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Part 3 of sherliam hurt/comfort
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Published:
2022-09-03
Completed:
2022-09-04
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3,327
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2/2
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The comfort of a cup of tea (and the man who made it)

Summary:

William is roused by a nightmare.

And Sherlock is there, with two cups of (slightly weak) tea.

Notes:

Hi all!

Back with guess what *drum roll* you guessed it ANOTHER HURT/COMFORT FIC!

I wrote this with like a 39-degree fever (102 for the Americans) honestly why do I get given inspiration at the worst possible times?

This fic is set before the previous two, but during the same time period (following Sherlock and William's rescue)

I wanna talk a bit about the headcanon that inspired this but you can skip it it's not too important lol.
So I've seen some people headcanon that after the rescue, William would be really mentally fucked up and so broken that his emotions would be explosive and the calm facade he always wore completely broken. I have absolutely nothing against that headcanon, I actually sometimes enjoy it. However I have my own headcanon that after William's attempted suicide, he is still similar to his old self in the sense that he masks his emotions from everyone. He's generally a rather closed-off person, but in this case it's more concerning considering the presumably confused, messy state of his mentality after what occurred. Being the greatest detective of London, I'm sure Sherlock would figure it out and try to get William to open up to him. That's what prompted this particular fic hehe.
Also you'll notice that this is only one out of two chapters...... there's gonna be a small part two soon :)

 

Anyways enjoy reading!!!!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: The cup of tea

Chapter Text

There was darkness. 

 

And then there was light. 

 

Light in the form of white-hot pain that shot through his head, his eye, his arm, his fingertips. So bright that it blinded him. 

 

He didn’t know if he screamed. It certainly would have made sense to scream, at that moment, as every one of his limbs felt like they had been doused with gasoline and then flicked with a lit match.

A searing flame rising up the length of his body to ignite him from the inside. 

 

To turn him into a beautiful phoenix. 

 

A being of fire that transformed into a pile of ash upon meeting its end. 

 

And from that ash, it could be reborn. 



But he had screamed, hadn’t he?

 

Just as his body hit the water and the force of it slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. 

 

It was with that breath that he screamed a name - the word absorbed and muffled by the water that abused him so. 

 

Just one name. 



“Sherlock!” 

 

And there he was. Grappling onto his last thread of consciousness, William used every ounce of will to grip the man tighter. 

 

Tighter. 

 

TIGHTER!

 

Sherlock’s coat was wet. 

 

Scratch that, actually. Everything was wet. They were surrounded by wet, and laws of gravity didn’t seem to really apply to this place because he wasn’t standing on anything, and the tendrils of water appeared to be determined to fight their way in between them and-

 

His hold was slipping. 

 

His fingers ached, but that only pushed him to clutch Sherlock’s coat with renewed effort. 

 

He would not let him go. He would not let him go. He would not let him go. 

 

“Sherlock!” He tried to scream again. Louder; insistent. Insistent for the damn man to get himself together and wake up, for God’s sake!

 

The action only earned him a lungful of water. Cold. 

 

It was then that William realized there was no oxygen down here. He gasped, but that only made it worse. He choked and a vicious cycle ensued of coughing, gasping, coughing again. 

 

Still, he couldn’t let him go, he couldn’t let him… 

 

Blearily, he realized that the darkness earlier had been from the other’s black coat. Yes… the coat he had buried his face in just before they hit the water, feeling arms firm around his back and a chest pressed securely against his…

 

He had allowed himself a moment of weakness, then. Gave in to the scent of smoke from the earlier fire that lingered on the cloth. The comfort of a warm embrace. Only in the final moment,  did he let himself indulge for merely a second or two in the feeling of safety this man’s arms brought him. So he had pressed himself against Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. Had closed his eyes. Regretted that he had not done this earlier. Perhaps in a more comfortable location. 

 

And he had been so, so tired.

 

The black coat slips from his fingertips as if it were made of butter. 

 

And he is engulfed in the current. 

 

The tears and the water blur his vision. But he reaches for him anyway. 

 

He cannot hear. He cannot see. He cannot breathe. 

 

William screams. 

 

He cannot find him. 



The world greets him in a flood of fresh oxygen to his lungs as William gasps, scrambling to sit up. His hands twitch and jerk in front of him, searching the air for a phantom of his imagination. William coughs, but there is no water to expel from his respiratory system. 

 

The night is cold against his face. 

 

He raises a hand to swipe at his cheek. His finger comes away wet.

 

Suspicions confirmed, William sighs. How totally embarrassing, crying from a mere night terror. Not unlike a child. 

 

William lets out a breath, feeling his rabbiting heart wearily slow to a more steady pace. Shaking his head tiredly, he wipes the blonde bangs from his slightly sweaty forehead. 

