Liam called back from within the house. “A half day before winter break.”

That’s right. It would be Christmas in a week, which meant the darkest and coldest days. He’d been so preoccupied with the ring for Liam, he hadn’t considered a Christmas present. That was a thought to pocket for later.

Sherlock found him in the kitchen over a large pot with a rack of lamb’s ribs beside him, vegetables and seasonings scattered across the countertops. The rustic stonework of the kitchen was covered in splatters of either blood or sauce, it was hard to tell. Fire from the wood burning stove made Liam glow all over with warm, orange light. He was wearing a ruffled apron that seemed intended for a housewife, but the large knife in his hand and blood smeared on it kept it from becoming potentially too cute.

“Welcome home,” he said, looking up from the mess. “I hoped I’d be farther along by the time you got in, but there are more variables than I accounted for.”

“Variables,” Sherlock mumbled as he looked at the carnage. “Such as?”

Liam folded his arms and placed one curled finger against his chin as he looked down at his work in thought. “The recipe is for beef stew, but I could only find lamb. And aside from thyme, the seasoning I could find has an entirely different profile.”

As Sherlock approached, he made sure to wrap his arms around Liam from behind, so as not to smear his own clothes with the lamb’s blood. “Your variables smell delicious, whatever they are.”

Liam released his tension in one deep breath and turned to give Sherlock a peck on his cheek. “It’s not quite finished, so go and relax a while. I’ll bring it out shortly.”

Sherlock decided to forgo the discussion about his encounters that day until after dinner.

When it was complete, Liam’s meal showed his inexperience. A bit over seasoned, slightly undercooked. But to Sherlock it was like a god’s ambrosia, and he sucked it down until there was scarcely any remaining.

“Do you enjoy my cooking?”

“Yeah. You know, you’re pretty good at this household stuff, Liam.”

Liam smiled at him, a soft and bashful smile. “I’m happy to hear that. Louis had always taken care of me, cleaning and making the meals. That freed my time to do my work. But now I have so little work to do, the household chores are a nice distraction.”

“Ah, I see.” It was the same for him with John and Ms. Hudson, but he hadn’t picked up the slack as well as Liam in their absence. “Well, know that I will never complain about coming home to a cooked meal. Especially this. Did it cost you much?”

“Oh, I got the meat in return for an odd job. Don’t expect it every night. This is simply a test run for Christmas dinner.”

“Can’t wait. If it’s this good on the first pass, I can only imagine what your perfected dish could taste like.”

“It’s hard to come by quality meat here, but I’ll make the effort for special occasions.”

Sherlock swiped his finger across the plate to catch one more taste of the delicious sauce. “What else would you like to do for Christmas? I’m not much for the season myself, but I’ll bring you whatever you want. A tree? Ribbons and ornaments? I draw the line at carols.”

“I don’t need anything special, but we should attend mass on Christmas Eve.”

Sherlock groaned. “I’d rather not…”

“We don’t go to church on Sundays, so we need to make an appearance on holidays, at least.”

“Uhg, I suppose I’ll endure this boredom for the sake of our standing within the community.”

“I appreciate it.” His smile weakened a bit as one thought connected to another. “Did anyone approach you today? In a strange way, I mean.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it.”

Liam stood and began to collect the dishes. He smiled at Sherlock’s empty plate. “I might have misinterpreted the situation.”

“I’m getting that feeling, too.”

“Today, after class, no less than three parents came to walk home with their children—which they rarely do, although I suppose it being the last day before a holiday could explain that. But, they each stopped to reassure me each in their own way that whatever the children saw the other day was most certainly exaggerated and nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Sherlock said with a dry laugh. “They know, they all know. It’s somehow refreshing and yet uneasy, isn’t it?”

“The crime was, if I’m correct, self-defense at any rate. It makes sense that they would band together to protect her.”

Sherlock followed him into the kitchen and asked for a cloth so that he could share in the dish washing. Liam gave him one, and they fell into washing-drying teamwork without saying a word about it. “So, are you satisfied with that outcome?”

Liam looked down at the newly clean dish in his hands. “No, I don’t think I am.”

Sherlock smiled to himself, happy to hear that kind of honestly. “Tell me why.”

“Who was he? I doubt he was really a homeless man. American men don’t come to these places as poor migrants, the trip is too expensive. They go west when they need work. Not to mention, a middle class woman would have nothing to fear over defending herself from a vagrant. He must have been well off, traveling for either business or pleasure, and yet nobody came to search for him? It’s odd.”

Sherlock began to laugh as he took the dish and dried it. “Oh, Liam. I thought you were having a moral conundrum and it turns out it’s the missing details that bother you? You’re truly my match, we are two of a kind.”

Liam frowned at that. His bottom lip puffed out as if he’d been wounded by it. “I care about the morals, too. But—“

“It’s a mystery,” he said. “To be sure. But I don’t think we need to solve it with sleuthing this time.”

“What should we do?”

“On my end? Nothing. I am a private detective without a client. There is simply no reason to investigate.”

“But the woman all but confessed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and hummed a laugh. “While there is no place for a consulting detective here, perhaps a consulting criminal might fit the bill.”

