Chapter Text
It was the little things that you notice once you’re no longer rich or a part of the aristocracy that continued to surprise William – not that being a noble would’ve meant much here in New York City. Still, there were perks to working for a government with very deep pockets. For one, you were never going to have to worry about your source of income. Another was the fact that a great number of things could be placed on said government’s tab... so long as it was for work purposes, of course. But daily living expenses were a different matter.
For starters, you had to keep an eye on how much you spent on food and clothing, and it didn’t help that Sherlock had been recruited into the belief that fruits – especially apples – were what William needed, no matter how out of season they happened to be. What the dark-haired man had failed to take into consideration was that regardless of how clever the two of them were, the US government would only ever invest the barest of bare minimum into a pair of foreign-born ghosts who just might wind up as literal corpses at any given moment – a fact that had been well-demonstrated in the almost haphazard way in which the additional mission info had been relayed to Sherlock during their recent bit of field work in Vermissa. So while the money did keep coming month after month, it wasn’t nearly enough to afford a wardrobe of custom-tailored clothes.
William slipped one arm and then the other into the sleeves of the shirt he and Sherlock had bought together on his first excursion outside of the hospital. Just as it had been on the day he bought it, it hung off of him in a strange and unfamiliar way. The trouble was, this awkward fit wasn’t even due to how American shirt makers liked to cut their patterns. Rather, the shoulders were simply a little too broad for his skinnier-than-factory-standard frame. Sherlock had assured him that no one could tell just by looking at him, but William could feel the difference and so he knew. Having worn nothing but clothes that always fit perfectly for nearly fifteen years, he knew when a seam was off or a sleeve was too long. But the reality was these cheaper, mass-produced garments were the only things he could reasonably afford, now that he was on a government salary.
William tightened his tie and gave himself one last look in the mirror. His hair had grown longer than he liked, and he made a mental note to go down to the barber within the next few days for his monthly trim as he stepped out of his room and into his and Sherlock’s modest dining area for breakfast.
“Yo, Liam! I hope you’re ready for the most amazing cup of coffee you’ve ever had,” Sherlock cheerfully greeted, his fingers barely keeping the top edge of the coffee filter paper pinched closed. William was sure at least half of the coffee grounds within would find their way to the floor before the filter made it into the trash.
“Good morning, Sherly,” he smiled back in amusement. “I expect this morning’s cup will surprise me in some novel way, as all your mystery brews do.”
“Can you blame me when I miss my old chemistry set?” Sherlock almost seemed to pout, as – right on cue – half the coffee grounds spilled onto the ground.
William wistfully shook his head and gave a sympathetic laugh. “No, I suppose not. If there’s one thing I’m grateful for, it’s that I can still do as much math as I want, anywhere I want.” William paused in thought. “Though, if there is one thing I do miss, it’s a good cup of tea.”
...Made by Louis.
William left that part unsaid because he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t dwell on what once was. Indeed, he had more than plenty to think about regarding what was to come.
It was an irony worthy of a Shakespearean play. He’d spent his whole life planning to have no future, so to suddenly have one at all was still quite... unsettling. He’d prided himself on having a plan for everything – even his contingency plans had contingency plans. But what was he to do in the event of surviving beyond his own final problem…? Well, it just goes to show that sometimes, there was no controlling for the most random of random variables in even the most meticulously designed models.
“Here,” Sherlock handed William the morning paper. “Try not to get too bored while I sweep up and make us something to eat,” he suggested as he sauntered back towards the kitchen.
William took his usual seat at the dining table and let the paper drop from his hand. In his previous life, he might have scanned the headlines, looking for signs of strife or wrongdoings to set right. But now...
Yes, unsettling was the only way to put it. It had been unsettling to wake up in an entirely different country with no memory of how he’d gotten there. True, he had heard Sherlock’s voice in his dreams as he slept – sometimes whispering softly to him, sometimes pleading with him to choose to live – but when his eyes had fluttered open, his friend was nowhere to be seen. He’d half-convinced himself that the voice he’d heard was just a figment of his imagination, but small clues around the hospital room had led him to correctly conclude otherwise.