 

Yet, as he relaxes back down onto the pillow, sleep refuses to come and claim him once more. William twists and turns, but something nags insistently from the corner of his mind. His mind, which won’t stop racing, won’t stop replaying the images it had presented to him in the midst of slumber. 

 

How utterly annoying. 

 

Faintly, he aches for a steaming cup of Louis’s tea. 

 

Oh, well. His own brew would have to do for the time being. 

 

He rises from the bed with proper nobleman-ly grace, shivering a little from the chilly air that worms its way through his thin nightshirt. William tries to tread lightly and swiftly on the dark floorboards, and if he may say so himself, does quite well despite his tedious physical condition. He makes it to the door of the kitchen before halting abruptly. 

 

Light shines through the thin cracks in the closed doorway. 

 

Right. 

 

So he is awake, then.

 

Stealing himself with a deep breath, William gently pushes the door open.

 

“Top of the morning, Liam.” Sherlock is also in his nightshirt, hair a tangled, dark mess that hangs loose over his shoulders. He looks up to give William one of those signature grins, undeterred in his current task of pouring two steaming cups of tea from the chipped kettle. 

 

“A good morning to you too, Mr Holmes.” William greets evenly, stepping past the threshold so that he stands fully under the golden light of the candles. He inclines his head slightly. “I am deeply sorry if I woke you, please pardon me.” 

 

At that, the detective gives a half scoff, half laugh. 

“Don’t use that blasted fake tone you nobles try to politely charm each other out of money with.” He scolds, but William can sense a concerned undertone to it. “Come have some tea with me, Liam.” 

 

William huffs, a small but genuine smile slipping onto his face in a moment of carelessness. “Alright.” 

 

In the little living room area of their apartment, they sit down opposite each other on the two armchairs, tray of tea settled on the table between them. William takes a sip from his cup. Hmm… a little too weak; just a smidgen more brewing time and it would have been perfect.

 

Over his cup, he risks a glance at the man in front of him, finding him staring right back. Fiery red and deep inky blue lock in an unwavering stalemate across their cups. Challenge crackles vaguely in the air, but William finds he isn’t quite in the competitive mood. The slight glow from the candles delicately shades Sherlock's eyes in an enchanting manner, and William’s gaze softens slightly, mind drifting off to distant memories of warm summer nights that he spent simply staring out into the stars. 

 

“Liam.” 

 

The word brings his wavering mind back into focus as he hears Sherlock’s cup clink against its saucer. He discovers the detective’s stare still boring into him, intensely concerned and deeply caring all at once. 

 

“I heard you yelling my name in your sleep.” Foregoing all the soothing formalities and getting straight to the point. As per usual. “Also the word, ‘stop.’”

 

“Are you trying to poke fun at me, Mr Holmes?” It seems the only logical conclusion. Why else would Sherlock be stating all these unnecessary facts in front of him? It’s not like William wants to be reminded of his shame.

 

Yet Sherlock shakes his head, scooting forward in his armchair so that his piercing gaze can pin William from a closer range. “I’m worried I’m doing something wrong, Liam. Is there something you need me to stop? If so, out with it.” 

 

He really should’ve seen that coming. He blames his lack of calculations on the late hour.

 

William blinks down at his tea for a moment, but swiftly regains himself. “I assure you, Mr Holmes: those words have nothing to do with you.”

 

They had everything to do with him, actually, but Sherlock didn’t need to know that. Nothing in the context he was assuming, anyway, so he might as well ease the man’s worries in that regard. 

 

“Liam, I already said, cut out that fake politeness. It doesn’t work on me; you know that. I can see that something’s bothering you.” 

 

William sighs ruefully, but without surprise. “Ever so perceptive.” 

 

“Only because you’re too distracted to mask it.” 

 

A reverie of silence settles as William sips his tea. Sherlock’s cup sits on the table, untouched. 

 

When William doesn’t make any sign of attempting to continue the conversation, Sherlock’s patience quickly runs dry. 

 

“So, would you be so kind as to inform me as to what is bothering you, so that I don’t worry myself sick?” 

 

Always so impatient when he’s trying to solve something, William muses with a touch of fondness. “Whyever would you be worrying yourself sick, in any case?”  

 

Sherlock heaves a deep sigh before rising from his seat in the chair. He looks down at William for a moment, a glimmer of something flashing through his eyes that William soon recognises as hurt . 

 

“Because you are my friend. Someone I care for. Don’t tell me the great mastermind himself is blind to such an elementary fact.” 

 

William follows Sherlock with his eyes as the man steps around the table. 

 

“No. Merely questioning why you are so worked up over a simple nightmare.” He murmurs, gaze returning to his cup. 

 

Without providing an answer, Sherlock stops next to William’s chair. 