They kept on washing and drying in silence for a moment. The light left Liam’s eyes. He looked down into the dish water like it was a magic window to the past.

Sherlock dried the last plate, then took Liam’s hand. He kissed it, and felt how cold it was from the water, so he brought the palm to his cheek to warm it against his face. All this while waiting for Liam to collect his thoughts and speak.

“This life we have here. Can you really call it repentance?” Liam’s voice was weak, and he didn’t look up. “I’m so happy here. Here with you.”

“Here, come here.” Sherlock sighed and pulled Liam close to him. He wrapped his arms around him and swayed slowly back and forth in the little kitchen. “I loved you then, I love you now, and I love the person you are becoming.”

“I know. I know, but that in itself is why…” In spite of this verbal protest, he sunk deeper into Sherlock’s arms. “I feel like I am watching someone else’s life. Someone else who deserved to sit here with you talking about lamb stew and Christmas mass.”

“Hm, perhaps this is a talk long coming.” He released Liam from his embrace and took his hand instead, to lead him back to the living room. “Come on, let’s sit and have a chat.”

***

Liam sat on the living room couch by the fire, wringing his hands in his lap as Sherlock fetched a pot of tea. His fingers twisted the ring on his left hand.

Forever bound, until death. That was what he agreed to, it was what his heart wanted. Yet he feared what Sherlock might tell him, that he’d ask him to shed off his guilt, to forget this recompense and just be happy with him.

What if Sherlock asked of him something he could not agree to? In a mind where plans formed upon plans and more plans, he had no solution for what he might do.

Sherlock returned with a pot and two cups. Liam gladly took one to busy his hands, and Sherlock took a seat beside him. The tense and awkward mood lightened simply by having Sherlock near.

“So to cut right to the quick, I have an idea for you. For us, I mean.”

Liam looked at him with eyes wide, having not expected that. Having expected some lecture about his self-loathing tendency. “What is it?”

Sherlock stay with his legs crossed and one finger raised in the air as if presenting the solution to a mystery. “As I see it, the problems that stand are: first, you feel as if you can’t atone while living a peaceful, happy life. Secondly, I’ve grown rather restless in this peaceful, happy life, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Liam couldn’t help but smile at that. He was so sickly in love with this man. “Yes, I have noticed. But it seems easy to alleviate that problem for you, in certain ways.”

“Ha, don’t get me off track now, love. You’re very good at doing that.”

The bit of laughter between them reminded Liam too much of Sherlock’s visit to Durham, and how much fun they’d had working together in spite of their grim revelations. When Sherlock had made that very promise to make the Lord of Crime pay for his actions. “Well then, please continue.”

“Liam, I’d like you to resume activities working for good people in your own way, outside the law if need be. And I’d like to be the one who keeps you in check, who would stop you if you went to far.”

“You want to be the detective on my trail once again?”

“Not so much. No.” He chuckled and pushed a strand of hair behind Liam’s ear, looking at him with such fondness that it was almost unbearable. “Well… I do miss the chase, I’ll admit. But I don’t want to work against you. I’d prefer it if we worked the same problem from two angles. For example, in this situation—I see what you want, and I encourage you to help this woman clear her conscience. In another situation, I may not. And I will tell you so, and urge you to stop if I see fit. In that way, hopefully I can alleviate some of that worry.”

“I see.”

“I can never be the sole arbiter of your doings, Liam. I’m prone to failure. Don’t forget that I’ve committed crimes, too. But I can… uh…”. He seemed to have run out of well-thought words. “I just want you to rest easy knowing I’d stop you if you went too far, that you can rely on me. And doing so would ease my boredom and lack of purpose, too.”

“So that’s it,” Liam said. How silly of him to be afraid. He leaned close until his forehead rest against Sherlock’s. “I like it.”

Sherlock’s hands dug into his hair, warm and gentle. “Yeah? Good to hear.” His voice was rich and dark as ever, but that softness in it was only for Liam to know, and it made him shiver.

He had to trust Sherlock, once and for all. To trust that Sherlock loved him, and would seek to help him, not to change him. That trust made him feel happy, somehow, in a way that wasn’t burdened with guilt.

“There’s just one more problem,” Liam said. “We’ll be stuck here in the cold winter for months to come. There will be no crime, no punishment, no redemption.”

“So it’s on hold, then. But we will get there.”

“Yes. In the meantime, I promise I’ll stop letting these dark feelings get the best of me.”

“Never think of it. I prefer it when I can read your moods on the surface, instead of twenty thousand leagues under the sea.”

Liam let out a deep sigh that released all the tension held unconsciously in his body. He draped his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders, and felt those wonderful hands move from his hair down his back and to his waist. Sherlock wasn’t the only one easily distracted. His self loathing seemed like a distant shadow when Sherlock held him this way.

“In that case, I’ll show you all of me, all the way to the bottom of the ocean.”

Chapter Text

On Christmas Eve, the snow fell from the night sky, briefly illuminated by the flicker of candles and lanterns carried by the swathes of people headed to worship. Everyone who lived in the outskirts followed the road into town on carts or by foot, making it glitter like a vein of gold in the black night.