Grabbing the unfamiliar cane that had been thoughtfully placed nearby, he shakily made his way up to the roof where an unfamiliar landscape assaulted his senses. The cane clattered loudly as it fell from his hand and he leaned over the edge to take a better look. Signage in English was everywhere, yet the voices that floated on the gentle breeze featured an exotic twang, and the architecture was unlike anything he’d seen anywhere in Europe.
“So, I’ve been granted a new life in the New World,” William thought as it dawned on him. His mind raced as an endless number of possible “next steps” filled his mind. Backing away slowly from the edge of the roof, he waded through the flood of options before him. But without a clear direction to go in, he latched onto the only one that seemed tenable.
Perhaps here… he thought, here, he would also be granted a chance to fulfill his sincerest desire of truly being friends with Sherlock Holmes.
Everything in that letter had been the truth; William had meant for it to be his final confession, though exactly what he had been trying to confess to, he was still unsure. The other documents and even his birth certificate pointed clearly to the crimes he had committed, but the letter…
On reflection, perhaps it had been less of a confession and more of a suicide note where he had enumerated what he’d wished his world could’ve been.
He’d left those heartfelt words for Sherlock, not knowing what effect they would have on the other man and their relationship. Even then, it came as a genuine surprise that it was not Mr. Holmes the detective who'd read them, but his friend Sherly. It was Sherly who had read his letter and rushed to catch him on his own terms. And thanks to him, they were finally equal in every way, including their station in life.
He had lost their game to Mr. Holmes, but Sherly was now his joy to be gained.
A second chance with Sherlock, and a second chance at life. But what was he supposed to do with it? And who could he become with it? The questions continued to come, bubbling up from the depths of his mind. Freed from his old life through his dramatic fall into the Thames, William felt a part of his old self rise to the surface. It sported the face of a young boy in dusty, well-worn clothes.
“Welcome back,” William smiled gently as he embraced his true birthright.
It wasn’t like he’d ever truly forgotten where he’d come from; how could he when Louis had been a living reminder day in and day out through his performance as the adopted brother of common birth?
When the three of them had made that unbreakable covenant, they’d agreed that it would be more convincing and ultimately better for the plan if they were to live as their prescribed roles every moment of their lives. It hadn’t been an easy decision. The brothers had faltered and struggled at first – especially William and Louis – to find the appropriate balance in their new, fake relationships. Gone were the days where William could openly love and reassure his little brother as much as he wanted. That sort of affection had to be split with Albert now, who also strove to show only what was appropriate in public.
It had been a trying time in other ways, too. As a child, it had been easier to get away with intermingling with people in the lower classes and living as he wished. In fact, it had been an essential part of his plan at first, just before the fire that changed their lives. The spontaneity and instability of life on the streets had afforded him chances to encounter new things and talk with new people.
But over time, his relationship with those he had once broken bread with had changed; It became more distant and more ritualized once he and his brothers had been taken in by Lord Rockwell and their scholastic studies had begun in earnest. People looked at him differently when he was no longer small and adorable, and adults were more wary of his true intentions as a nobleman. Pleasantries were always a little more hollow, a little more porcelain when people thought he had the power to upend their businesses and their lives.
Furthermore, life in high society came with a strict set of rules all of its own. Certain interactions and activities were deemed to be unacceptable, and those who ran afoul of these rigid rules quickly found themselves unwelcome amongst his peers. Thus, his choice to become a math professor had drawn the attention of all who’d met him. Had he been the perfect aristocrat, he should’ve been satisfied with being a wealthy patron of a mathematics society and pursuing the subject purely as a leisurely pastime. Instead, he’d taken on a role that was supposedly beneath him and worked like a member of the middle class. It was a role that suited him just fine back then, and it was one that had prepared him for his life now, but any further discourtesies would’ve been inconvenient for the plan, and so, he’d been forced to tuck what bits of his kindness he could into the folds of what was deemed proper behavior for the time being.
