Archive of Our Own

It had been months since Sherlock had woken up from the incident. That first awakening was quite the headache, being threatened with a knife and all that for just trying to check on William. On top of that, Billy was an interesting personality, he reminded Sherlock of a particular someone whose house he may or may not have burned down for what seemed like ages ago.

Regardless, Billy had kept him on his feet when he agreed to take jobs with him and quite frankly got on his nerves as well. Seriously, there were times when Sherlock could recall chasing him through the streets of New York while the brat told him he was “too slow” or an “old man.” He was a pain in the neck but Sherlock knew at the end of the day he was a good kid, wanting to do good things for people.

Well, people being Sherlock Holmes exclusive.

During the day, that was his job. Helping to solve crimes and building his patience with the little pest that followed him around and was occasionally very helpful. He wouldn’t call Billy his partner though. That title was reserved for someone he was sure was going to hit him when they reunited again. Sherlock couldn’t wait for the day, but for now, he had his current situation to worry about.

William wasn’t awake.

When Sherlock came home from working with Billy, he went straight to the room that William was staying in while he was recovering from their accident. Sherlock went up every day, without fail, to check on William. He always hoped that one day he’d open the door and William would be sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed over one another with a cup of tea in his hand. That day had not come yet but Sherlock yearned for it and never hoped to rush the process, knowing that William would likely need a lot of time to heal.

It was fine though, Sherlock spent his evenings reading, napping on the floor next to William’s bed, smoking, and, perhaps the most common of them all, talking to William. He would tell William in his comatose state anything that Sherlock could tell. From stories about his day to complaints about some idiot that made Sherlock pay to get his shoes re-shined because apparently, Sherlock had stepped on it (he did not [he did]), William would theoretically hear about it all.

This evening cycle had gotten to the point where oftentimes Sherlock would bring the pillows and blankets from his own room to sleep in William’s room for the night, their conversations being too good to put on hold. Sherlock would talk and talk into the late hours of the night, only sleeping when he heard the morning birds start to sing. 

Typically, Sherlock would never talk to such an extent to anyone. Even with John before the incident, he tended to keep talking to people to a minimum. Sure, call him antisocial or tell him he has a bit of a superiority complex, but it wasn’t often that Sherlock talked to anyone that understood the method (or sometimes lack of method) behind his madness. But, from when they first spoke to each other on the Noahtic up until the very last second before their bodies hit the icy waters of the Thames, William had understood Sherlock. Understood him so well that he was able to predict Sherlock’s every move.

Well, almost every move, when Sherlock acted irrationally, William often had a hard time predicting his actions.

There was a thrill in it, doing things that your brain is telling you would be the worst possible decision you could make. It was an art form or perhaps it was sheer stupidity, but didn’t the two paths often cross? Impulsivity, irrationality, and emotion were all things that Sherlock was aware of in his decision-making process, but rarely let win over sheer logic and deduction. But that aforementioned thrill, the adrenaline rush one gets from acting in a way that society deems stupid is something that Sherlock couldn’t shy away from at all times.

Maybe that’s why he jumped after William.

For the overwhelming sensation of his heart beating out of his chest as they plummeted.

It was enough to make Sherlock laugh, that explanation. It was even more foolish to believe in that silly little lie than to believe in the tooth fairy.

Now you see, when you spend months on end by yourself with only the comfort of a really annoying coworker and an unresponsive person everyone thinks is dead, you have a lot of time to think. And, well, Sherlock did like to think. He liked to think a lot about things that he didn’t have answers for, things that confused him. One of those things that he spent a lot of time thinking about was William.

No, no, not in the sense that he was trying to profile him, he had already spent far too much time and energy in that matter. Rather, he thought about William concerning himself. All of the thoughts and feelings that Sherlock had were muddled into one, giant, solid-colored 1500 piece puzzle, staring back at him with a look comparable to the one William gave him while they were on the train back to England. It was daunting and frustrating, Sherlock many times throwing a fit, figuring he would start anew another time. Eventually, he found two pieces that went together. Then another. And another. And another.

Finally, Sherlock had the whole picture. Every softened, longing glance he looked at William with whenever the sun hit his sleeping face just right. The way that Sherlock anticipated the end of each day so he could spend time with William in his room. How sometimes Sherlock would pick up the sleeping man’s hand and just hold it, telling him silent secrets via a language that only they could understand. Even before, when William was perfectly conscious, Sherlock had this way of longing for the blonde man, always hoping that their paths would cross so they could share one of their rich conversations.

It was love.

Sherlock had finally put the whole puzzle together, piece by individual piece.

It was a lovely portrait, but terrifying at the same time. He loved a man he wasn’t sure was ever going to wake up again. However, Sherlock knew that his heart belonged to the one sleeping beside him currently, knowing that it probably would never belong to anyone else. The pain and misery it brought to look at William each night were tucked deep away inside Sherlock, the irrational side of him saying that it would all be worth it, that his Liam would be with him soon.