Sherlock stepped back and let Liam walk ahead of him. To see such a look of wonder on his face brought back the memory of their first meeting, Liam’s interest in the spiral stairs. To Sherlock, Christmas was a pointless holiday, but to see Liam rapt at the sight of so many candles leading to the little white church threatened to give him a change of heart.

“I’m afraid they don’t have quite the enthusiasm for merriment as we’re used to in London,” Sherlock said, voice raised slightly to reach Liam over the bustle of the crowd. “No egg nog, no figgy pudding.”

“I know it isn’t as rich, but the lights shine brighter without competition from street lamps or windows,” Liam said, still looking all around them with his eyes wide and sparkling. “I can do without liquor and pudding.”

“Hey, don’t count out the liquor just yet.” He took one look around to make sure none of their fellow travelers on the road were looking at them too hard and raised a canteen from his pocket. “Just couldn’t rustle up the nog part, that’s all.”

Liam smirked at him, and his eyes narrowed. An expression like that, it was equal parts annoyed and amused. “Do you honestly need to raise sail before you can step foot in a church, Sherly?”

He laughed. “It’s not the hard stuff. Just a little hot cider to keep us warm. Here, have some. You look like you could freeze over.”

Liam took a sip and his little smirk eased into a genuine smile. “Ah, that’s nice.” His cheeks regained their color.

They walked the road to the church passing the canteen back and forth, all bundled up in coats and scarves, using the passage of the drink as an excuse to touch discreetly though their thick gloves.

The little church in Reykjavik was overrun by the turnout. Even the fishermen who lived at sea had returned home for the holidays. Every traveler and visitor to Iceland was there that night.

The church was alight with candles and singing voices could be heard from within.

Sherlock thought Liam’s image was at its most perfect when illuminated by fire. Whether the destructive fire that swept through London, the holy light from a church’s window, or their warm fireplace in the little house where they shared a bed; all suited him.

But the flickering light of so many candles was special. It danced in his eyes and made his hair sparkle. His entire being seemed to have a halo of light as he stood under the arch that led into the main church building and smiled back at Sherlock.

“I hope you won’t be too bored.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, and made an effort to look slightly less enraptured by the man in front of him. “Just happy to get out of the cold.”

Liam smiled and glanced briefly down at Sherlock’s left hand before looking back up at him, his warm smile tinged bittersweet. He wanted to reach for him, that was obvious. But not here.

Inside the church, the pews were all taken and people stood in the aisles, to the back and the sides. In the center was an altar with a sculpted figure of Christ.

They settled into a spot in the very back, packed tightly with people all around them. It soon became much warmer.

“Do you believe in it all?” Sherlock asked him in a half whisper, leaning in so as to be as discreet as possible about this subject. “The savior and everything, I mean.”

“I have often asked myself as much,” Liam said. “The church as an institution has done immeasurable harm across the world, and serves to legitimize the very class structure I lived my life to destroy. And yet…”

As he trailed off, Sherlock returned his attention to the front. A choir of children, some of whom were Liam’s students, began to filter in from the wings. The smallest of them was little Ana, holding her chin high.

“Belief can inspire goodness in people,” Liam said.

Sherlock had seen the few records of Liam’s past life that existed. He and his brother had bounced around different orphanages where they’d have been fed and cared for by clergy. Certainly the donations would have been at their most plentiful around Christmas time.

To hell with it, he thought. With a due amount of covertness, hidden by the crowd, he felt for Liam’s hand and held it.

There was no reaction on Liam’s face, but his fingers tightened around Sherlock’s. A secret from the world around them.

The children of the choir stood in their places, some shy of the large number of people around them, and some restless and jittery as excited children always are.

They began to sing the season’s songs and hymns. Then a pastor would read scriptures and another song would follow. Sherlock had been studying the language as much as he could, and so was able to follow most of the proceedings.

Despite understanding, he soon became bored, and began to watch the people around them, practicing his skills like a tool that needed sharpening.

Some of the families were people he knew, who he’d done jobs for in town. Some were strangers, but with his skill set, they were never unknown to him.

After people-watching for a while, he became aware of Liam watching him instead of the service, or the people around them. “Sherly…”

“Hm?” He returned his attention and squeezed his hand. “Something up?”

“If you’re quite warm now… could we step outside?”

“We’ve only been here half an hour.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just…”

Communicating in whispers without interrupting anyone else’s focus on the services was difficult. Sherlock took his hand back and nodded in the direction of the door.

Outside, the church was quiet except for the dreamlike muffled sound of singing and chanting from within. The snow was still falling like a fine powder from the black sky.

They found a bench under an awning that wasn’t covered in snow, and sat.

“Sorry to drag you all the way here only to give up halfway through.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Sherlock answered. “Feeling ok?”

“Yes, I just. I suppose I realized, I don’t really know anyone in there.”

“You know quite a lot of people here, more than I do.”

“I’m acquainted, sure.”

It clicked then. “Ah, you must miss your brothers. And the rest of your merry band. Is that it?”

“Hm.” He nodded, and turned to look up at the church’s steeple. “Christmas is nostalgic for me, but no one who shares the memory is here. How are they celebrating Christmas this year? Knowing I’m alive, but unable to be with them. I might have…”

It was unlike him to second guess his words, or to trail off without finishing. Sherlock risked an arm around his shoulder. There were few people milling about outside, but he could explain this away as comfort for a friend if pressed.

