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He would never be clean. Even if he rubbed until his skin was red and raw, that cursed red stain would inevitably return. A brand upon his skin. Proof of his sin. Irredeemable.
Condemned.
His mind played the captive audience to the symphony of death. The gurgle of a man choking on his own blood. A final desperate gasp for breath. The agonised cries for mercy. The wailing of grieving wives and children.
They haunted him in his waking, and terrorised his dreams. How despicable.
Himself, that was.
Some nights, when the dreams were particularly vivid, he could still feel the way his blade had so easily sliced through the soft flesh of the nobles’ necks. The crunching of bones beneath his feet. The warm splatter of blood upon his face.
He had put the judgement of unrighteous men in his own hands. William James Moriarty, judge, jury and executioner. The only fitting end for someone as evil as him was a gruesome death.
And yet, by some cruel turn of fate, he had been allowed to live.
An anguished cry escaped his lips; it was the scream of a man so utterly miserable with himself.
“-Liam?” came a sudden voice from behind the door. William froze. He’d heard his name cursed so many times in his nightmares. Which resentful spectre had chosen to haunt him today? Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Surely this time they would get him, a piece of meat thrown to the wolves.
Perhaps this was his penance. HIs purgatory. To suffer on the face of the earth tormented by those he had first tormented. The bloodied faces of Counts and Barons flooded his mind’s eye as the need to flee engulfed his thoughts -
“LIAM!” That voice came again. It was familiar, somehow. It tugged at his memory enough to pull him out of the cresting waves of panic. “Oi, Liam, you okay in there?”
He knew that voice.
Liam. Only one person called him that.
“Sherly.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray how shaken he felt. “I’m fine,” he called as he tugged on his nightclothes, hoping to straighten them out.
Unfortunately for William, the man on the other end wasn’t so easily convinced. Incredible powers of deduction aside, his current adversary was also the one person who knew him best. The man who looked at him and understood his very soul. To Sherlock, William was as transparent as glass. He could see through William’s bravado in an instant.
Their profound understanding of each other was normally a comfort and thrill to William. However, right now, it was incredibly inconvenient. He could never truly hide anything from Sherlock.
True enough, not even seconds later, the door creaked open to reveal his ruffled-looking companion. Clad in nothing but a thin shirt and pants, William surmised that he must have been sleeping and came running when he heard William scream. He huffed a laugh and spoke with the confidence he didn’t feel, “I thought I told you I was fine, Sherly.”
Sherlock snorted. “Yeah, well you sure don’t look that way to me, Liam.” He pointedly gave the blond a once over. “C’mon, I’ll join you over there.”
Without waiting for a response, he plopped himself ungraciously onto William's bed and tucked both their legs under the covers. They were squished side by side in a small bed definitely not meant for two, but having Sherly's warmth pressed next to him was grounding. Comforting.
"You've had a nightmare."
William raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do elaborate how you came to that conclusion, Mr Holmes." The signs were rather obvious, but he wanted Sherlock to play along, if only to have a familiar routine to cling to - a remnant of their game of cat and mouse.
The detective didn't disappoint, though he did sound a tad amused, almost as if he knew exactly what William wanted out of this.
"One, your sheets are creased in two specific spots like they were gripped tightly in your hands." Fair enough.
"Two, you answered almost immediately when I called you. If you'd been sleeping, you would've taken longer." That made sense. Yet, he felt the need to probe the other man a little. "And if I simply hadn't managed to fall asleep yet?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Discounting the time, which is about four in the morning, by the way, then you'd have a book or some paper with you in bed, you damn workaholic." His final word was emphasised with a light slap.
He sighed and continued, "Three, and most damning of all, your eyes are red, Liam."
Said man couldn't help but tease the detective, "Sherly, surely you can't judge a man by the colour of his eyes. I can't help being born with red eyes." The eyes of a devil, they called it.
"Don't be thick, that's not what I meant and you know it. Your eyes are red from crying , damn it."
Well, that was that, William supposed. Sherlock's deductions were right on the mark, as usual. He said as much with a wry smile, before leaning into his side with a sigh.
A large hand threaded through his hair, gently tugging the knots free. Liam relished the soothing feeling, pushing back against that hand.
"Who'd have imagined the fearsome Lord of Crime getting all cosy like a spoiled cat, eh?"
William stiffened.
"Hit the mark, did I?"
In lieu of an answer, William merely turned to press his face into Sherlock's chest, but pointedly not denying it either.
It wasn't like he had to say anything for Sherly to get it, anyway. In fact, he'd wager the detective knew exactly what he was doing when he brought up that moniker of his. Straight to the heart of the matter without beating around the bush, it was just like Sherly to do that.
Besides, there wasn't much else that plagued his thoughts to this extent. A toddler would be able to deduce his troubles, much less the Great Detective Holmes.
"I'm here, Liam." You're not alone , went unsaid.
One large calloused hand cupped the side of his face, a thumb rubbing soothing circles along his cheekbone. The other hand trailed teasingly down his back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake before snaking around his waist.
His grip held Liam firmly in place, but it oddly felt safe, rather than restricting.
Liam's eyes travelled to meet Sherlock's gaze. He swallowed. The other man was staring at him with such tenderness that he felt he might shatter. He closed his eyes, afraid that he would combust under the intensity of his stare.
"May I?" whispered Sherlock. Even without looking, he knew what Sherly was asking. William suppressed the urge to laugh. That man never cared about permission before, doing whatever he wanted to do. What made him start now? Instead of answering, William merely leaned in and felt warm, dry lips against his.