However, the rational side, the one that filled him with an insufferable dread told him nothing was guaranteed. That he might be stuck here forever in this purgatory, seated beside a man who was destined to burn like coals in the inferno. Sherlock would like it very much for William to be back at his side because now he was truly at his side. Before, William was physically there, but the two of them had parts to play, never really sharing the stage as equals. Sherlock was a puppet and William a puppeteer, orchestrating each case for Sherlock to solve in a way that William could easily predict.

It was frustrating and Sherlock wished many times that his strings weren’t so easily tugged along, but it was oddly relieving that the man behind the madness was William. He didn’t want it any other way; he couldn’t bear it if it was any other way. In fact, in his mind, he always knew it would end in the way it did, and he couldn’t help but wonder if William predicted that as well.

No, he couldn’t have. When they were plummeting towards the river, Sherlock saw it in William’s eyes. There was shock and relief deep within that beautiful crimson shade. Relief from what, exactly? Sherlock couldn’t concretely say, but William always looked so unbelievably tired, so lonely. However, in that split second before Sherlock embraced his fragile frame, William told him through the nonverbal language only they knew that he finally felt like he belonged somewhere.

Yes, the two of them had found a place in each other’s company, the only thing getting in the way is those roles they had to play for the sake of everyone else. It was selfish to ask why it had to be William. Asking for someone else to take his place, someone that Sherlock wasn’t fond of, to sacrifice their life for a country of people who couldn’t care less was so incredibly childish. He couldn’t deny it’s what he wanted though.

The two had caught each other, but it was far too late to even begin a life where they were equals. At least, that’s what Sherlock told himself to spare his feelings. It was disgusting that they were so feeble, betraying his rationale and dignity. But even then, his logic was overridden by the way he longed for William, longed to be in his presence, instead of William always being in his. It’s so unbelievably hard to keep telling yourself day after day, night after night that something impossible is possible.

Tonight was no different, Sherlock entering the room William was staying in and walked over to the window, opening it up and shuddering when a cool breeze hit his face. It was early February and it had just been snowing, but Sherlock needed to smoke. He took out cigarettes he had rolled earlier in the day and put one in his mouth, leaving the tin on the windowsill before taking out his matchbox. He struck the match against the lighting strip, getting a bright, warm flame on the first strike. Sherlock took a breath out of the cigarette, watching the smoke he blew out of his mouth get lost in the wind that sped under the moonlight.

Immediately his tobacco-stained hands began to go numb, but he didn’t mind. The memories of William’s mouth slightly twinging in disgust despite saying it was fine whenever Sherlock smoked cigarette after cigarette was vivid in his memory. He used to smoke around him on purpose, just to stir the pot, see if he could crack William’s polite facade. But now that William lay in a bed that looked more and more like a casket with each passing day, Sherlock always smoked with a window opened because he couldn’t leave William alone for even a moment in case he would wake up when he was gone.

“I hope you don’t mind, Liam,” Sherlock looked over at the resting man, a look of dread in his eyes. He cracked a small smile, making a weak attempt to alleviate the pain it caused him to look at William. “I don’t know why I’m asking, you're wrapped up under all those damn blankets while I’m over here freezing my ass off,” Sherlock joked, taking another breath from the cigarette.

Sherlock paused as if allowing space for a response from the other. Granted, it never came, but it felt right to do that over speaking with no break. Sherlock continued to speak, telling the unconscious William about the case that he and Billy had started that day and about how the police were being a pain in the ass. But honestly, was that new? No. It would never be. Law enforcement had always been a nuisance to the detective. It was hard to do anything his way with them around, and Sherlock had every right to complain to William who was sure to agree with his frustrations if he could do so.

Sherlock snuffed out that cigarette and took another one out of the tin he left on the windowsill and struck a match, having the first breath of the new cigarette. Whenever William was in Sherlock’s presence, he had an awful habit of smoking until he ran out of matches or cigarettes. Eventually, Sherlock figured he'd run out of the air he needed to smoke, the tobacco ruining his internal organs. That wasn’t any of his concern though. At one point, smoking had given him relief from the dullness of living, but now it was something he did because he feared the pain of withdrawal.

It was a pathetic cycle, Sherlock knew this, but never once did he claim to be a man of righteousness.

He continued to speak to William, talking about various annoyances in his life ranging from women who had taken an interest in him to men who couldn’t swallow their pride and admit that Sherlock was a better fit for a job than they were. However, there were happier points in his stories, especially when there was the reward of money or food involved. Today, he was given a free four-course dinner at some classy restaurant that was to take place later in the week.

“They said I could bring a guest even Liam,” Sherlock said, still looking out the window and staring at the moon. He let the foolish side of him take over, smiling softly as he took a breath of the cigarette perched between numb fingers. “If you hurry and wake up, I was thinking of inviting you and we can walk in with our arms linked and all that posh shit that you know much better than I do,” Sherlock said, thinking of how the situation would play out.