“I made myself the center of their world for such a long time,” Liam said. “I thought, in the finality of my death, they’d be free to walk their own paths. But knowing I still live, it brings the question. What do they think now? Have I abandoned them?”

“I’m sure they’re happy to know you’re alive, wherever you are.”

“Thank you, Sherly.”

They sat together in silence as the next hymn ended and another began.

“Want to go back inside?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not yet. Soon the feast will begin, and we can go back inside. For now, in the absence of my family, I’d rather be with you than in that crowd.”

He dug in his coat pocket for a moment, and smiled with a nervous blush as he held out his gloved hand grasping something small, and passed it into Sherlock’s palm. It was a silver ring similar to the one he’d given Liam just a few weeks ago.

“It’s not exactly a Christmas gift,” he said. “I was going to get you one anyway. We both should have one, although they don’t exactly match.”

Sherlock stole a kiss from Liam’s cheek, and pulled his glove off to slip the ring on. The air was so cold, he could barely admire it before putting the glove back on. “I’m not much for sentiment, you know. But this is pretty damn meaningful. Thank you.”

“I wish we could be as open and free together as any man and woman would be,” Liam said.

“It’s not in the cards, alas. But it’s been kinda fun to have a secret innit?”

Liam laughed. “Yes, our secret.”

Sherlock took one more quick kiss before reaching into his own jacket. “Well, money is tight, but I got you something, too.”

He’d never been great at buying gifts for people. Liam was the easiest, because they were alike in many ways. Liam would certainly appreciate a tool, something he could use. The shops in Reykjavik were limited, and sea faring vendors rarely brought fine goods this way.

In the end, he’d settled for a pocket compass. Just a small thing, about the size of a poker chip. It was useful, and the steel it was encased in was surprisingly aesthetic for a little shop in Iceland, engraved on the back with a fleur-de-lis.

“This is a beautiful gift,” Liam said, and turned it over in his hands again and again. Snapping it open to look at the dial, then closing it again.

“I didn’t know if you’d like it that much,” he said with an awkward chuckle. “It was uh… mathematics-adjacent, I suppose.”

Liam looked up at him, smiling brilliantly, eyes sparkling. “You always do help me find my way.”

Sherlock stood and chuckled to himself as he brushed the snow off his shoulders and shuffled his feet. “You’re giving me too much credit with that, I promise I’m not that poetic. But, glad you like it.”

It sounded like the service was wrapping up, so they slipped back inside for the last song.

Once the formalities were over, the church bustled with greetings and merriment as the people of Reykjavik lined up and down the road for food and caught up with neighbors and old friends.

A small child squealed “teacher!” and clamped his little arms tight around Liam’s legs. No sooner had the boy’s parents managed to peel him away than another child came up and threw themselves at him, too.

Liam was so good with them. He showed them kindness with a pat on the head, but encouraged a respectable distance. The parents loved him, too. They raved about how much their children learned, now that a real teacher was here in town. All wanted to do favors for him, wanted to help support him, as they knew teachers made next to nothing as far as a wage.

Liam graciously accepted as always, reminding them that he’s got quite a nice place to live and is never hungry, but that he certainly appreciates the help.

Sherlock left only momentarily to scrounge up some food and drink, but when he returned to the sanctuary where he’d left Liam, a flock of older women had beset him, all trying to introduce their daughters. Sherlock’s reappearance at his side didn’t alleviate this, since he was also a marriageable single man in their eyes.

“You’re living in the old farmer Jonsson’s house, aren’t you?”

“Oh, it was so sad when his wife passed, but he’s happy living with his children now.”

“Oh, but that house is quite big, isn’t it? How are you two getting on there, a couple of bachelors?”

“Liam’s pretty good at cooking and cleaning,” Sherlock said, spitting a mouthful of meat. “I keep the fires going and the linens washed and whatnot, it’s split fair.”

They began to go on about how capable they seem, but that it really would be better to let a woman do those things. Luckily, the young women in question came around shortly and pulled their grandmothers away. Leave them be the girls chided in their lilting language.

Sherlock watched the group leave and saw how Liam sighed with so much relief that his entire body slacked. He handed over a bowl of the food. “You’re a little too proper for your own good sometimes,” he laughed. “Gotta be less the perfect match if you don’t want that kind of attention.”

“But they wanted you, too.”

“Eh, well.”

“I do feel a bit bad. They are beautiful women. Strong and steadfast, too. Probably amazing mothers, too.”

“But they’re barking up the wrong tree, huh? He laughed, but Liam still looked a bit pale from the experience.

They found a spot to sit and eat their food. The drink served was Brennivín, Icelandic herb schnapps. “I think this is harder than my cider,” Sherlock said with a laugh. “And you were worried.”

“They’re not shy, I suppose.”

By this point, Sherlock was beginning to feel warm, happy, and loose-tongued. “Never you worry, Liam, my dear,” he said with a contented groaning sigh as he sank into the seat. “Wherever you go, you’ll be loved.”

“Because you’ll be with me?”

“Eh? Well yeah, you’ve got me. But not just that. People like you, Liam. Look around, we’ve only been here a few months and already there are people here who’d do anything for you. Old ladies who’d like to make you their son.”

