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There was a scar on his upper right arm.
That was the first thought that crossed William’s mind as he awakened that morning...afternoon? He wasn’t sure. The second thought was that his roommate had very kindly set the window blinds so that they were only halfway open- allowing the room to be decently lit by the sunshine coming from outside, but dim enough not to blind his eye.
He then soon found out the time as he shifted his glance towards the wall clock hanging nearby. It was almost 1 pm. He once again successfully slept through half of the day. Something that he didn’t take pride in.
He shifted in his bed then made a sluggish attempt to sit up. The ruffling sound of the soft blankets and sheets seemed to alert his roommate, who was just standing right underneath the wall clock, in the middle of changing his shirt, it seemed, as William was able to see almost the entirety of his bare back just a count of seconds ago.
“Liam,” his roommate called him, and there was something peculiar about the way his eyebrows unfurl themselves when they met eyes, and the frown that William knew was there was instead replaced with a small, yet genuine smile.
He was giving him that look again and William could feel his chest growing hot, yet at the same time, his stomach churned uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry…” William muttered, low, and it was the only thing he could think of saying, every time he saw the other man. It was becoming like clockwork. “I overslept again…” The heat in his chest was starting to feel painful.
“You needed the sleep,” his roommate said, the reply almost sounded too easy, too relaxed. “Besides, those painkillers the ‘doc gave you must’ve knocked you out real good, huh?”
William looked at the face of his roommate, the latter with a grin plastered on his face. His eye proceeded to observe lower in silence. The other man’s hair was let down as opposed to his usual ponytail, allowing raven curls to fall unrulily over his shoulders. The shirt that he was putting on now buttoned, though carelessly, save for the top most two.
It was a view William had come to grow a little fond of.
“Well,” the voice immediately stopped that particular train of thoughts. “I thought you might be hungry once you wake up, so I got you something while I was out in town this morning.”
The grin on his roommate’s face grew wider, and William couldn’t help but admit that it piqued his curiosity even if just a bit.
“Ta-da!”
The dark haired man pulled out a small box and placed it on William’s lap. The latter blinked, observing the box, trying to make guesses as to what might be inside. The former, taking the cue, then opened it if not a little too eagerly.
Inside was a pie, crust baked to golden perfection, and William could feel even through the blanket over his lap that it was still warm. There was something familiar about the scent coming from the delicacy.
“Is this…fish pie?”
“That’s right!” His roommate exclaimed, once again a little too eager. “There’s a bakery a few blocks down the road, and they have quite the options! I gotta take you there once you’re all good to walk again!”
William could certainly walk as he was now, though his cracked ribs and broken leg that hadn’t fully healed would eventually prove to be a burden after a one-way trip to the kitchen. He didn’t like having his movements be so restricted, and having to rely on his roommate to even do the most basic tasks. But then again, he only had himself to blame for that.
The said roommate never seemed to mind, however, and he was now beaming almost childishly, all over a fish pie. William almost smiled. Almost.
“How did you know I liked fish pie?”
“Obvious! ~” The reply came almost immediately, as if the man was waiting for the question to come all this time.
“Remember our little sleuthing on that train? You see, you were just finished with the main course when I bumped into you at the restaurant. The menu offered mutton and pasta as the main course, yet your plate, cutleries, and choice of accompanying drink all told me that you picked neither! So there was only one possibility left, wasn’t there?”
There was a slight tug on the corner of William’s lips. Of course. One could not pose even the simplest question to Sherlock Holmes without expecting a barrack of answers in return. London’s greatest detective, they called him, a title that he so greatly deserved, given his intelligence and wits that matched no others. The great detective who, by some weird, sick twist of fate, somehow ended up being his roommate, all the way in New York, far, far away from where they used to call home.
Home.
Did they still have that, William wondered.
“But that’s not all!” Sherlock continued, and it snapped William back to the current time. He hated to put more burden on the former’s shoulders when he was already doing so much for him. Yet, William couldn’t deny that listening to Sherlock’s seemingly never ending demonstration of his (brilliant, as always, William must say) deductions was the closest thing he had that felt like home.
“You must be thinking right about now, ‘Sherlock, you must have forgotten about the vegetarian options on the menu. I could be having the roast vegetables pie instead and your logic would fall flat!’ ”
Brilliant. William had never once doubted Sherlock’s ability to keep up with him. Even if at times he may trip and fall a little behind, the good detective would always soon get up, sprint, and he would be back by William’s side before William even noticed.
It was what William had counted on. It was why Sherlock Holmes was the perfect protagonist in the cruel, cruel game William and his brothers had so masterfully crafted- all for the sake of a better world; a brighter, juster world.