Of course, William would be awake and he’d be dressed up, perhaps like how he was dressed up during their first encounter. Sherlock quite liked that look, but that wasn’t really saying much considering he liked how William looked in anything. But, Sherlock was sure that William would look at him with one of those small smiles of his when he saw how Sherlock tied his tie. Maybe they’d bicker and William would help Sherlock tie it properly.

Sherlock would feel an abundance of things. He’d be hyper-aware of how those delicate, slim fingers moved so close to his neck with such skill and familiarity that Sherlock would be forced to focus on them. William would probably scold him and Sherlock would be barely listening until William asked are you even listening to me, Mr. Holmes? and Sherlock would smile awkwardly and look into those eyes. And they would exchange words, just by looking into each other via their eyes.

Oh, how Sherlock longed to see those eyes again.

Then, William’s eyes would soften and they would be on their way to dinner, conversing about how they were happy to see each other again. Maybe then Sherlock would tell William. Tell him about what he was feeling. Maybe they’d have a movie scene moment and share a kiss where sparks fly but Sherlock doubted it. It would make more sense for it to end in smiles and laughter.

Laughter at how foolish they were for waiting so long to face their feelings.

Sherlock was smiling helplessly at the scenario he conjured in his head, taking another breath of his cigarette. He imagined while he was in that world in his head, William was talking about how his recovery day went, about how lonely he was sitting in bed all day and how glad he was that Sherlock had engaged him in a conversation even though he felt like he didn’t deserve it.

That was the thing about William that Sherlock found himself scoffing at. William, his show-stoppingly gorgeous, kind, intelligent Liam, still believed that Sherlock wasn’t hopelessly in love with him. That Sherlock wouldn’t jump off of a bridge and risk his life for him. Well, he had, so Sherlock hoped that William could finally let go of that complex where he had the only form of punishable evil in the world. Sherlock couldn’t help but think that for someone so smart, William had let his ego get in the way of everything.

Sherlock sighed and continued smoking, telling stories until he burnt up his last two matches. He tucked the tin back in his suit jacket, struggling to close the window considering how numb his hands were. It had gotten to the point where they were so cold that when they began to warm up it felt like a million pins were coursing through Sherlock’s nerves. The fiery sensation made him wince, but he supposed it’s what he deserved for his terrible habit.

Eventually, he had closed the window, slamming it extremely loud in the process. Damn this beaten-down house Sherlock thought, making his way over to the chair that now had a permanent place at William’s bedside. He sat with his legs spread, not looking at William but rather straight ahead at a dresser with nothing but a candlestick on it.

“I wish this room wasn’t so boring, don’t ya think?” Sherlock asked. It was aimed at William which made it rhetorical. “It’s gotta be to someone who grew up in one of those big ol’ fancy mansions. Noblemen have so much stuff laying around everywhere. I’m not even sure where to look half the time,” Sherlock said, envisioning one of the Moriarty's former estates. He had never actually been inside any of their mansions, but he could only imagine the extravagance of it all.

“I guess you hated all that shit anyway didn’t you?” Sherlock gave a small laugh. “Well whatever, decorating this room couldn’t hurt anyone, you just better not expect to have a thousand-pound vase or anything crazy like that,” Sherlock warned, knowing that William probably didn’t care. He didn’t mark him as the type to be passionate about interior design, but Sherlock really didn’t know.

Maybe it was the professor’s other side job outside of murder and all that. Maybe he just had a knack for home decor and design. The thought made Sherlock laugh audibly. Imagining William stressing out because a painting wasn’t perfectly centered or because someone ordered silver dinnerware instead of gold and so now the colors clashed was quite comical though.

“I’ll get something tomorrow when I’m out so you better wake up soon so you can see it,” Sherlock joked, looking over at the unresponsive man. He took in a deep breath and exhaled similarly. He felt his eyes glaze over, the image of the man becoming blurry. The bandages his head was wrapped in were fresh, courtesy of Sherlock, and his hair sprawled across the pillow in a pattern like that of a flower. Even in the state, he was in, Sherlock still admired that seemingly ageless beauty that William had about him.

Sherlock reached out, moving a piece of loose hair back into its place. He knew how much William paid attention to make sure everything was perfectly in place, down to every last detail. Sherlock remembered that William had mentioned it was due to something surrounding Albert, the only Moriarty he’d never met in person.

“Can’t have you looking like a mess whenever you wake up. Isn’t that right Sleeping Beauty?” Sherlock said, a bittersweet smile appearing on his face as he used a hand to cup William’s face. He would never do something so intimate and loving as this if he knew William could feel it, but it was nice to envision all the ways he would react, whether it be with anger or acceptance.

Sherlock continued to look at his face, thumb gently caressing William’s cheek. It was cold to the touch and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if William were able to properly react. Perhaps he was a blusher and his face would light up bright red or maybe he was more subtle than that and his cheeks would remain the same color, but Sherlock would be able to feel how warm they were.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, still cupping William’s cheeks. There was so much that he wished William had actually heard when he spoke to him. Thousands of minutes and so many more words fell on deaf ears. The thought was enough to crack Sherlock, knowing that he’d have to repeat all this time spent with him, praying that the fake scenarios of William reciprocating his thoughts, feelings, and touches would come to fruition.

