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Sherlock Holmes had just been shot, and yet the only thing he could think about was how goddamn pretty his Liam was.
And the burning, sweltering hole festering in his right shoulder, that was.
But Liam. From Sherlock's skewed vision as he leaned against the wall next to him, legs trembling and head spinning slowly, threatening to send him to the ground, he could only see Liam partially. He was a couple of feet ahead, engaged in elaborate hand-to-hand combat with the asshole who had just placed a bullet into Sherlock's arm, and somehow, even sweating and in the midst of what should've been deemed as unattractive action, he was so fucking pretty.
Blonde hair flying, brief flashes of crimson eyes shining with contempt and determination and also- maybe- lust, delicate arms and delicate movements. A clash of metal on metal, and the two men stumbled back in their respective directions; Liam ever elegant, the armed robber far from it.
"Sherly, how're you fairing back there?" Liam called out to him, words ever so slightly tainted with the beginnings of fatigue while he stepped towards the man again. Sherlock grimaced, unable to answer as his voice seemed to crumble in his throat. "Sherly?" Concern. Shit, he was concerned now.
Sherlock growled softly, hand firmly pressed to the spot in a feeble attempt to... do something. Slow the bleeding? He couldn't see how his shaking hand was going to stop a two-inch hole from dribbling crimson. "I'm good," he responded back, cringing at his own meek voice.
Another cling. "Wonderful. Now if you wouldn't mind," Liam panted, pinning his opponent against the wall opposing him, "Would it be possible to throw me that gun?"
Oh yeah.
"Gimme a sec."
"Take your time," Liam deadpanned.
"Jesus Christ Liam, I was just shot!"
A sudden grunt. They were fighting again. Sherlock dragged himself off of the wall and stretched out for the fallen revolver with his good hand. "Oi, catch!"
Liam outstretched his left hand, smoothly plucking the gun out of the air without adverting his attention from the fight in front of him. In another swift movement, too fast for Sherlock to even pick up on, the man was shoved against the wall and Liam had the barrel of what Sherlock knew was an unloaded gun to his forehead. "One more move and whatever brains that head of yours contains will be splattered on this wall."
A sharp intake of breath from the shivering figure, any cocky superiority he had been feeling vanished with the threat to his life. "You.. wouldn't.."
"Oh but I would," Liam hummed, fingers dancing on the trigger. "You've heard of the Brooklyn Ripper, I assume?"
"Uh-huh.."
"And of the terrible fate to befall the dastardly man?"
"..."
"He was done in by my hands. This very gun, you know, was the one that was shoved down his-"
"I surrender, okay?" The man shouted suddenly, struggling under Liam's grip. "No fucking money is worth this! I ain't being tortured!"
Sherlock had managed to get back to his feet and now stood behind Liam, a pair of handcuffs clutched in his hand, materialised from wherever secret places he kept his shit. "Can I do the honours, Liam?"
"Be my guest."
"Aight. Let's get going, buddy," Sherlock tightened the cuffs around the still-terrified man's wrists, holding him tightly by his good arm.
Liam trailed the two through the alley, until they exited into the slightly brighter plaza, already completely filled with police.
"..Wait! Wait, no, how'd you.. Doncha need to know where the money is?" The man chuckled nervously, eyes scanning the crowd of officers in front of him, before desperately turning to Sherlock to beg.
Sherlock laughed, "Na, we figured that out ages ago. Also figured you were gonna try to bargain your freedom. Killers like you deserve all the hell that law enforcement can bring."
"Oi, I didn't kill anyone!" The man argued, rage plastered clearly on his features.
"Horrible liar, isn't he, Sherly?" Liam questioned softly, placing one hand on the detective's shoulder as he appeared to stand behind him.
"Quite."
"Mhm, for an avid poker player you would expect him to have a better face."
"No wonder his son ran away.."
"And he developed a drinking problem."
"Gotta be more specific or else I win, Liam."
"..Whiskey. No. Scotch, although he's the type to drink any cheap alcohol he can get his hands on. He takes it stirred."
"Shit."
William laughed good-naturedly as he pulled the sulking man away from the police, "You'll win next time, I'm sure. However, that does mean tonight..."
"I gotta buy you drinks, I know, I know," Sherlock glowered. "I'll clean up here and meet you back at our place?"