Ultimately, no matter how much it had hurt to lose a part of himself, William had performed his role as the son of a nobleman with every fiber of his being. He and his brothers had kept it up for fifteen years, never once letting the mask slip, even at home. On the rare occasion when it had all become too much, he’d allowed Albert to see him in a moment of weakness, and it was a kindness of sorts that Albert had never mentioned it afterwards.
But now, the grand finale had come and gone, and it was time for them to move on with their lives. No more roles, no more pretenses. Were they finally free to be honest with their brotherly affections now that everything was done? Despite his final betrayal of their promise to see everything through together, William wondered if his brothers would still think as fondly of him as he did of them if he were to return to London.
This sense of liberation… He was back on the streets where he had come from, now with no social expectations nor the need to bear the burden of trying to be more than what he had always been at his core: a man who simply wished to help others lead a better life for themselves. To serve, rather than to be served – it was how he had made ends meet then, and how he’d managed to cling to some part of himself through his professorship in Durham. Right from the beginning, the spirit of service was the very engine that had powered his consulting criminal service, after all.
Yet, all of those good intentions and good deeds could hardly atone for the lives he took. In fact, considering the type of consultations he used to give, one might even say that almost every one of them had added to his ledger instead. So clearly that was not a viable path forward.
And death was clearly not an option. Sherlock had been right on that account. His own metaphorical death had freed him from the cross he’d been carrying, but it could never have helped him be truly free of his sins. No matter how self-destructive he had become in the end, all it had done was brought great pain to those who cared about him the most. He would have to repay his debt to his family and friends… but how?
Like the large fabric squares fluttering in the wind around him, William’s mind struggled against his own sense of unease to come up with a concrete answer. What should he do with this new life? What could he do to wash the blood out so that he, too, could be as clean as these freshly laundered sheets?
He was truly lost. He didn’t even have a good enough grasp on his true self to know where to begin. Every part of his life and personality had been carefully pruned and twisted around being the Lord of Crime, and the few pleasures he had taken for himself had only served as distractions. His love of math and reading had helped him fill the lonely hours of the night with a few fleeting moments of joy whilst keeping his more uneasy thoughts at bay. He didn’t have the time to examine such things, he’d lied to himself. For the sake of the plan, everything was better this way.
But it hadn’t been better. He’d nearly lost his life before he’d ever truly lived.
And yet, if this second chance he’d been given was to be a taste of the world he’d sacrificed everything to build – a world where every life was of equal worth, and the respect you commanded was a matter of your own merits, not some random chance of birth – he could live with that. “All men are created equal”... Imperfect in its execution as it was, this phrase was practically the motto of the land of his resurrection, was it not? He would give it his all to find his path. That much he could say for sure.
The sound of familiar footsteps echoed up the stairwell behind him. With anticipation, William waited anxiously for their owner’s appearance. Unsure of where they stood or what he should say, he decided to let the silence linger as his friend took a seat beside him on the rooftop bench.
Sherlock returned as promised with breakfast, but the sight of William lost in thought took him back as it always did to the day when he’d found his Liam on the hospital roof. Though the feeling of nervous dread has long since faded, seeing William look so serious never failed to put him on alert.
Sherlock picked up his chair and set it down next to William before settling into a familiar silence. He would wait quietly for the other man to come out of his reverie as he always did, even as the coffee he’d brewed cooled.
In time, he felt a weight on his shoulder. It was William’s head. The man had fallen into one of his unpredictable naps.
Sherlock couldn’t help himself but to sigh affectionately into the soft blond’s hair as he laid his own head on top. Despite not knowing what their new lives will bring, Sherlock knew he could at least always count on William to be the greatest mystery of all.