“Liam I-'' Sherlock felt a crack in his voice come out. “Liam I miss you,” Sherlock said, still looking at the man even though the tears welling up in his eyes were blurring his vision. “I’ve missed you so much,” Sherlock said, his hand falling from the other’s cheek. He folded his hands in his lap, falling into silence for he feared what would happen if he tried to fill that silence.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, feeling a bit of moisture on his fingertips when he finished. It was useless, crying over William. It wouldn't bring the man back to him and Sherlock knew that, but if by any chance crying would help, Sherlock would shed enough tears to fill the Atlantic ocean twice.

“You know I would do anything for you, right? So please, what more do I have to do to spend even a moment with you again?” Sherlock asked, his words hanging in the air heavily. His question, like all the others, went unanswered. 

The sound of silence was much more painful than one could ever imagine. In silence, there were only thoughts. They were able to run wild, snowballing on top of one another until it hit the irrational breaking point and made the person thinking fall apart. It was too much for Sherlock, who brought a hand up to his face to feel a cold, wet trail that went down his cheek. He scoffed, wiping his face clean of tears, sniffing a bit.

“I would do anything Liam, I would even admit that I like that stupid fish pie that you like so much that I said was vile but actually it was really fucking good,” Sherlock took a sharp inhale, a tear making its way down his face. “But what made it so good was how you smiled after every bite and bragged about how Louis was a brilliant chef. Oh, and Louis, I know he would kill himself if it meant he got to serve you tea again,” Sherlock said, thinking of the other blonde. It was true that Louis wasn’t particularly fond of Sherlock, but Sherlock could tell that the night of his and William’s fall that he was starting to warm up.

“Why can’t you just wake up? I have so many things to say to you. I always wanted to tell you this stuff since we first met, you know? So just wake up, please? You have to, I can’t keep waiting anymore,” Sherlock says, tears rolling heavily down his face. He let out a choked sob, putting a hand over his eyes to preserve his dignity, which was unnecessary and futile all at once. He didn’t need to hide, for there was no one to see him like this. However, Sherlock had diluted his mind into thinking William was watching him with those scarlet eyes, judging how much Sherlock let himself care about him.

Sherlock wiped his eyes enough so he could see, his eyes still watery and over brimmed with tears. He used his hand to find William’s arm, his fingers sliding down until he found his hand. Sherlock laced their fingers together, hoping to warm the frigid fingers up if even for a short while.

Sherlock wondered why it had to be him to wake up first. Why did he have to be the one to sit around and wait for William every night and day? Maybe it was some form of sick punishment for all the misdeeds he committed in life. Maybe this was the price he had to pay for all the substance abuse, snarky comments, and bumming he did before. If it was, he felt as though he had paid tenfold for it. 

“Please come back to us...back to me, Liam. I miss you so much,” Sherlock pleaded, rubbing the back of William’s hand. All of the warmth in Sherlock’s body was being drained into his. Sherlock figured that William had some sort of issue with blood circulation, even before the incident, his fingers being icy to the touch. Sherlock let himself shed a few more tears before deciding to change the subject, not being able to bear the pain of his pleas and unanswered questions.

“Good lord, your hands are colder than usual. Stiff too! Maybe I should get you another blanket for the winter months. Here, I’ll go down to my room and get mine and you can use it for the night,” Sherlock wiped his eyes a few more times before exiting the room, going down a set of stairs. On the way to his room, he saw Billy, who waved to him.

“Hey, Sherlock, what’re you doing?” Billy asked, a kind smile on his face. He knew not to mess with Sherlock at this hour, knowing exactly what room he came from.

“Going to my room to get my blanket,” Sherlock said, taking a few steps in the direction towards his room. Billy held the same expression, smiling even though it looked like he wanted to let what he was thinking spill out of his mouth like lava.

“Oh is that so? Are you planning on spending the night with Mr. Moriarty then?” Billy asked, keeping the conversation light. Plus, he needed to know where to find Sherlock in the morning to wake him up.

“Maybe not tonight, but I was going to get a blanket to cover Liam up, it’s cold in there,” Sherlock responded, noticing a slight twitch in Billy’s facade. The man swallowed and sighed softly.

“Well you better make sure you have enough blankets for yourself, wouldn’t want you freezing to death tonight,” Billy turned around, going back to what he was doing.

“Yeah I’ll be fine, I’m more concerned about Liam freezing to death anyway,” Sherlock said with a bittersweet smile. He heard a sigh come from Billy, and Sherlock took that as his cue to leave. Sherlock quickly got the blanket from his room and went back upstairs, Billy was not in the shared living space when Sherlock came back out of his room.