He hadn’t thought that that very ability would be Sherlock Holmes’ downfall. That because of that very ability that he was stuck there, with him, when he deserved more, so much more, all that fame and glory that would’ve awaited him back home. People who waited for Sherlock Holmes’ grand return with open arms and nothing but admiration in their eyes. Yet, instead, he was here, helping William change his bandages and assist him while he struggled to get breakfast from the kitchen.
The fish pie on his lap was getting lukewarm.
“.....- so I visited the cafeteria back at the university, and lo and behold, would you guess what was on the weekly specials there? Fish pie! And would you guess what the lady working there said? ‘ Oh my, could you perhaps take one to Professor Moriarty for me? He has helped me tremendously with his advice for my garden back home. ’ The rest was eeeee~asy.”
William’s brain, of course, had already turned its cogs and wheels, as it always did when presented with a case, a question, anything that resembled a mystery. It was ready to gnaw and chew at all the facts that it managed to retain throughout the time he had known the other man. Sherlock Holmes liked scotch, and he liked it on the rocks. He liked a particular type of sandwich and often went to the small family-owned restaurant on Baker’s street for lunch. He wasn’t too fond of sweets and would aggressively chew on only sugarless gum in likely times where he forgot to buy a new pack of cigarettes. He--
The cogs and wheels came to a halt, abruptly, all too sudden.
Did it matter? Did it matter if he was to say all that? Did it matter if he managed to impress Sherlock- which he knew very well he would- with how much he knew from how little information he was given?
His brain and all its intelligence was a temporary gift to him, for a purpose. To rid of the devils, to protect the weak, to reach out to the small voices begging for help.
It has served its purpose.
So why was he still there?
The tiny light in his eye went dim, yet again.
“Liam…”
Sherlock’s hand was on his, the metal surface of his skull-shaped ring felt a little cold on his skin. William didn’t dare meet his eyes, didn’t dare look into those blues that were too gentle, too kind, too full of acceptance that he didn’t deserve. He didn’t dare to disappoint those eyes again, fill them with concern and worry that Sherlock shouldn’t have even had to feel.
“I could hear you thinking,” he said, the friendliness still lacing his words, yet there was a certain hush to it. “Until now, that is.”
“You should go back to London.”
It was the only thing he could say in response, as he gave it all to prevent the tremor he felt in his chest from reflecting in his voice.
Sherlock was silent, but his eyes never left him, William could tell.
A few ticks of the clock went by, and he could hear Sherlock sigh.
“...And do what, exactly?”
For once, there was no immediate response formulating in William’s head. Normally, he would be two, if not three steps ahead of the other person whenever he indulged in a conversation. This time, he thought of nothing. Perhaps because his injuries and the time he spent unconscious had slightly dulled his thoughts. Perhaps he didn’t care enough. Or perhaps…...he truly didn’t know.
“Tell me, Liam,” Sherlock continued, although William could tell that the gentle hush in his voice was replaced by something, something just a tiny bit more stern. “Tell me, what do you expect me to do once I get back to London?”
William didn’t look away from where his gaze had been transfixed on for what felt like forever, and he started to finally notice that the pie had now gone completely cold.
“Do you want me to cover for you? Tell the press that I’ve confirmed you’re dead? Or would you like me to tell them your body went missing in the Thames? Would you like me to cook up some sob story for you as a last ditch for some semblance of public sympathy?”
When Sherlock took a pause to breathe, William didn’t miss the tiny hitch. But when Sherlock followed his array of hypothetical situations with a laugh, William finally turned his head to look at him.
“....You want me to not care. To treat the Lord of Crime as another closed case in my pile. As the great detective should.”
William’s throat felt the driest it had ever been. And when he gulped, Sherlock didn’t miss the absence of denial.
“I told you, didn’t I?” There was a hint of the oh-so-familiar smugness when he said it. “You and I, we stand on the same line now. I’m not letting you ruffle my strings ever again.”
He had the audacity to wink at him. “Professor.”
William opened his mouth, yet nothing came out of it for a good few seconds, as if he was carefully calculating his next words, as he always did.
“I don’t expect you to do anything for me….. I don’t deserve such favors.”
Sherlock could once again hear William’s brain in the works- the cogs and wheels whirring a little too loudly to his liking, given the situation.
“...I just want you to live. Live the life a good person deserves.” William was trying to be genuine, a feat that oddly seemed to be a challenge to him, despite his undefeatable intellect. “Whatever that is for you…. I know that it’s not here with me.”
The silence between them hung in the air. Sherlock hadn’t moved even an inch, and the stiffness caused William to turn to focus on nothing but the forgotten pie once more. It would have been easier, much, much easier, if Sherlock Holmes had looked at him with the same, burning hate the townspeople of London had towards him. The unmistakable intensity, the despise, the disgust, they aimed towards him and only him. The look on their faces that showed him he deserved the cruelest death that could be ever bestowed upon a filthy, blood-stained human being.
