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When William opened his eyes, it was still dark outside. He sat up on the bed and brought a hand to his face, sighing. Remnants of the voice he heard in his dream still lingering in his ears.
He dreamt about him, again.
This was the one thing that escaped his control; dreams were within the realm of the subconscious, and no matter how he wished it, he could not stop his brain from dreaming, nor could he decide the contents of them.
It happened more often that he would like to admit. He had only seen him twice, in that luxury liner and in a train to London, and yet he couldn't quite get him out of his mind. The dreams were usually replays of those moments that filled his heart with indescribable joy, sometimes altered slightly, and sometimes continued with scenes that may or may not have happened if he had stayed by his side a little longer.
William pushed aside the sheets with a little more force than he needed and got out of bed, as if trying to leave those thoughts behind. The cold floor under his bare feet helped clear his head a bit.
He walked out of the room and down the hallway until he reached the stairs that headed to the lower floor. He was more than used to erasing his presence and moving without making a single sound, so none of the other people who were sleeping in the Moriarty manor heard him go down the stairs towards the living room.
The moonlight that peeked through the windows provided a faint light that barely made the silhouettes of the furniture visible, painting everything in a blueish light. William sat on the sofa, the echo of the words Albert said to him there a few hours ago resonating in his head.
"Aren't you favouring that detective a bit too much, Will? I'm worried that if you get too involved with him, you'll end up suffering more in the long run."
William had smiled at him in response, saying that he was sorry for making him worry, but that he was fine.
Yes, he was fine. He wouldn't let anything disrupt the plan, even if it was his own feelings. He was more than used to suppressing his emotions, to freezing his heart.
So, why was it different this time? Why couldn't he stop that detective from popping up in his mind at all times? Why did his supposedly frozen heart warm up whenever he saw him?
William squeezed his chest, and lowered his head with a pained expression. It was not supposed to be like this, it couldn't be like this. This was something that even he could have never predicted.
William let go of the cloth and laid down on the sofa, resting his head on the arm rest, facing up to the ceiling. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, the image of the detective appearing in his mind once again. Maybe he could allow himself to think about him just this once, to indulge himself only one time. He brought a hand to his face and caressed his own cheek.
If he, Sherlock, was here, what would he do? Would he look at him? Would he call that name that only belonged to him? Would he whisper it into his ear, only for William to hear? Would he caress his cheek, like this? Would his lips-
A single tear rolled down William's temple, disappearing into his hair.
Ah, God, will you forgive me? Will you forgive me for thinking about him, for having these feelings for him? For allowing his warmth to thaw my frozen heart?
He refused to give a name to those feelings, even if he knew, deep down, what they were. His heart longed, yearned deeply for him, for his blue eyes, his unruly black hair, his voice, his laugh...
Oh, how he wished he could throw everything away, his status, his plan, his current life, just to run away with him, to solve mysteries around the world, to stay in cheap inns and sleep in the same small, hard bed, arms and legs tangled, face buried in his chest. How he wished he could leave the identity he stole, to live just as "Liam", and no one else.
Another tear left the corner of his eye.
It was just for tonight. Tomorrow, when the sun went up, he would put on his facade again, put a lid on his feelings and continue as if nothing happened.
But tonight, at least, let me think of him.