“Here’s my blanket, it probably smells like smoke,” Sherlock threw the blanket across William, readjusting it so it covered the man entirely. “Sorry about that, but maybe when my next paycheck comes in I can buy you another blanket. Or you can keep mine if you’d like,” Sherlock said, now making sure the blanket lay even across William. When he finished, Sherlock smiled, sitting back in his chair.

“There we go! Now you should be all cozy for the winter months,” Sherlock said, smiling at William. He felt his heart sink again, knowing he would never get even physical response to what he was saying. “If you still get cold, though, I’ll always be here to hold you close. Think of me like your own personal heating blanket, Liam!” The words were easier to say knowing that William didn’t actually hear them. Sherlock reached under the blanket and held William’s hand again, eyes tearing up again.

“I’m here for you always, so please let me say that to your face,” Sherlock said, laying his head on his own arm that was resting on the bed. He envisioned what their hands looked like linked together under the blanket and smiled. He wished to remain like this forever, entwined with his Liam for all of eternity. Sherlock closed his eyes, his final tear of the night rolling down his cheek and soaking into his suit jacket sleeve.

“I’m right here. So wake up and get me, Liam, I’m all yours.”

-

“Sherlock! I thought you said you were going to be in your room!” Billy shouted. It was morning and Sherlock had barely opened his eyes, the morning sun burning his retinas like a casserole that was left in the oven for too long. Sherlock groaned, sitting up from the position he was in.

Man, he had to stop falling asleep hunched over a bed like that, it was taking a toll on his entire body. His hand was still linked with William’s under the cover, which made a slight smile form on his face. When he let William’s hand go, it felt much warmer than when he initially grabbed it. The extra blanket was a success then. Sherlock stretched, cracking the bones in his neck, back, fingers, and wrist all while listening to Billy.

“You’re lucky I checked here first, or I’d be making you pay for my lunch. Anyways, hurry up and get out the door, you have a new case today,” Billy said, pivoting to leave. The phrasing caught Sherlock off guard.

“You? What do you mean you have a new case ? Aren’t you supposed to be coming with me?” Sherlock asked, standing up from the chair. He looked at Billy in dismay and confusion, wondering what exactly he meant by that.

“You heard what I said, I’m not coming along. I have some personal issues to take care of,” Billy said, closing the door a little more. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have a bowl of oats calling my name. Have fun at work Sherly!”

“Hold it-”

Before Sherlock could get a word in, Billy had already closed the door, and knowing him he was already out of the house. Sherlock sighed. That kid was going to be the death of him. Sherlock yawned, taking his ponytail out and raking his hands through his hair before putting it right back up in the same hairstyle. He never was one for a high-maintenance morning routine, so that would have to do before he headed off for work.

He looked back at William, expression unwavering. No smile nor grief-stricken expression fell over him, just one of neutrality. He didn’t have time to feel anything for the man right now. Knowing Billy, he woke Sherlock up ten minutes after he was supposed to be at the station.

“Bye Liam, don’t wait too long on me now,” Sherlock said, walking out the door. He let out a tiny sigh, making his way out the door before immediately rummaging through his pockets for a match and a cigarette.

-

Sherlock’s shift was as boring as it could possibly be. No wonder why Billy decided to take the day off.

When he first strolled into the police station he was given a myriad of dirty looks, but that was typical. People didn’t like to admit they were wrong, especially when Sherlock had no mercy and utterly embarrassed anyone who he decided was a bit too overconfident in their foolishness. That didn’t matter to Sherlock. 

However, the mountain of paperwork on his desk did. It looked like he had forgotten to do the paperwork for the cases he solved for the past couple of months. To be fair, he figured that if he let it sit around someone would eventually do it for him. That’s how it worked in London, but he supposed he was no longer a consulting detective. Nope, Sherlock Holmes had an actual job.

He loathed it thoroughly.

However, he couldn’t wait to go find Miss Hudson and tell her that he had actually been employed and paid taxes. He could only imagine her reaction, whether it be utter disbelief or telling him well if you could do it in America, why can’t you do it here? To which he would make a swift exit. That would have to wait though, he couldn’t go back just yet.

He was still waiting.

Sherlock stepped in the door of the shared home, noticing that Billy was out somewhere because he wasn’t in the kitchen eating whatever food he had bought at the market. It was ridiculous how much that kid ate in a day and Sherlock wasn’t too sure he even paid for all the food he ate. He scoffed at the thought.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sherlock patted his pockets for his cigarette tin, pulling it out of his pocket as he walked up the stairs towards that all too familiar room. He fumbled it a little bit, carrying a wrapped gift in the other hand. He muttered a soft fuck this under his breath before putting the tin back in his pocket, figuring he’d need both hands to get one of the cigarettes out without dropping the gift he had.

Sherlock pushed the door open, a winter’s wind hitting his face upon opening the door. Did he leave the window open last night? He stretched his mouth into a thin line, a feeling of dissatisfaction present as he marched over to the window to close it. He’d open it eventually anyway, but he could wait to smoke. He stared outside, the way the snow reflected the sun hurting his eyes.