The kiss was chaste, just a gentle press of lips. It was meant as comfort, nothing less. He only briefly registered the faint taste of cigarettes before Sherlock quickly pulled away, only to pepper the rest of his face with feather-light kisses. Liam's forehead, cheeks, eyelids, nose, no part of his face was spared from the searing touch of his lover's lips.
Each kiss felt like a supplication. As Sherly trailed down his neck and arms, so too did he warmth travel within him until they bubbled over and hot tears spilled down his cheeks. Sherlock murmured words of praise and affection into his ear, his hot breath licking over his skin. It was almost too much. He didn’t deserve it.
Every gentle caress upon his scarred skin, each press of lips seemed like a prayer, begging him to forgive himself.
The fervent whispers of Liam, Liam felt like a secret between them two.
Here, they were neither the Lord of Crime nor Detective Holmes. He was not - did not have to be - William James Moriarty, the scourge of the English.
Here, in this place, they were Liam and Sherly. Two souls simply seeking refuge in each other.
For a brief moment, he could forget the weight of his sin.
Unbidden, his thoughts wandered to the time where he had called Sherlock the devil. Oh, how wrong he had been. A hysterical chuckle burst from his chest. How could he have ever thought this man to be anything but a saviour. This… this man was his salvation.
His evil had condemned him to death. But Sherly had offered him a gift of life.
Or maybe, the man really was the devil to lead Liam down this path. Tempted him to stay with his devilish charm, his genius, his wit and dare he say it, his stunning physique. He could not deny that he found Sherly unfairly attractive.
He had a rugged air around him, with his dark curls falling into a perfect frame around his face. It had taken him a while to become accustomed to the sight of Sherly without his customary ponytail.
Everything about Sherly was inexplicably charming. The faint scent of cigarettes and alcohol that followed him around. His unabashed Cockney accent. His smug know-it-all attitude and the kindness that came with using his intellect for others.
A singularly infuriating individual he was once proud to call rival, and now called lover. He had been doomed to fall from their very first meeting, when the hooks of this devil sunk into his very soul.
He hadn't once regretted it.
Throughout Liam's internal musing, not once had Sherly stopped his worshipful ministrations on the man's body. Pleasure curled deep within his body as the searing kisses branded him like licks of hellfire. He'd barely noticed that they'd changed positions.
Where was he? Surely paying penance was not meant to be pleasurable. Neither Hell nor Purgatory. And certainly not heaven for the likes of his kind.
Could it be that he was simply in the world, living in the future he dreamed of but never imagined he would see?
He choked back a sob as tears continued to pour from his eyes.
Truly, there was no one else quite like Sherly who could tear past his defences and reduce him to this mess: his greatest adversary pliant and vulnerable under him.
How benevolent he was, having Liam in this state purely for the sake of reforging him into something- someone stronger. Had their roles been switched, Liam is certain he would not be as good a man as he.
"-such a noble man, Liam. So good for me, love." A sudden nip to his pulse jolted Liam back to attention.
"Underneath all that 's a heart full of kindness, innit? You always helped, even when you didn't have to."
His face burned at Sherly’s words. Liam forced himself to suck in a breath. It was all too much. He felt as if he was being burned from the inside out.
“...rilliant, gorgeous professor, how could I not fall for you?” Liam whimpered. He couldn’t bear to hear any more from his lover’s lips. He opened his mouth to protest, to beg Sherly to stop, but all that came out was another broken whimper.
His infuriating detective pressed on, “-my only intellectual equal. Who else but you could have had me dancing in the palm of your hand? You played me like a fiddle, Liam, and I thoroughly loved every second of it. You were thrilling and exciting-” Gods above, how much longer would this last? He needed Sherly to stop, please, stop because his heart was being rent to pieces and-
“...and you believed in my good even when you didn’t believe in your own. So let me, Liam. Let me believe in you for you. Noble, kind and brilliant Liam. My Liam.”
You don’t have to atone alone. Let’s walk this path together.
Liam could think of nothing but the man in front of him, his lithe but muscular body weighing down on him, pinning his back to the bed. Gone was the symphony of death from his thoughts, replaced by the cresting crescendo of pleasure and devotion.
And the dam broke. Just like the climax of a performance, with a final kiss upon his lips, a sob broke free of Liam’s chest. Everything he had held back, suppressed, ignored, came pouring out in a rush of wretched cries. His fears, his regrets and even his desire to live and see his brothers once again. His terror when faced with Milvertons schemes and the nausea that had crawled up his throat at killing the noblemen with families.
The people and nation he so deeply loved, the children he sought to save would all look upon him and his family name with revulsion in their eyes. He couldn’t return. He couldn’t see his brothers. Louis. Albert. Fragments of his soul.
“Sherly, Sherly, Sher- ,” Liam could do nothing but cry and cling to this man like a newborn babe. He needed Sherly like he needed air itself.
He dared not look at the raven’s face. He knew what he would find. It was neither pity nor sympathy, but a tender look in his eyes that would surely make him come undone. And yet, he craved his comfort, his touch, his affection because he was also half his soul that Liam could no longer live without.
“Sherly, please, I need- ” Liam gasped, all coherence lost. Sherly gathered him in his arms and wrapped him in a tight hug.
“Shh, I’ve got you, Liam. I know what you need, love. I won’t let you fall.” I’ll never let you go again.
As if those words were what Liam was waiting to hear, he shuddered out a final sob and curled up in Sherlock’s arms, exhausted from crying. Falling into merciful sleep at last.
His last thought before falling into blissful unconsciousness was that surely Sherly would protect him from the nightmares, too.
“Good night, Liam. Sleep well.”