 

“Can you please stand up, Liam?” The voice above him asks evenly. 

 

William begins to comply, pondering what on Earth the man is up to. “I suppose I can, but what would be the point of-” 

 

He gets cut off as a pair of warm arms wrap around him. Gasping lightly, William’s eyes widen a touch before he blinks, and gathers back some remnants of composure. 

“Mr Holmes, really.” He exclaims, the words quiet, though exasperated. His face begins to heat up, the scent of soap and paper and a trace of tobacco a soothing stroke over the lingering anxiety from the dream.  

 

He doesn’t lift his arms in return. Simply lets the man hold him there, in the middle of their cold apartment in the wee hours of an unassuming autumn morning. 

 

And then Sherlock speaks. 

 

“You sounded like you were in so much pain, Liam.” He whispers, voice floating right by William’s ear. “So much anguish. I wanted desperately to go in and wake you up. To stop you from seeing whatever horrors your mind was showing you.” 

 

William shivers despite the warm embrace. 

 

“But you started keeping your door locked.” The detective presses his head into the dip of William’s shoulder, making his next words come out muffled. “Why is it that you keep pushing me away, Liam? We stand on the same ground, do we not? Yet you dance around me in a swirl of tantalizing waltz with which I can only just keep up. Holding me near, but never too close. Am I wrong?” 

 

He isn’t. William knows he isn’t. While it isn’t always a conscious decision, he is still intent on keeping the man at arm's length, never letting him in. 

 

Why?

 

William doesn’t know the answer himself. 

 

Perhaps it’s because old habits die hard. He had never opened himself to anyone before, not fully. Didn’t know how to. 

 

There’s something still nagging at him in that tiny corner of his mind. Something that prompts him to hesitantly lift his arms, circle them around Sherlock’s middle, and press the two of them a little closer. 

 

He rests his cheek against the other’s hair. It’s soft and fluffy; tickling slightly. 

 

“It was about that day,” He murmurs thoughtfully, frowning as he recalls the memories. “When I jumped. And you jumped after me. But when we were in the river, this time, I lost you.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “That’s why I was screaming for you.” 

 

“Lost me, as in..?” Sherlock asks against William’s skin. 

 

“I lost my hold on you. And the currents carried you away.” He nuzzles further against the detective's hair subconsciously, eyes drifting closed at the serene waves of peace washing over him even as he talks about a memory so distressing. It’s merely that something about being engulfed in the man’s scent and warmth simply feels… comforting. 

 

Sherlock says nothing in reply for a moment. Then his arms around William tighten ever so slightly. 

 

“Please don’t push me away anymore.” The words brush against William’s skin. 

 

“I’m not pushing you away,” William responds with just a touch of amusement. 

 

He feels more than he hears the rough exhale of Sherlock’s frustrated laughter. “Let me rephrase, then: please let me in closer, Liam.” 

 

William smiles, helpless before this man. 

 

“Are you certain you want to?” He cautions. “It gets a little messy when you look closer.” 

 

Sherlock barks out a sudden laugh and pulls away. Not far enough to let their arms drop; just so they stand face to face. His eyes shine with… disbelief. 

 

“Liam, do you remember who you’re talking to?” The expression, that damn smile on his face is so confounded, yet so fully genuine . “I saved you, didn’t I? Risked my life for you and now you’re going to go ahead and think I don’t care enough to get closer to you? Really, did the fall hurt your head that much?”

 

William levels the man with an unimpressed glare. Sherlock merely chuckles. William is gathered back into the detective’s arms, and he does not hesitate this time in returning the embrace. Sherlock falls quiet. But, as usual, it's only for a second.

 

“... Would it make you feel better if I stayed the night with you from now on?”  

 

“That’s very forward of you, Mr Holmes - I was about to suggest I start leaving my door unlocked, but I see we’re jumping straight to the good part. Blunt as always.” 

 

“You know that’s not what I meant, Liam.” 

 

“I know, I know.”

 

“Do you think it’d help, though?” 

 

“Won’t know unless we try, now will we?” 

 

“Oh? And when should we begin our little experiment?”

 

“Tonight is quite convenient, I suppose, seeing as we’re both awake.” 

 

“Right you are. Let's head to bed, then?”

 

“Certain- ah, hang on, the tea…” 

 

“Nevermind the tea, Liam. Come on. I need to get as much sleep in as I can before work tomorrow.”

 

“You make a fair point.” He presses his lips to the detective's cheek. “Let us go, then… Sherly .”






Chapter 2: The man who made it

Notes:

Part 2 hehehe

Not much to say, except a massive thank you for all the positive feedback on my sherliam fics so far!

Love y'all, enjoy~ ❤

Chapter Text

Reaching.

 

He is reaching. 

 

The water is murky; he cannot see. 