It would have been easier. Because then he wouldn’t be hanging for dear life, onto the single red thread connecting them two, the cursed red thread of fate that he couldn’t seem to sever no matter how much he tried. Because then the eerie voices in his head wouldn’t keep on whispering words that he didn’t believe; that he didn’t want to believe.
‘Catch me…’
‘Don’t leave me alone…’
‘Sherly.’
“....There are some things that you need to know.” Sherlock started, and William felt a little less suffocated by the hanging silence. The former ran his hand against his own dark locks- it had grown noticeably longer since the last William remembered him. It suited him, somehow, William had thought when his brain was a bit too idle for his liking. “I don’t have a fancy letter or anything prepared, so you’ll just have to listen.”
The letter. For a moment William had forgotten about that. It was meant to be a parting gift, a gesture to lay himself bare just before he was gone for good. At that moment it felt freeing, to write down all he felt that never truly reached his lips, to know that somewhere, someone knew his true words, true thoughts, true heart, as William James Moriarty and not the Lord of Crime.
It was freeing. But now, it felt like a heavy weight hung above his head.
“I’m a jerk.”
William blinked almost too fast as he tried to process what he just heard.
“... Or a high-functioning sociopath, Gregson once called me, anyway, that’s not the point.” Sherlock looked at William, seemingly pleased that they were at least looking at each other eye to eye again now. “I was never good with people. I don’t think that has changed much even now. I boast and piss people off and the only reason anyone ever approached me was to mooch exam answers off of me. Never worked though, obviously .”
Despite the gloomy mood, William seemed to be listening intently. There was a spark of interest in his eye that had gone completely dim until a few minutes ago.
“Finishing school was easy, it was after that that was the issue. Nothing ever changed, you know? People came in bothering me for trivial advice, police officers not nearly competent enough to do their jobs that I had to dangle answers in front of their noses like some weird dog trick.”
‘You were playing the role of the dog when Jefferson Hope tempted you with my identity though.’ William thought, almost amused. The words almost made it out of his lips, yet he was grateful that they were conveniently stuck in his throat and Sherlock didn’t have to hear that from him. For now, at least.
“My brother told me to pick up some slack and offered to come work with him. As if. I’m not cut for that kind of work.”
‘It’s better for him to live a life free of that burden.’ Mycroft Holmes’ words rang in William’s ears.
“Even so,” Sherlock shrugged. “There was just not much anyone, anything had to offer. Out of boredom I picked up the violin. It helped, for a while. Then I got into chemistry, which was fun, but it never felt enough, you know? The cases the Yard brought me were mediocre at best, and more often than not they weren’t worth having to deal with the pesky inspectors rubbing their noses all up my business. At one point I was so bored out of my mind that I took up wood crafting. Can you believe it? Me, wood crafting!”
‘No’, William wanted to say. Not that he thought Sherlock couldn’t do it, he knew his hands had the dexterity, being a violinist and all. It was that Sherlock Holmes was not a particularly patient person, and, if their time onboard the train told him anything, he could have a bit of a temper streak in certain days.
Was he the type of man who would sit on a workbench for an ungodly number of hours crafting pretty little wooden horses? Perhaps, most likely not.
Sherlock had his elbow on the bed, his hand on his chin with his arm propping his head up. A grin resurfaced on his face.
“If you have something to say you should go ahead, professor.”
William cleared his throat. He very rarely felt sheepish, but he could very much feel the heat threatening to creep on his ear lobes.
Sherlock laughed, yet didn’t push William to speak.
“All my life,” he continued, his eyes going a little narrow. “I was always told the same thing, that I was too smart for my own good, that I should put this big head of mine into good use for once, that I should do something with my life. I brought disappointment left and right, all because I couldn’t be what they expected me to. Ah, maybe if I was a bit more like my brother, they would all shut up for once.”
‘I don’t think that’s what the good director wants for you,’ was what William thought. But it was a conversation for another day.
“Not that I cared. There was nothing that could hold my interest for more than a week. I dropped everything like a broken old toy once it stopped being fun…. That’s just the kind of person I was.”
“Yet,” their eyes met again, “There you were.”
“You, were an enigma ever since we first met on that cruise ship. No one, and I mean no one, has ever one upped me on my deductions. No one has ever been able to keep up with my line of thoughts without going ‘ huh’ and ‘what’ every other fifteen seconds. No one, absolutely no one, has ever played me so well until my brain felt like it was about to implode and my heart like it was about to burst.”
William let out a tiny hum, it was the least strained he had sounded the whole day. “It was indeed a thrilling little game we played, I admit.”
“It was,” Sherlock nodded, “It was a game, or so I thought at first.”
“Was it not?”
“Liam,” their hands met again, and William still wasn’t used to the feeling of skin to skin contact. It was...odd, to say the least, yet he didn’t feel the desire to retreat. “The moment I placed all the pieces together I realized that you…. were different from me.”