“Liam, were you the one who opened the window? Too warm under all those blankets then, huh?” Sherlock jokes, taking his eyes away from the window to look over at the unconscious man. Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock, noticing that the bed William had spent all those months in was empty. He almost dropped his wrapped gift, practically sprinting out of the room to find where William went. He could smack himself for not noticing it the minute he walked in later.

Sherlock checked everywhere in the house, hoping to see the back of that blonde head he was so familiar with. After checking every room, including William’s again just for good measure, he figured that the man must be outside. Sherlock quickly put on his winter jacket, which he normally wouldn’t do, but the scheming part of him reminded him that he could offer it to William and do all of that chivalry bullshit. Sherlock stepped out of the house, the winter air cutting straight through him.

Nope, this jacket was his, chivalry was always dead to Sherlock anyways.

He looked around the front of the house, not seeing the man anywhere. Of course he’d be in the last possible place I’d check. Sherlock thought, a slight smile on his face as he walked around the house to the back porch. It was typical of William, playing games with the detective even in situations like these. Sherlock couldn’t say he didn’t like it though, it was exhilarating to the man so ridden by boredom.

Snow was falling slowly to the ground, sticking to everything that was under the leisurely shower. It was melting in Sherlock’s hair, dampening it one flake at a time. Good thing the back porch isn’t too long of a walk, otherwise, he would end up with stringy, wet hair that stuck to his face. The outline of the porch was becoming more clear, the railings visible through the screen of falling snowflakes. Eventually, there was the outline person sitting on the bench, and Sherlock tried to run, almost falling face-first into the snow. He couldn’t care less though, simply picking his feet up higher and trudging as fast as he could towards the porch.

Upon getting up the stairs, Sherlock laid his eyes on the slim figure of the once sleeping man, who was now seated on the bench in front of him, looking out at the snowy city. The scene that lay in front of him as Sherlock walked closer seemed unreal. Blonde hair fell perfectly in front of William’s face, obscuring his face from view. His legs, although not crossed, were closed together, hands folded politely in his lap. He was slightly hunched over, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

Sherlock’s eyes glossed over as he stared, William so pale and ghastly looking that he practically blended in with their bleak surroundings. He wanted to offer him to go back inside, but instead, Sherlock continued to walk closer to the bench, sitting down on the end that William didn’t occupy. He couldn’t believe that all of the waiting, all of the nights he had spent by William’s side, and all of the hoping had finally brought William back to his side. Sherlock kept his eyes at the gift in his lap, occasionally sneaking side glances at the man by his side.

The two sat in silence for a long spell, Sherlock processing the information in front of him. William was alive. William was awake. William was sitting right next to him. Sherlock debated a million and a half different ways to start the conversation, from trying to say something sarcastic like a good morning to something endearing like I’ve been waiting for you . He realized he had forgotten what was right in front of him, and figured he could use that as a way to start up a conversation.

“Liam, I got you a gift,” Sherlock started, not knowing where exactly he was going to go with this, but it was a start. He looked over at William for a reaction, and when he got nothing in response, he felt a pain in his heart. Maybe it was better not to say anything . Sherlock looked down at the gift in his lap, letting out a scoff at how pathetic he was being.

Hadn’t he learned anything from when the two of them plummeted to what could’ve been their demise? There wasn’t time for him to wallow in his own self-pity. A smile crept on his face, contorting further and further until he was throwing his head back in laughter. 

Time, yeah. Sherlock knew a few things about time. How there was never enough of it while simultaneously there was too much. He had spent a lot of time wondering why he and William didn’t have more, but now that he was back, there was none to waste.

Sherlock began to unwrap the gift bag, revealing an embroidered jewelry box. Well, it was supposed to be used for jewelry, but he was sure William could find a use for it.

“I got you a gift,” Sherlock reiterated, holding up the jewelry box to his own eye level.

The jewelry box was gorgeous. In the center, there was a close-up of a tree that had lost all of its leaves. On one of the branches sat a cardinal, looking out at the blue sky in the background. It looked like it wanted to take off and never return, something that birds were able to do with a lot of ease. In each corner, there were embroidered white lilies that were connected by vines, with a group of the same flower placed dead in the middle. It looked like it took hours, no days to complete, and Sherlock had definitely paid for the quality.

Sherlock put the jewelry box back in the gift bag, setting it on the middle of the bench, so if William wanted to grab it he could. Sherlock snuck a glance, only to be met by the wisps of pale blonde hair, not shining with the same glow as it did before. Sherlock frowned, looking straight ahead, much like William was. The other still looked like he was on his deathbed, but Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything about it.

“It reminded me of you,” Sherlock said, a stupid smile starting to form on his face which he suppressed. It was annoying how just thinking about the man seated next to him had such an effect on him. Sherlock sighed, realizing he was still getting absolutely nowhere. It was strange how he could be so shameless on deaf ears but he choked when faced with someone who could hear the hopeless things that came out of his mouth. He knew that wherever he was, Mycroft was smirking and tallying up another win for him and another loss for Sherlock.