"Works with me." And with one last ruffle of his hair, Liam vanished into the distance, whispering into Sherlock's ear as he brushed away, "And please do get that shoulder looked at, darling."
Sherlock stared after him as he left, ducking through the group of officers. It had been too long since he had worked with Liam in any case- one of them was always off in some far foreign country. And Sherlock hated, absolutely despised, being that far away from Liam for any period of time.
He really was flawlessly magnetic. To think that only a year ago, those soft, gentle hands had been stained through with blood, and Sherlock had his eye trained on his heart. His mind had been driven by capturing the Lord of Crime- finding the man in the middle of the tangled web of red strings, the man who considered himself one no longer. And then he had jumped off of a bridge with him, fully prepared to fall straight into hell just for him. Prepared to die in the murky grave of the Thames, entwined with an enigma who he did not know and he desperately wanted to know.
A trickle of warmth wriggled down his shoulder, and something about the feeling of searing pain drew him away from the reminiscence. He had saved Liam. And he had asked him to take care of his shoulder.
"Ay! Holmes!"
Sherlock glanced away from the spot of growing blood on his nicest (and only) dress shirt. Another officer stood in front of him, concerned. "What happened?" He asked.
"It's fine," Sherlock responded curtly, not answering the question, and turning his body away so the man couldn't pry further, "Now what needs to be done?"
*
He got it fixed, after all. Only after he stumbled back to his shared apartment with Liam, shoulder festering with infection, did his blonde boyfriend force him to sit down and have someone look at it.
That someone being Liam.
"Sherly, I do seem to recall me telling you to get that looked at," he sighed, gently applying antiseptic to the oozing wound.
"Forgot."
"That's doubtful."
Sherlock's head fell into his hand, exhausted from the day's activities and his arm- now numb- still throbbing with pitiful pain. "Caught me," he grinned into his lap.
Liam tightened a strip of bandage on the area, lessening his grip when Sherlock hissed in pain. "You're almost as bad as I am."
"Ooh, that's a hard comparison," Sherlock grumbled, "Considering you're notorious for leaving that eye untreated for days."
Almost instinctively, Liam's free hand moved to his eye, rubbing over the black fabric in a smooth circle. Sherlock picked up on his discomfort and his face fell, "Liam.. I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"No. No, I really must get used to people mentioning its existence. After all, aren't the scars that we have gotten only part of our lives. Our stories?" He mused quietly, voice low. "I seem to recall a great man I know using that.."
Sherlock guffawed, "Great man? We must not be thinking of the same one."
Liam stifled his own laugh, before catching himself. It had been long since he had needed to be someone else, someone that wasn't Liam, but old habits died hard. He continued to laugh, unrestrained, his face alight with joy, and Sherlock watched.
He watched his Liam, who was no longer a Moriarty and was no longer William, and he smiled to himself because he loved this man more than he had ever loved anything or anyone.
"If you've finished with the wound, can we get our drinks now?" Sherlock asked suddenly, as Liam caught his breath in the corner, blonde bangs falling over his eyes.
"Only if you promise me you'll take it easy for the next few days?"
"Me? Take things easy? Sorry, Liam, you know those words don't go together."
"Then no drinks." He responded dismissively, turning away from Sherlock and heading towards his room. "I have a thesis I need to work on, anyways~"
"Heyy, Liam don't be like that please.." Sherlock whined, standing up to follow him as he left the room. Liam didn't turn. In an act of pathetic desperation, Sherlock called after him, "Fine. Fine, I'll rest."
Liam stopped suddenly, and Sherlock rammed directly into his back. "Promise?"
"Yeah, I promise."
Liam turned just as fast as he had turned away, expression now warm. "That's all I needed." He grabbed Sherlock's good arm and shoved him towards the door gently. "Now you wait out here, I need to get ready."
"Oi! You say that like I haven't seen you naked be- mmph!"
Sherlock got cut off as Liam slammed the door on his face.
*
An hour later, two men strolled into a bar in the middle of the London suburbs. The slightly taller one donned an overgrown mess of blue-hued dark hair, worn in a low ponytail. He had his arm looped through that of his blonde friend, almost the same height, but lithe and graceful as compared to his partner.
The two made their way to the bar, sitting down and giggling with each other like children.
"One more!"
Sherlock loudly exclaimed, slamming his now empty glass down on the table. Liam looked at him dubiously, "That makes twelve. Any more and you'll be blacked out."
