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Waking up next to Sherlock after their first night spent together was something William would never forget. The lightness he’d been feeling had accompanied him through the night, blanketing him with the feeling of safety and reassurance.
This is what happiness felt like, William thought.
It’d been some time since he could truly say he was happy, back still when his parents were alive and Louis was not sick yet.
He looked up at his lover, peacefully sleeping under him. William’s head was on Sherlock’s chest, the detective’s steady heart beating resolutely under his ear. The most welcome and effective lullaby, if the fact of him falling asleep in mere seconds yesterday night was any indication.
William moved around a little to get himself into a more comfortable position, mindful of not waking up Sherlock is the process. He felt sore and a tender smile blossomed on his face as he recalled the night’s activities.
He burrowed himself closer to Sherlock, revelling in his warmth. The night was fantastic, and the morning-after was even more so. He’d never in a million year thought he’d ever end up here, in bed with someone who loved him unconditionally, even after everything.
A beautiful, gorgeous man with a hundred shades of grey, someone so good and intellectual who was also goofy and determined to protect what he believed in, no matter the cost.
Sherlock deserved the world and William would try his hardest to live up to Sherlock’s standards.
To be worthy for him, for living.
“Whatcha making you think so hard so early?” a sleepy voice mumbled near him. William blinked a few times to clear his vision and head, then maneuvered himself to be half-top on his lover, chin resting on Sherlock’s chest.
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” came the reply, and he put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, caressing it tenderly. Sherlock subtly leant into it, “it’s ten in the morning already.” William teased.
Sherlock hummed, azure eyes opening a fraction to look at the professor’s crimson ones. “As I said, far too early.”
William was never one to wax poetry about the beauties of life (being the Lord of Crime did not make it easy to see the good side of things) but looking at Sherlock now, all soft, sleepy and rustled, he truly believed how poets felt when they laid their eyes on their muses.
Sherlock was beautiful, luscious, silky raven hair and azure eyes, dark in everything except his soul, which shined bright even on a starless night.
A polar opposite of him.
They said opposites attract each other and William could honestly see the truth in that statement. He was impossibly grateful for fate, for God, or whoever was or wasn’t up there that they placed a man like Sherlock in his path.
The William of a few months ago would only look at Sherlock longingly, within a hair’s breadth away, so close yet so far. An indulgence he allowed himself a handful of times, as each and every time it became more and more impossible to separate himself from Sherlock, knowing that the end was near and it only brought betrayal, suffering and tragedy.
He severely underestimated Sherlock’s single-bloody-mindedness. A trait he resented when he woke up the first time in America.
A trait now so dear to him.
He wasn’t well, William mused to himself. But he was better, getting better, and Sherlock said that was important.
Baby steps.
“You’re doing that thing again.” Sherlock said as he lifted up a hand to smooth out the tangles in William’s bedhead.
“Elaborate.”
Sherlock huffed, “You know what I’m talking about,” he placed a quick kiss to William’s palm still resting on his cheek. “Whenever you’re thinking about before, you always get that funny expression on your face.”
“And what kind of face would that be?” William asked, a touch of annoyance sweeping into his voice.
“It’s the face of a blank state. Your eyes become dull and unseeing. That little smile of yours you show nowadays,” he continued as he used one of his hands to gently poke at the corner of William’s lips, “vanishes in an instant.” Sherlock finished and the silence that followed was tense and awkward.
William smiled a crooked one.
“You know me so well, I should be displeased.” He chuckled. “Or at least annoyed. I can’t let you figure me out so well, or you’ll get bored of me soon.”
Sherlock made a protesting noise, “If you think I’ll ever get tired of you, you’re gravely mistaken.” He switched their position swiftly, so now it was him being on the top of William, caging him with his arms and letting his raven hair act as a curtain against the outside world. “I love mysteries. But you, Liam? I don’t think I’ll ever solve you in this lifetime,” he leaned down to place a quick kiss onto William’s cheek and settled his weight carefully onto the other man’s. “And I don’t know about being reborn, but I’m hoping you know my fascination with you isn’t just about mysteries. I love you for who you are. Mysteries, kindness, love, intelligence, determination, and everything in-between.”
The former Crime Lord looked on, the sensation of Sherlock’s sleep-warm body enveloping him made him strangely vulnerable.
Something he had been feeling more and more since Sherlock came in like a wrecking ball and made his walls of steel crumble like paper mache.
William reached up to cradle the detective’s head in his palms and said in a soft, wondering tone, eyes wide and full with emotions, “What have I ever done to deserve you?”
Sherlock’s head dipped even lower, eyelids sliding shut at the feeling of his lover calloused hands, “You were born.”
Their foreheads touched, a slight touch of safety and surety.
“And so were you.”
“Let me have you one more time.”
“You can have me anytime you want. I gave you my first night.
And I shall give you my first morning too.”