‘Of course we are’ , the eerie voice in the back of William’s head returned, ‘I’m an unsalvageable, endless pit of darkness, and you’re the light of hope the people need. There’s nothing the same between us.’
“You,” Sherlock huffed, and if William squinted, he could detect a drop of shame in his eyes. “Are brilliant. You are unbelievably clever, and your actions are eloquent. You make it so easy to have people listen and be on your beck and call.”
The grip on his hand tightened.
“But unlike me, you don’t see them as mere mysteries. You don’t see them as something you do to pass time because you’re bored. You see spilled blood and you place guilt on your shoulders for not being able to stop it. You see a body and your heart aches for it. You look people right in the eyes and you stand by their side. You deliver judgment for the sake of people who are powerless. You….” He took a deep breath, and William could feel the slight tremor in his hand that was gripping so tightly around his own. “You’re not like me…. I’ve thought about it, and I’ve realized that, during these three months you were unconscious.”
“And that’s why…. That’s why, Liam….”
When Sherlock looked up to meet his eye, there was no hint of his usual playfulness. The smug grin was completely wiped off of his face, and there was a desperate plea in his deep blue orbs. William had seen something similar, very similar, that night on top of the bridge, as Sherlock’s increasingly trembling arm was frantically trying to keep William from falling. But this one was…..different. It felt melancholic, sad almost, and it brought a different kind of pain into William’s chest.
“That’s why….the world needs you…. That’s why I need you.”
There were tears forming on the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. He had never profiled Sherlock Holmes as a crier. Even during his most difficult times he did not, ever, expect Sherlock to cry. Angry? Frustrated? Absolutely. But shed tears?
He wasn’t like William. He was much, much stronger than him. Wherein William had shed tears behind closed doors, mourning every soul that had fallen for the sake of their plan, both those who didn’t deserve it and those who fell victim to William’s own hands, whose blood has dirtied his palms to the point of no return, because of whom he could no longer even think of begging for forgiveness to anyone, any god out there that was willing listen.
Sherlock Holmes was not like him.
So why? Why was he crying? Why was he crying as he held William’s hand so tightly? Why was he crying as he brought his hand closer to himself, and placed a kiss against his fingers that were soiled, dirtied, filthied with the blood of the innocent and sinners alike?
Why?
“You said it yourself, Liam.” His voice was low, and his lips felt a little coarse against his hand. “There will always be small voices calling for help.”
‘Please help them. I want to entrust this world to you.’
“The world hasn’t become a better place just because the Lord of Crime is dead. The real work starts here, and you know it.”
Of course he did. And he had all faith in the world that the people he had left behind would be able to carry what he had left forward. Albert...Louis……...And….-
“I need you.”
As if he could read what was exactly in his mind, Sherlock interrupted.
“This world you wanted to leave behind…. Don’t just entrust it to me…” The tug against his hand was gentle, when he placed William’s hand against his own cheek. “Look after it….with me. Even if things will only get harder from now on. Even if the only thing we can do is watch over it from the shadows…”
His eyes, clearer than ever even through the mist of tears, looked right at him, determination and confidence so apparent that it almost took William aback.
Why?
Why was he crying? He didn’t deserve to cry. He was the devil, the worst of them all, he was not allowed to cry after all the heinous atrocities he had committed-
Sherlock’s arms were around him, his hand on the back of his head and his fingers danced against his hair as if they were meant to be there. His other hand was on his back, stroking calming gestures, and William was reminded of that day, that day where he could feel Sherlock’s lips right next to his ear, whispering as William could feel the light of the sun slowly rising hitting his eyes.
The tears broke, and he almost couldn’t believe the ugly, muffled sound that came out from his mouth as his face buried itself into Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock said no more words after that, yet he never once let William go. His hands felt constant around him as William sobbed for what felt like hours, and his chest felt like the only anchor against which he could stand.
It was a foreign feeling, knowing that he was anchored by something that wasn’t himself, that he would trip and fall should that anchor be pulled away from him. Yet he cried, and cried, and held onto that anchor as his life depended on it.
This time, maybe this time, the red thread would not strain, and he could finally welcome the person waiting at the other end of the thread. Maybe this time, he could finally take his hand, and gaze upon the new dawn that they had created, together.
Maybe this time.
--
The tears and sobs still lingered the next time he heard Sherlock chuckle next to him.
“Your pie’s long cold now,” he laughed, and for the first time since he woke up that day William felt it when his stomach growled in protest. He broke eye contact at the grandiose spectacle, cheeks fluttering in soft pink, and Sherlock laughed even harder, to his dismay.
“Want me to reheat it for you?”
“...Yes please.”
Maybe this time, he would allow himself some semblance of normal, maybe, if just for a while.
--