"Nope! I'm no lightweight."
"Even Albert wouldn't down that much whiskey," William rebutted, a thin smile growing across his face.
Sherlock shrugged, "Guess I'm beating him then." He reached forwards for the now refilled glass just as a hand beat him there and snatched it away. "Oi, Liam!" Sherlock complained, staring at the blonde who was now downing the contents of the shot.
Liam grinned, before grimacing slightly, "I don't think I'll ever understand how you can drink this... I despise scotch."
"Then why'd ya steal it?"
"I despise your hangovers even more."
"That's not fair~"
They began to jokingly argue, and even while inebriated out of his mind, Sherlock couldn't help but stare at his Liam. How utterly beautiful he was.
"- Besides, I'm eager to make some quick cash tonight, are you not?" Liam's abrupt- mildly cryptic- question snapped Sherlock out of his lovesick daze.
"Pardon?"
Liam laughed, "Come on." And he dragged Sherlock away from the bar stools, the empty shot glass, and the remaining remnants of his sanity. Sherlock so desperately wanted to tell him to stop holding on to his arm because he did not believe that he would be able to contain himself much longer if he had to spend another moment being touched by this God of a man.
"Care if we join?"
Liam had pulled Sherlock over to a booth at the far end of the bar, surrounded by a scattering of men, all loudly chattering. On the table laid a spread of cards and chips, glasses still half-full with amber liquid piled up against the wall, and coins thrown roughly down by the losers of the games with a clink of metal on wood. The man nearest to them looked up, startled.
His eyes scanned them both. Sherlock didn't pique his interest, but the moment his irises flickered over to Liam, he paused. Liam had long since stopped being William, but he could not purge the uncanny resemblance to a member of a higher social class no matter the effort he put in.
Behind his suit, a hand-me-down Billy had pulled out of somewhere, was the posture and the form of a patrician. Behind the careworn face and singular eye lay a piercing sharpness specifically allowed for people who had the money to judge others. Behind the warm smile (god, Sherlock really loved his Liam's smile) and voice with a barely disguised King's English accent, lilted words with an identifiable cadence.
Liam was a talented actor. But discarding a role he had played for thirteen years of his life, living in a body that was not his, was a feat that he could not overcome in a year.
Whatever one of Liam's many high-class aligning features tipped the man off, however, his eyes narrowed like he could smell money in the drunken stumble of the two (Sherlock's real, Liam's not) and he gave them a welcoming smile, gesturing them to sit down.
"You two know the rules of pontoon?"
They glanced at each other, eyes glimmering with hidden ecstasy, and Sherlock responded, "Yep. Pretty familiar."
"Good, good." He passed them a small pile of chips while asking, "So what're you're names?"
Sherlock answered for both of them. "The name's Arthur. This here is Doyle," he thumbed towards Liam next to him. Liam raised a dubious brow but went along with it quickly. They had no reason to use anything but their actual names, but he assumed Sherlock got a kick out of the homage to John's pen name.
"Johnston. You all want to draw first?" He extended the deck and Sherlock reached forward, plucking one from the centre of the pile and placing it on the table. Liam followed, as did the rest of the table in quick succession.
By some stroke of wild luck, Liam pulled a king, appointing him as the first dealer.
"Oii, you cheated!" Sherlock (who had pulled a three of clubs) whined, half-jokingly.
"At pulling a card? My, Sherly, where has all your logic gone?"
The starting round was passed out, each person held their card tight in their hands, stone-faced and eerily silent for drunk men.
Sherlock stared at his card. An ace. It was an insanely lucky draw- that was unless Liam was cheating for him.
"Your bets?"
He blinked. "-Uh. Yeah, uh, here," he tossed in ten chips, the maximum.
"Betting high I see.." Liam mused quietly next to him.
Bastard.
Everyone else bet, with only two other people betting the max- Johnston and a red-faced man with a shaggy beard and sour breath seated next to Sherlock, apparently named Louie. Liam tossed out the next set.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. A king. No way in hell Liam wasn't cheating for him now. And Sherlock had an inkling he knew exactly how.
After everyone had looked, and a few people's shitty poker faces gave away whatever cards they may have had, all eyes stared at Liam expectantly, waiting for his move. He smiled but made no actions, declaring his lack of a Pontoon The turn went to his left. Three men twisted, and two of them busted, one of them being the flushed man.