Liam’s eyes took on a look he knew well. Like the light couldn’t reach them. “They don’t know me. They don’t know what I’ve done.”

Sherlock said nothing in response to that. He was bad at this sort of thing anyway, and a little too tipsy to think of anything coherent.

The darkness soon passed on its own. Liam smiled at him. “I’m content that you know, and you love me still.”

“I certainly do.”

***

Liam avoided the liquor for the most part. Just a sip to warm him up. The locals indulged in the traditional brew that they seemed quite accustomed to, but which hit Sherlock in a funny way.

On their walk home, he swayed side to side and seemed unaffected by the cold. He was humming a mixed up tune that was part Go Tell it on the Mountain and part Here We Come A‐Wassailing as if both were stuck in his head and vying for dominance.

“I thought you promised no carols,” Liam said, teasing. He held himself as the cold had long chilled him through, even in spite of his heavy coat.

“Was I singing? Ah…. Might’a had a cup too much.”

“Oh, dear. I thought your tolerance was higher than a bit of schnapps and mead.”

“I’ve been a good boy all these months for the most part,” Sherlock said. “So it could be that I’ve lost it.”

Liam chuckled to himself and wished he could walk with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder like the married couples did. He saw a young man carrying a sleepy child in one arm, holding his wife close with the other, and felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. “I don’t mind,” he said in a quiet voice. “It makes you awfully cute, I’d say.” The lanterns of the people on the road reflected on the icy white ground, and he could just barely see Sherlock’s blush.

When they reached their home, Sherlock stumbled inside and crashed onto the nearest armchair without even stripping his coat.

“Mister Holmes,” Liam said, and tugged Sherlock off the chair by his arms. “Remove those snow-covered things before you sit on my furniture, please.”

“Your furniture?” Sherlock laughed. He tried to comply, but he was fumbling over all the buttons.

“Here, here.” William helped him untangle the scarf and untie his boot laces, until he was down to his regular shirt and pants. He gave him a quick kiss. “Now go straight to bed, I’ll be there in just a moment.”

“Okay, you better not take long.”

Liam was sure Sherlock would be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, so he’d need to hurry up with their nightly tasks.

He made certain the fire place in the living room was down to embers, and took a log to start the one in their room, instead. He hoped they’d spend Christmas morning lazy in bed.

To that end, he brought a pitcher of water and a basket of bread to have breakfast the next morning without ever needing to leave the comfort of bed. No repeat of that first morning when they’d traveled with growling stomachs all the way to town, never again.

When he was done and ready to join Sherlock, he found the bed warmed and inviting for him. Sherlock was not fully conscious, but hadn’t reached the level of dead-to-the-world Liam expected. His eyes were half open and stared at him dreamily in the light of the fire.

“Sleep now,” Liam said, and untied the ponytail he’d forgotten to take out of his hair.

Sherlock answered with a rough little noise in his chest and wrapped Liam in his arms. “Merry Christmas, Liam,” he said, and was fast asleep before he could return the sentiment.

Chapter Text

Sherlock stirred awake at the sound of Liam whimpering in his arms. Darkness obscured all sense of time and space around him, but thanks to the noticeable drag on his body and mind as he tried to gain his bearings, he could assume it wasn’t yet morning.

He pat Liam gently on his cheek to wake him from whatever nightmare had him ensnared. The whimpers turned into confused mumbles. “Sherly…?”

“I’m here,” he said, and felt in the dark to run his fingers through Liam’s hair. He heard a sigh of relief as he pulled him close.

“I had a bad dream.”

“I could tell.”

Liam didn’t often share the topics of his dreams. Sherlock could make an educated guess as to their contents, and he understood why Liam preferred not to revisit them once he’d woken. But this time seemed different, as Liam let out a soft chuckle in the dark.

“I dreamt you were working back at the mill again, but Louis was there, too. And you were both working like slaves, catching cold, coughing and near death—“

“Aha. I think if Louis was there, he’d pose more a threat to me than heavy labor or sickness.”

“Oh, stop.” A playful nudge. Then Liam sighed and was quiet a moment, but Sherlock could tell he was ruminating. Finally, he spoke again. “Most of those workers don’t live to see the age of 25.” The age Sherlock had only just turned.

“I don’t work there anymore,” Sherlock said, petting his hair again. “And never will again. And your brother is healthy and cared for, too. Nothing to worry about.”

“Tell these things to my subconscious, please.”

Sherlock leaned in close to Liam’s ear and put on a husky whispering voice. “Hey, Liam’s subconscious, please be quiet so he can get some sleep.”

“Sherly! It tickles!” He struggled and laughed so hard that he snorted.

“And also—“ Sherlock held Liam closer to keep him from wiggling away. “Also, you should tell Liam he suddenly has a craving for that lamb again, the lamb was really good.”

Liam hit him with a pillow. That made Sherlock laugh too, and they were both soon exhausted and catching their breath.

Liam tucked his head in close and sighed, a happy sigh this time. “You can just ask me, no need to implant messages in my subconscious.”

“In that case, what I’d like most is if you tell me what you want, what will make you feel better. Don’t keep it inside.”