That was enough to make him take a deep breath in, deciding that it was better to wear his heart on his sleeve for once, trusting that William wouldn’t see that as an opportunity to crush it.

“Since you’ve been sleeping, your room is really empty so I told you,” Sherlock paused, figuring he should explain that aspect of it. “I guess you don’t remember that. You probably don’t remember any of it do you?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, knowing the answer was no . He knew that all of that time he spent was practically by himself, but there was always that silly hope that William heard every word.

“From the time I was able to move around like normal until last night, I visited you every night,” Sherlock paused, trying not to think too hard about the weight of the words he had just said. “I would tell you about my job,” Sherlock smiled, “I know, I have a job now and I hate it,” there was no response from the other, but Sherlock didn’t let it get to him.

“Anyways, I would tell you about how much I hated my job and what Billy- Uhhhh Billy is the guy who saved us and he also lives with us,” Sherlock summarized, knowing that William hadn’t had the truly revolutionary experience of working with Billy for months, “would do as a prank, which, if I may add, were never funny at all,” Sherlock added, remembering the countless time he ended up being the victim of the prank.

“A lot of the time, I would stay up all night talking to you about everything. I would sit next to you on a chair and just talk because I knew you would understand. You always understand what I have to say. All of the theories and thoughts I had in my mind, you wouldn’t look at me like I was a lunatic like everyone else does. I could always trust that you would be there to listen,” Sherlock laughed slightly, a smile staying on his face when he stopped. “I lost a lot of sleep doing that, but I wouldn’t do it any differently,” Sherlock explained, keeping his head straight ahead. He couldn’t look at William now, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do what he wanted to if he met those scarlet eyes head-on.

“But anyway, I had a lot of time to think when I was at your side. I had this feeling that was eating at me inside. It made me smile when there was nothing to smile at, my heart picked up speed when I hadn’t been moving, and felt like...like an idiot when I very much am not,” Sherlock said, breathing in the cold air. It burned, but not like his cigarettes. No, it burned in a good way, a better way than the cigarettes.

“This feeling, I think,” Sherlock paused, “I know, is because of you, Liam. Ever since we first met on the Noahtic and you saw right through me to every last detail, I’ve known it was you,” Sherlock let out a heavy breath, watching it disappear into the air. “I just didn’t want to admit it to myself because...I didn’t think it was right to harbor so much affection towards a man that was supposed to be a friend,” Sherlock stated, swallowing a lump he didn’t even know he had in his throat.

“But I realized that I never wanted you as a friend, Liam. It was always more. I wanted more and I know it’s selfish but, I want to have you to myself. It’s a fool’s wish but you’re the only one who can grant it so please, make my wish come true, Liam,” Sherlock confessed, hoping it had enough sentiment behind it to make it appealing. Sherlock was never good with words, but he had spent time crafting confession after confession, ensuring that they all fell in place correctly. When the blonde didn’t respond, Sherlock simply blinked away the hurt he felt, figuring that William needed a minute.

Sherlock wished he would’ve come clean with this sooner. Maybe it would’ve been different. Maybe William would tell him that what he was feeling wasn’t crazy; that William felt the same the whole time. Maybe then Sherlock would’ve been able to try all of the things he felt would make his heartbeat out of his chest. Complimenting William until he put his hand in front of his face, finding every little place that made him squirm under Sherlock’s touch, and watching the world pass them by, blissfully unaware that every stare, wink, brush of the hand, and smile meant something so much more than what it was on the surface.

Maybe they could have been so much more from the very start.

They did not have that luxury.

But Sherlock didn’t care, as long as it meant that they could be something now. He cleared his throat, deciding that the blonde wasn’t going to respond to his confession.

“I have dinner plans this weekend at this upper-class restaurant as a reward for a case I solved. I hear the food is to die for,” Sherlock tried to keep things lighthearted, even though his heart was breaking with each beat of silence. “I’m allowed to take a plus one, so I was wondering if you’d like to come with me. Going with you would be much more fun than going by myself,” Sherlock said, the enthusiasm in his voice completely drained. How could someone just sit there in silence while another poured their heart out? It was cruel. Sherlock waited in silence for an answer, still looking out at the dirty, boring city.

“Look, I get if what I said before was...too much,” Sherlock began, pausing so he wouldn’t lose his composure. “If you don’t feel the same that’s,” he felt his heart sink after he realized what he had said, but he continued to push, “fine. But I would still like to go with you to dinner. As...friends,” Sherlock said, feeling tears well up in his eyes.

Had he misread the situation all this time? He couldn’t have, there was no conceivable way. The stares, the words shared between the two, the unspoken words and gestures, the letter that William had written to him. Did all of that mean nothing? It was illogical given the evidence, so how could Sherlock be wrong?