Johnston split his two eights. He bought two cards for one hand, and twisted thrice for the other, without busting.
Another man busted.
A man, small and slight, whispering his requests for twists managed to pull out a Five Card Trick and slumped back down in his seat, nervousness etched on his features.
And then Sherlock. Wiliam sent him a knowing smile as he placed his face up ace on top of his face down king, receiving a mixture of shock and annoyance.
"Some nice luck you got there," Johnston mumbled accusatorily, glaring at William.
"Indeed, Sherly," William shot Johnston an equally steely glare. "Now let's see.”
He scanned his cards, and then the deck. "I believe I'll twist."
He flipped the first card face up. A five. "And again."
The two newcomers to the gambling appeared to have an uncanny streak of luck, as Liam twisted his third card for a perfect Five Card Trick.
"It appears the deck is in my favour today," Liam grinned, staring at the three of diamonds, five of clubs, and eight of diamonds sitting on the table. "And I believe your Pontoon has placed you in the position of dealer, Sherly."
"Now stop right there." A crash as Johnston stood up abruptly from his spot at the table, drunkenly pink face flushed thoroughly with rage. "I don't know what kind of trick you think you're pulling, but you aren't about to scam us out of a shit ton of cash."
"Trick?" Liam cocked his head innocently. "I haven't the faintest what you mean-"
The sharp screech of shoe heels dragging across the wooden ground interrupted him, and then a hand was wrapped around his tie, pulling his chest into the table. William inhaled sharply with sudden pain, still staring at Johnston, who was now sweltering mad. "Listen up you impertinent brat, we don't appreciate your kind here. Certainly not ones with an attitude."
Sherlock didn't make a move to save Liam- he could very well see the amused glimmer in his eyes. That didn't mean, however, that he liked seeing him being manhandled by someone else. His hands were itching to sock Johnston around some.
A breathless chuckle emitted from William still keeled over the corner of the wooden table. "My kind? Surely you aren't referring to people with money... perhaps people with brain cells?"
"You-" Johnston roared, moving to slap him.
William didn't flinch. He leaned his head back to smile thinly at the man. "Wrong move." Before anyone else- even Sherlock- had a chance to move, he wrenched his left arm free and slammed Johnston over his head and onto the table. Glasses shattered, chips went flying in every direction, and cards fluttered lazily to the ground. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders. "It's a shame for you. I've been itching for a fight~"
The fat man- Louie- growled loudly and rushed at Liam, who easily sidestepped him and let the man's momentum carry him crashing into the bar. Louie slumped to the ground, out in one blow.
"Sherly?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you allow me to handle this?"
Sherlock shrugged, watching Liam fluidly avoid the enraged drunkards in the delicate movements that he had used earlier, and responded, "Be my guest." Johnston had already been taken care of, lying motionlessly on the pontoon table, and Sherlock, despite still really wanting to punch the lights out of him, took no pleasure in beating around the unconscious.
Plus, his shoulder had really started to sting.
Only minutes later, a collection of a dozen or so occupants of the bar laid scattered on the floor, and William hadn't even had to raise a hand. The bartender and the innocent occupants had long since fled, and somewhere, off in the distance, Sherlock could hear the imposing sound of a horse trotting. Blasted innocents had run for the cops.
"I believe this is our cue to leave," William declared, stepping out of the way of a man clutching a broken wine bottle and waving it around like a sword.
Sherlock rolled his eyes sarcastically, "Really?"
The man with the sword-bottle crumpled to the ground as William hit a pressure point in his neck, knocking him out cleanly. He stretched. Then paused and asked, "Ah, before we go, do you happen to have any cash on you?"
"What for?"
William gestured to the broken chairs, overturned tables and smashed glasses lying around them. "Damage payment."
"Fair point," Sherlock grumbled, digging through his pockets and producing a wad of cash. "This work?"
"It'll have to."
Muffled talking coming from outside grabbed their attention. Sherlock muttered a curse, threw the bills on the counter and dragged Liam out of the back entrance, leaving the mess of unconscious bodies and broken glass to the police.
What mattered more, though, was that it was the fourth bar they had caused a ruckus at. They were running out of places to drink. Sherlock kicked a rock.