 

Still, he reaches his hand out desperately. If only to feel the fabric of that coat against his fingertips again.

 

All he finds is the cold enfold of the river.

 

Empty.

 

He can’t breathe. 



Air enters his lungs in harsh gasps as William fights against the currents - no, the blankets that trap him. He manages to summon enough sense of mind to grab the corner of the duvet and throw it to the side, effectively freeing himself from its clutches. Breathing hard, he sits up with his knees tucked into his chest, skin clammy and overly hot and far too cold all at once. He pushes a hand through his sweaty hair, closing his eyes against a sudden bout of dizziness.

 

There’s the rustle of movement beside him; William’s scrambled mind is able to recount that he does indeed have a companion for the night, so there is no need to be alarmed. 

 

“Liam?” The voice is deeper than usual, rough with sleep and disuse. 

 

“It’s nothing, Sherlock. Go back to sleep.” 

 

William turns his head away from the man - towards the open window. He knows he’s being dismissive, but he can’t quite will himself to look Sherlock in the eye. 

 

Further rustling beside him indicates that the other doesn’t comply with his words. Persistence: it’s one of William’s favourite qualities about the man, but also one of most inconvenience when it concerns a matter that he wants left alone. 

 

“Was it the same one?” Sherlock questions from next to him. It’s clear he’s referring to the dream, wondering if it is the same one that started this whole ‘sleeping together’ predicament. The one from that night, when Sherlock had made him tea and then hugged him and asked William to allow him in closer. When something fundamental slowly began to shift into motion between the two of them.

 

A cautious hand curls around William’s shoulder; scared of spooking him, wary of unintentionally worsening matters. William almost gives a fond chuckle at the timidness of the action and how much care Sherlock devotes to his comfort. Not that he’s… well… opposed to the attentiveness, by any means.

 

“... Indeed.” He answers finally, leaning into the touch to show his approval. His detective is warm as always, William notes as he relaxes against the man’s side. 

 

Sherlock’s hand gives his shoulder a small squeeze. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

 

William lets out a breath, then shakes his head as if to dispel the lingering fog of the nightmare. “There’s no need. I’m aware that it’s a mere fragment of my imagination; nothing to fear.”

 

When Sherlock lets out a vague noise of frustration, William glances up at him curiously. The detective looks back at him, eyes all inky and soft with sleep but gaze sharp and discerning as ever. 

 

“It’s not immature, Liam. Not something to feel shame over.” Finally figured out the reason for the dismissiveness, then. Took him long enough. “I get nightmares about that day, too, if that makes you feel any better. Which, actually, it probably doesn’t - but, point is: you’re too hard on yourself. Let yourself feel, Liam.” 

 

He ponders those words, for a moment. Samples the weight of them in his mind. Let myself feel, huh? 

 

… Perhaps the detective had a point. 

 

William clears his throat, feeling the sudden urge to avert his gaze. Sherlock lets him. This isn’t a challenge, after all. Not one of their usual lighthearted games of back-and-forth teasing. 

 

He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. And bares a part of himself that he never thought he would willingly surrender to Sherlock Holmes, of all people. 

 

“I feel… uncertain, sometimes. That this is actually real. I mean,” A breath of unamused laughter escapes him. “Just look at it. A new job. A new country. A new identity. I get to try again… I get another chance, even after all I’ve done. How can something so good be true, Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock’s hand moves to gently stroke up and down William’s arm; a touch William sees no harm in indulging in for a moment, before he continues.

 

“And you, going so far as to save me, you being here at all… I’m certainly rather touched, however…”

 

“... It caught you off guard; you’re worried that you won’t be able to predict my actions,” Sherlock concludes. 

 

William huffs fondly. “Right on the mark as always, Great Detective.”

 

“Guess you’ll just have to trust my words rather than your insight, then. And I assure you, Liam, that I’m fully sincere when I say I won’t leave your side, for as long as you’ll have me.” A hand pushes back William’s bangs, and before he has the chance to react soft lips have already brushed over his forehead. “Judging by my actions that day, I don’t think this truth will be difficult for you to deduce.” 

 

All of this gives William pause for a moment as he blinks and his cheeks turn slightly pink in the dark. Only for a moment, before he seamlessly recovers, wearing an easy smile and letting a teasing chuckle slip past his lips. “That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal, Mr Holmes.” 

 

He feels the man press closer to him, his ears pick up a halfhearted sigh. 

“ Must you be so difficult to comfort, Liam dearest?” There’s laughter behind the words - warm and intimate and genuine. 

 

And it’s all the comfort he needs.



Notes:

Comments are my sustinance and are all greatly appreciated.

If there are any mistakes, feel free to let me know since none of my stuff is beta'ed

Thanks so much for reading ❤❤❤

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