He was only met with silence from the other, a silence that was enough to be able to hear Sherlock’s heart fully break. He felt everything well up inside him. He was overwhelmed with emotion: anger, fear, mortification, grief, betrayal. It was all bubbling inside of him, so much so it caused him to harshly grip onto the fabric of his slacks. 

It was when he heard what he thought was the word Sherly come from the other that he broke. Sherlock stood up, turning to face William. He had been silent the whole time and just now wanted to say something?

“How can you just sit there like a damn doll this whole time and not say anything?” Sherlock exclaimed. William continued to look straight ahead, not even sparing a glance to Sherlock. It only served to make Sherlock more pissed. “What is so fucking interesting about the city that you just keep staring at it? Do you not realize I’m right here? Or is it that you don’t care?” Sherlock continued to yell, feeling the tears start to spill out of his eyes. He sat back on the bench, allowing himself to cry.

“I’ve taken care of you for months Liam, hoping that one day you’d come back to me so I could tell you these things, and,” Sherlock paused, not being able to continue due to the amount he was crying. “Please say something, anything. It’s selfish, but I just want to hear your voice again Liam,” Sherlock pleaded, his misery taking over his anger. “I would do anything, Liam, anything you want,” Sherlock said defeated, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes before looking out at the city.

He allowed himself to get lost in thought, staring out at that city. It was hard to see through the screen of snow, but one could make out some of the larger buildings from afar. It was a dirty city, full of rodents and even filthier people. He smiled softly. Despite all the filth, he knew that William would be able to find something of worth, something that the city was covering up so that nobody would find it. William’s soft, caring side is something that Sherlock especially adored because he knew that despite his person of the Lord of Crime, William was a good person at heart. He’d always be willing to help someone in need, and it was admirable.

He was staring for what felt like hours until he heard someone coming around the back of the house. Sherlock knew it was Billy, coming to look for him because it was nearly sundown and he wasn’t in the house. He didn’t move, wanting to live in this moment with William for a little while longer.

“Sherlock!” Billy called, approaching closer, “Sherlock it’s almost dark! Sherlock! Are you out here? Sher- there you are,” Billy said, spotting the man on the bench. He hurried up the stairs, standing a few feet away from the man.

“What are you doing out here? It’s dinner time and it’s your turn to cook tonight,” Billy said, noticing the gift at Sherlock’s side. He wasn’t going to say anything about it, but he noted its existence. Sherlock took out his cigarette tin and put a cigarette between his lips. His cravings hit him like a train and he desperately needed to feed his addiction. He lit it up, taking a breath of it before speaking.

“I was talking to Liam,” Sherlock spoke monotonously, his eyes empty as he continued to smoke. Billy’s expression dropped quickly to a look of concern and pity. They sat in silence, Billy mustering up the courage to do something he didn’t think he’d have to do.

“Sherlock…” Billy swallowed a lump in his throat. “No one is there.”

Sherlock was silent, taking a breath of his cigarette so he could steady himself.

“I know.”

Billy looked at him in confusion, still hesitant to say what he had to.

“Then you know that William died?”

Sherlock nodded his head, continuing to let the smoke roll in and out of his lungs. Neither of them moved, both too scared of what the other might do. It was a while before either of them said anything, but it was Billy who spoke first.

“Sherlock,” he said, sounding like he could give in to his tears at any moment. “I’m sorry. I...I couldn’t keep letting you act like he was still alive. I felt guilty letting you keep taking care of him day after day but I was scared to tell you. I’m sorry,” Billy expressed, and Sherlock didn’t have to look at him to know that the other man was crying.

Sherlock grabbed another cigarette out of the tin, placing it between his lips and lighting it. Perhaps this would be the one to send him to an early grave. A part of him hoped it was.

“It’s okay,” was all Sherlock could manage without feeling the inevitable pain in his heart.

Of course, Sherlock knew William had died, he had been dead for a few days now. He could feel the rigor mortis in his fingers, see the undertones of his skin go from red to a grey, and he knew he wasn’t breathing anymore. But Sherlock didn’t want to believe it. Despite how his mind functioned on pure logic alone, the human part of him wanted a chance.

Really, was that so much to ask?

He took another deep drag from the cigarette, hoping the tobacco would dull the pain in his chest. Sherlock was forced to accept the fact that William really was gone, and it was something that crushed him to no end. Sherlock had all but forgotten Billy’s presence, but when he cleared his throat Sherlock came back to reality for a moment.

“I hate to ask, but,” Billy stopped, trying to pick the appropriate tone for his question. “If you knew William was dead, why did you keep taking care of him?”

There were plenty of opportune truths to that answer. Sherlock could say it was a routine thing and it gave him a sense of comfort to have a schedule. Could tell Billy that he enjoyed looking after him and didn’t want to stop doing so. There were one hundred easy excuses that would keep Sherlock from answering in the one way that would hurt him the most. It was a simple answer, the one hundred and first one, and Sherlock decided he was done living in a dreamland. He looked at Billy, noticing the shock that was present in his eyes when Sherlock made eye contact.

“Love. I’m an idiot in love.”