*
It was raining outside. Not heavily, but the droplets were large enough to be felt on the thin coats the both of them were wearing. The temperature had dropped significantly, and cold wind twined its way through Sherlock's ruffled hair. When Liam exhaled heavily next to him, rubbing irritably at where he had been shoved into the table, his breath appeared in a smoky cloud.
"I might have gone a tad bit too far." Liam's voice was a small warmth in the cold, and Sherlock glanced over at him. His cheek was red from where he had been slapped, his eyes were watering in the cold, and his hair tangled around him in the wind, and Sherlock had the undeniable urge to kiss him then and there.
"Na. They started it."
Liam chuckled. "I suppose you're right. Drunk men really do have quite the temper, don't they?"
"Oi, was that directed at me?" Sherlock scoffed, placing a hand on his chest and widening his eyes like he was offended. He wanted Liam to continue. He wanted the exhilaration of bantering because he needed something to release the feeling he had right then.
Liam took the bait. "Oh no, of course not. Why would I accuse you of being a rude drunk?"
"Liar."
"Never."
They stopped under a streetlight, watery light distorting in the rain. Sherlock could feel his socks getting wet. He could also feel Liam's hands in his, and they were so soft.
“So Liam, how did you cheat?”
“Oh, you think I cheated as well?”
“You did. No way the cards would be that skewed in our favour. So how’d ya do it?”
William glanced at the ground below him. “I switched the decks.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “When?”
“Was it not obvious-?”
Sherlock groaned, pushing his wet bangs out of his face to glare at Liam. “No, dumbass.”
“Your loss.” William shrugged, turning away from Sherlock with an amused grin plastered on his face. “A magician never reveals his tricks~”
Self assured bastard. But my God did he wear it well. Light hit his eyes, and they glowed a dark, deep red. Sherlock didn't have the time or ability to stop himself before he grabbed Liam's face.
His eyes widened slightly before blonde lashes fluttered, and they both got consumed by the dark and the pleasure.
Liam's lips were softer than his hands. A droplet of rain ran down his cheek, and dripped into the corner of Sherlock's mouth, melting on both of their tongues. He could feel Liam's nails dig into Sherlock's available hand, fingers running up his wrist and under the sleeve, writing patterns on his bare skin.
They stopped for breath, not daring to open their eyes lest the ocean behind them stopped dragging them below. Sherlock leaned back in for more first. He wanted to feel Liam breathe in the air he exhaled- the thought of a man as beautiful as him having Sherlock's oxygen running through his blood was a thought that Sherlock wanted to never stop thinking. He wanted Liam to have every bit of him.
Sherlock pulled away. Swallowed. His throat felt gummy and dry, like a teenager who had just had his first kiss in the middle of some hot, sticky party. Not like a man who had done far more than just kiss William James Moriarty. Being with Liam made him feel like a child again, and Sherlock found he much enjoyed the purity. The freedom.
A giggle broke the night's quiet- broke the panting of both of the giddily silent men. Bright. Comforting. Liam's hair brushed against Sherlock's forehead as delicate hands grabbed him around the neck. "We're getting brash tonight, aren't we Sherly?"
A streetlight flickered. The moon made its slow path out from behind a thick blanket of clouds, white, thin light projecting a spotlight onto the couple. And for a moment, in the trickle of rain and the lighting dim enough that they were unseen, they let time freeze. Unravel.
"Would it be cliche to say I caught you, Liam?"
A beat. A splatter of rain onto the rubbled pavement. A breath.
Liam's words breathed down Sherlock's throat as he pulled his face in for another kiss- deeper than the last, euphoric. He had to draw himself to recovery, drag his mind and spinning thoughts out of the hole Liam dug below him with every inhale he took.
"It would be true." Sherlock could feel Liam's voice filling up every crevice of his body.
The soft psh of rain torrents and the splash of cold water onto his ankles with every droplet to hit the ground gave him the chance to catch his breath.
"Do you trust me, Sherlock?"
He didn't have to answer. Liam knew. He always did.
"Would you like to drown with me?" That smirk. The context that he hid below the coyness.
I would like to die with you.
Two pairs of footsteps, echoing as one, splashed against the wet ground. The cold streets were empty and drowning in a sea of their own. But it was nothing like the water that filled the lungs of the men still holding each other in the distance.
Neither of them could breathe. And they hoped never to breathe again.