“Ah. How did I find such a sweet man…?”

“It was a complicated process as we both know, but you’re changing the subject.”

“Hm. What I want…” Sherlock could not see, but he could picture the thoughtful expression Liam would make in this kind of moment. “I want workers to receive fair compensation for the fruits of their labor, and to have adequate rest and time for family.”

“Labor reform might be beyond my purview at the moment.”

Liam yawned, nuzzling the space under his chin. “Hm, all right. If you could pet my hair until I fall asleep, that would suffice for now.”

“I think I can manage that.”

It took just a few strokes before Liam was out again, and Sherlock was left alone with his thoughts.

The new year had come and passed with little fanfare. The two barely had enough between them for a celebratory bottle of wine. Work for Sherlock was scarce, and he’d spent more than he should have between Liam’s ring and his Christmas gift.

But he didn’t mind it. Most days he hardly noticed. The rent was cheap. The townsfolk would bring Liam bushels of whatever food they could spare because they knew his teacher’s stipend was meager. They each had two sets of clothes and a nice coat. Liam kept him well equipped with knitted scarves, hats, socks, and mittens.

If he ever missed his old income, it was only because there was no lab here, and ordering the right equipment for his research would be costly. That was, if he even had time for science between the washing, chopping, water-drawing, fire-tending, and readying the land for whatever crops might grow when spring came. Even with Liam splitting the chores, the simple functions of life out here left little time for anything.

He finally understood why most men took wives, as it would require a partnership simply to exist in this world. Sometimes he longed for the city, where he could afford himself the free time to pursue his own interests. Other times, he reveled in the independence he had here, the strength he’d developed.

What he never tired of was Liam, or their long nights together. Conversations by the fireside as they compared their knowledge of subjects ranging from horticulture to astrophysics. Liam’s steady voice reading a book aloud. Or silence, made comfortable by Liam’s presence, as they sat together, no sound but the crackling fire.

And there were these moments, where he held Liam in the dark under warm blankets. Sherlock would close his eyes and try to measure the temperature of Liam’s skin against his, to count how many beats per minute his heart made as he slept, relishing the slow expanse of his chest and the fall as he exhaled warm breath onto his neck.

He’d wonder what was going on in that head tucked so tenderly against him. The world’s greatest intellect hidden away with him here, in the cold and dark.

***

By March, the sunlight hours had begun to lengthen just a bit. On days when there were no clients to meet, Sherlock stayed home and worked on the land while Liam was in town teaching.

He’d borrowed a hoe from a neighbor and was tilling the earth by hand that day so that he and Liam could plant potatoes, carrots, radishes, and whatever else would grow in the dirt. He was eager to try out his new root vegetable formula on the crops, and had a bet with the neighbor that his chemicals could do better than plain old horse manure. So he had a control group, a horse shit group, and a chemical fertilizer group.

He never would have guessed it, but as he stood there over the work he’d done, he felt accomplished. Not nearly so much as when he was solving mysteries, but the work did feel good.

He went inside to wash the dirt and sweat off him as the light faded, and still Liam hadn’t come home from work. Sometimes he got held up on the road, so that itself was no worry.

Then hours passed, and Sherlock had dinner alone. He calmed the worry in his gut, telling himself that Liam wasn’t walking on a bad leg anymore, and that this was quite possibly the safest place in the world. That he hadn’t tripped and landed somewhere off the road in the cold dark. When Liam finally did come through the door, he smelled like food.

Liam kissed his cheek before removing his coat and gloves. “Sorry I’m so late getting home. Did you eat?”

“I did,” Sherlock said. The smell bothered him, not because he minded if Liam wanted to grab a bite in town before heading home. It was because he smelled of his own cooking, the distinct combination of spices he’d concocted to try and emulate British food without half the proper ingredients.

He supposed if he asked Liam where he’d been, he’d get a straight answer. But where was the fun in that?

“Just try to be home before the sun is down tomorrow. I want to show you the progress I made on the garden.”

Liam agreed to do so, excited about the experiment.

Sherlock helped him draw hot water, and they took a nice bath together for as long as the heat lasted. His own soap made of leftover fats and lye was scented with bergamot. Liam rubbed his shoulders the way he used to do after working at the mill, and this time he wasn’t too shy to let him go between his legs.

Every time he started to wonder if they should leave this life behind, he was reminded why they could wait a little while longer.

***

The next day, Liam kept his word and was home in time to see the garden by light of the sun. Sherlock was quite sure neither of them had ever been so excited about onions.

“Even if the chemical works, I don’t think I could sell it. Horses shit for free, after all.”

“They do, indeed.”

“Still curious, maybe it would help during the dark months.”

“It could be a life changing invention, in the right circumstances.”

They talked about the various chemicals and potential uses back and forth until both were fast asleep in bed.

But the next night and the night after, Liam was home late again and smelling of home cooking. Nothing else about him would indicate his whereabouts.

Sherlock wondered about this quietly until a job came up. Finally, Sherlock had something to do in town.

He helped an old woman figure out who was stealing grain from her silo, as that was the kind of thing that passed for a mystery around here. It was a neighbor from down the road whose stores had spoiled. He was only taking enough to make a few loaves of bread for his family. She didn’t care to press charges, but the scolding he’d gotten was severe. “Next time, drop your stupid pride and ask your neighbors for help!” Or, that is what Sherlock interpreted from her rapid fire Icelandic.

Sherlock could only shake his head. His own pride made taking these nothing and nowhere cases embarrassing, but he would never forget the humbling he’d received job hunting in Edinburgh, and kept his ire to himself.

On the way home, he swung past the market square. He hadn’t charged the old woman very much for such a simple matter, but he hoped with his earnings that he could refill their stock of tea and maybe find a nice cut of meat.

That’s when he spotted Liam’s tuft of gold hair sticking out between the brim of his hat and a thick scarf. He was waiting as a stall salesman measured out a portion of flour, and there was a bag of groceries in his arms.

Liam couldn’t afford that much on his own, not unless he’d gotten into some new source of income. And if so, he hadn’t shared that information.

Keeping a discreet distance, he tailed Liam through the market stalls. The crowds in town were never dense enough to disguise a tall man’s approach, and made the stalking more troublesome than it would have been in London.

A group of Norwegian seamen crossed the road between him and his mark, kicking up dirt and calling out to each other.

It was only a moment, but he’d lost the trail. No tall blond Englishman to be seen.

But it had only been a moment, he couldn’t have gotten far. Did he spot him? Did he conceal himself purposefully?

Sherlock’s heart beat fast as he turned down a shadowed alley. A hunch. It wasn’t much of an alley, as most the market was made up of carts and stalls and you could see the ocean over the hills from just about every spot. Only a few permanent buildings, like the little pub where they’d eaten on their first night here.

Sherlock felt something cold touch his neck and froze in place.

Liam’s voice came from behind him. “Why are you following me, Mister Holmes?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let a manic grin spread across his face. To poke him with that cane he’d given him, and to use his real name out in the open like this.

“Just can’t shake the feeling you’re hiding something from me, love.” Another form of address that was risky in public. They were out of earshot, but passersby were headed from the docks and toward the pub on both sides of the small alleyway. Their privacy was not a guarantee.

“Hm?” His voice was so teasing, it drove him crazy. “And what fun would it be if I told you?”

Sherlock turned, still wearing his shit-eating grin, to find Liam holding his cane out with one hand, a sack of groceries in the other. “How long do you want me to count?”

His brow raised. “Count?”

“Count in place, until I chase after you.”

He’d been smiling the whole time, but now there was an extra glimmer to his eyes. “Ten seconds.”

“Encumbered like that? Sure you don’t need twenty?”

“Wouldn’t be fun if I lost you, either.”

“All right then. Ready, set.”

Liam lowered the can and turned to leave. Casually. Never in a hurry.

Sherlock began to count.

And when he’d counted to ten, there was no trace of Liam that any other man could tell. Only a distinct trail of footprints left by a man with a certain shoe size, ever so slightly favoring his good leg in spite of his attempts to correct his gate, marks of a cane, and the faint scent of earl grey.

***

Sherlock never once spotted Liam again during his chase, but he followed a trail left clear enough, perhaps intentionally, for him.

It led him to the church, the same one where he and Liam had spent Christmas Eve. It was not nearly as magical without the hundreds of candles alight, but the white building still struck an impressive silhouette against the quickly blackening sky.

The courtyard in front of the chapel was eerily deserted today. None of the clergy seemed present.

As he approached, the unmistakable smell of Liam’s cooking reached him. Then he heard the laughter of children, but they were not the same voices as the ones from Liam’s class.

As he entered the church, a group of children scattered and hid behind the pews, peeking over them to see if he were a good man or a scary man. Their clothes were ratty and they had unkempt hair. Orphan children taken in by the church.

Sherlock paid them little mind, and followed the scent to the back of the building, through a few doors and narrow hallways, where he found a small kitchen.

Liam was there, already having changed out of his coat and hat and into an apron. He was stirring a big pot over an old brick stove while two girls looked on, one a young teen chopping vegetables, and the other so small she had to stand on a stool to help.

“Mister Jones,” Sherlock said, leaning on the frame of the doorway. “This is your nefarious plan, is it?”

“Well, Mister Jones, ah—“. He stopped as the little girl tugged his sleeve and asked him in Icelandic if the two of them were brothers. Liam then explained to her, and Sherlock’s Icelandic wasn’t quite as good as Liam’s yet, but he though he heard him tell the girl that they weren’t related. Rather, Jones was such a common name that over half the people in England were named Jones.

“And even more are named John,” Sherlock added.

Liam looked back to him, smiling in his mild way. “So, the jig is up. I’m sorry it isn’t anything devious. I tried as hard as I could, I promise. But I couldn’t find any crimes to commit in this town even when I went looking.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “So where’d you get the money for the groceries?”

“Well, that’s… aha…” His smile went all coy and playful as he tasted the soup he was stirring. “Mm, it needs a touch more salt.”

“Liam.” He forced a tone of disapproval, although he was quite entertained by the whole thing. Gambling? Pickpocketing? None of that was beneath his sense of justice, as long as the target was fair. The faint wasn’t done well though, as he couldn’t stop from smiling. He felt a strong urge to pin Liam against a wall right there, but there were children about. And as scientific as he was he still wouldn’t risk defiling a church. Probably bad luck. Instead, he winked. “We can sort out those details later.”

“I’m sure we will.”

***

Sherlock sprawled out on a church pew while Liam served the poor homeless children of the church some hearty stew. Liam pouted a bowl for him as well, and sat beside him as they ate. It wasn’t his favorite lamb stew, but none of Liam’s cooking was ever bad.

“Are there any other adults here?”

“No, the pastors all caught a cold. They’re recovering, but I offered my services for a week or two.”

“Ah, that explains it then.”

Afterward, though it was late, Liam gave them a lesson just as he had the other children, even if no one would pay him.

There was no board here, but he did just as well with some stones on the floor in front of the altar. These children couldn’t read much or do basic math, but they were just as eager to learn as most children were.

Liam left a few books with them so that they could practice their reading, and asked them to make note of any words they didn’t understand that he could clarify tomorrow.

Sherlock knew the simple gift of literacy could drastically change the outcome of their lives, and he’d never object to Liam sharing that with others.

***

They walked home together, side by side.

Liam felt especially warm in spite of the chill. The chase had been just a small taste of what life used to be like. He’d never trade the now for what was back then, but it had been exciting to live it again for just a moment.

He pressed a hand against his chest to feel if his heartbeat was still elevated. Slightly. Not so much as it had been when he spotted Sherlock in the market.

“You aren’t concerned about the money?”

“It’ll be a little puzzle to occupy me. I know you’d never take it from someone who needed it.”

“Yes, I promise I wouldn’t.”

“That said, you could have asked me. I can spare a bit of change for some orphans.”

“You’re already providing for me.”

“As is my duty, isn’t it?”

Talking like that still made his cheeks warm, no matter the time passed. “I suppose.”

“You suppose? Heh.” He shuffled his feet and leaned in to steal a quick kiss. “I don’t mind at all, but I’ve missed you these past few nights.”

“Of course I miss you, too. There isn’t enough time in the day.”

Since they had reached the stretch of road that was nothing but empty farmland, dark and quiet, Sherlock took his hand. Liam wished to be rid of his gloves. To be rid of anything but Sherlock’s touch. The walk home was so long.

“You’re very good with children,” Sherlock said.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, they love you no matter where we go.”

Liam laughed softly to himself and shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s fair to say. I only see them for part of the day, and when I do, they’re excited, they behave so well for me. I don’t deal with disciplining them. I never have to listen to them cry at night. They’re easier than the adults I taught in uni, honestly.”

“It’s just something I noticed.”

They walked a while longer in silence before Sherlock spoke again.

“Have you ever wondered about having a child yourself?”

Liam huffed as if it were a ridiculous notion. “When would I even have had time to consider such a thing?” He realized his voice sounded more defensive than he’d meant it to. Where had all his control gone? He was so unguarded now.

“Hey look, I’m not suggesting anything. You can’t put a guy like me in charge of a tiny human life like that, I can’t even take care of a dog.”

Liam’s face softened. “But you cared for me.”

“That’s a different matter. You’re an adult, and, well…”

“It’s your duty?”

“Heh. Yeah.”

Liam thought. It was very like Sherlock to see through to something in him that he hadn’t yet realized about himself. “I always knew I would die young, so I would never have considered marriage, children, or anything of the sort. No more than a fish would think about flying in the sky. I had my family, and that was all I needed.”

“But what about now, knowing you won’t die? Not soon, anyway.”

It hit a nerve, his voice came out terse. “I can’t very well give birth, and neither can you.”

Sherlock laughed and swung their joined arms like the whole thing was a fun game. “Just curious, for the sake of knowing what’s in your heart. Even if it’s speculative.”

It was like opening a locked door in his mind to let that sort of thought inside. But if it was Sherlock, then why not? Thoughts of a country home like the one they rented, but in England, in the green countryside where winters were mild. “In another world perhaps, you and I could take a child into our home and care for them as ours.”

“Ha. Only in that other world though, right? I won’t come home to a house full of orphans one day?”

“Well, we do have that extra room in the house.”

“Please don’t.”

It was Liam’s turn to laugh. “I think you’d have been better at parenthood than you give yourself credit for.”

“Uhg. Sometimes I feel like I deal with children, with everyone around me. Not their fault, of course. But I grow tired of it. Slow conversations, stopping to explain where my mind went.”

“Ah, right. I was lucky to have Albert and Louis, otherwise I would have been quite lonely.”

“Ha ah, well… I do have a smart brother, but let’s not talk about that.”

Liam remembered Mycroft, and how when he met him face to face for the first and only time, he was struck at how similar the two looked. He remembered wondering if Sherlock’s face would age like that, and feeling distinct heartache at the thought that he’d never be able to see it. But now he would, and he hoped Sherlock would never lose the cocksure grin or the hint of awkwardness that made him unique compared to his brother.

“That’s just what I mean though,” Sherlock went on. “You have a patience for people that I lack, children included.”

“Learning to endear myself to others was part of the plan.”

“Nah, you’re just a plain old good person, don’t deny it.”

“I suppose.”

“You keep supposing things, but you know I’m right.”