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“It’s a delight to watch from the outside, but I dread the day I have to stand within it.”
William has used this phrase twice in his life.
The first time, he was talking about the rain.
The second, he was talking about being in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Only one of them he still knew to be true.
It dawned upon him when his walk home slowly turned into a jog. His shirt stuck to his skin and planted goosebumps on his belly, his jacket was now three shades darker, his shoes had become portable puddles and he knew there was a river underneath his hat.
Even the things in his pockets were soaked through.
Try as he might, there was no path he could take that would bring a lighter shower. Even the ceilings that trees provided were no ceiling anymore; they shook in the wind, shaking mountains of raindrops onto William’s shivering body.
And he hated it. With every damp bone in his body, he hated being in the rain.
The rain in New York was a blessing and a curse.
The blessing was it made everything a little more beautiful. The jazz clubs gained a certain aroma with more sparkle, the night lights became stars, and umbrellas became loving rooftops for romance. Parts of life that often got lost in the hustle and bustle were romanticised.
The curse was that William was expected to romanticise it when he was a drowned rat. Every time he passed a couple under an umbrella, he wanted to be sick.
He almost did, when a car decided to graciously whizz around the corner he so happened to be walking by. And - by some unbelievable coincidence - a puddle resided on that very corner, too.
Calling it a puddle was polite. It made rivers jealous.
What came of those three unexpectedly being in the same place didn’t need spelling out.
He looked up to apartment windows and saw little children watching the downpour. Some looked amazed, some disappointed. He saw couples slow-danced in kitchens, and people sitting on window sills with books in their laps.
The sight warmed him. It was the only warmth he could possibly get, after all.
For now.
The thought became addicting. William found it hard not to run as he turned the corner onto Greenwich Village; or, as he’d come to know it, home.
The slim streets flowing with tight-knit apartments were plagued with plants of all sorts and an essence he’d never felt before, not even in London.
Even though the streets were empty, they were alive. Awake. London drowned in these grey skies, but New York swam in it.
Not just metaphorically, either.
His footsteps thumped up a small flight of stairs, leading him to a glossy black door. It was the second apartment to the right corner, sticking out like a sore thumb with its lack of plants and gnomes outside the door.
William blamed that on not being moved in for long.
Someone else blamed it on decorations being ‘tacky.’
The door squeaked open to reveal warm light, which William fell into like heaven’s gates. The immediate aroma of home engulfed him and let him exhale.
His shoes and socks were kicked off which dampened the hardwood floor. His feet squirmed at the change of texture and flinched when raindrops fell onto his bare skin.
When peeling his heavy jacket off his trembling skin, William’s shivers were no longer silent. His rapid inhales echoed through the hallway and counted on someone to hear them.
And someone always did.
There were faint whiffs of caramel candles tainting the whole apartment. There were muffled piano chords dancing through the walls.
William felt like he was being mocked. He was sure they only existed just to remind him how cold and damp he was.
He frowned.
His shivers were personal now.
“Can you shiver a little louder please? It went along with the piano nicely. What was that, a C? D minor?”
William’s face drooped.
“Neither. They’re a cry for help.”
A head poked out the living room doorway.
His hair obviously messy, his eyes purposely smitten. His skin was annoyingly dry.
His entire being radiated warmth. Like evening tea, or morning coffee. He was the first step in a warm shower and the feeling of bare skin against pillows.
He raced over to the drowned soul in the hall without hesitating for a second.
And when he cupped his hands around William’s cheeks and brought their lips home, William melted into the pure delight of being in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock began unbuttoning William’s shirt, sending a different kind of shiver up his spine.
“Umbrellas are out of fashion then, hm?”
“Obviously,” William sighed.
“Hey,” Sherlock pulled his heavy shirt off, “let me, darling.”
His hand trailed down to join Williams and he led them into the bathroom. Sherlock got to work, beginning filling their bath tub with hot water, causing steam to float around the room. He added a few droplets of lavender oil and William’s favourite bubble bath that made the bubbles look like glitter.
Sherlock turned to him, frowning.
“All clothes off. Now.”
“How very forward of you,” William teased. Sherlock paid it no mind and helped him undress, then began ruffling his dripping hair with a towel.
Someone enjoyed it a little too much. He leant into the touch so much so he nearly landed on the floor.
“Easy,” Sherlock laughed, “You poor thing.”
The bath was full soon enough. Sherlock lit a few candles around the edge and turned to leave William be.
Until a hand pulled his wrist, desperately.
“Wash my hair?””
Being met with eyes swollen with a need for him was one thing. And those eyes belonging to William James Moriarty? His Liam - his love, his joy, his wonder?
Well, that was something else.
Sherlock cupped his cheek.
“Say no more.”
Just as nature intended, Liam was warm and safe once again. A choir of happy sighs flew from his lungs as he stepped into the bath and Sherlock laughed at every single one, often mimicking them with a tone that would leave their neighbours… disgusted. Concerned, even.
“I’ve changed my mind. I want you out.” Liam spoke through mountains of bubbles.
“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before-”
“-WASH. OR OUT.”
Liam pointed to his hair. Sherlock didn’t stop chuckling.
And that was that. His giggles sounded softer the closer he got to Liam, slowly turning into the sound of cheek and neck kisses. Liam was practically purring into his hands from the first rub of shampoo, nuzzling into the feeling of nails against his scalp.
So Sherlock kept rubbing. And Liam kept nuzzling.
It felt godly. The kind of heaven that leaves your eyes hazy and your vision blurred.
The act made Sherlock chuckle once again. A more tender chuckle this time.
“Feel good?”
Liam hummed.
Sherlock began rinsing and Liam forgot that water could pour over your body and feel wonderful. He was suddenly filled with a deep appreciation for showers.
Conditioner meant retelling the same story. Sherlock massaged, Liam nuzzled. Sherlock rinsed, Liam felt the urge to cry.
“Who invented showers?” He asked through the heavy flow.
“Dunno.”
“Can we send them a letter and thank them?”
“Probably.”
“Do they know they’ve created the most heavenly thing on planet earth?”
“I hope, my love. Although, I do know someone else who really does think that.”
Liam turned to look at him.
Sherlock winked.
“Your mother.”
Liam didn’t know whether to laugh, kiss him, or threaten for a divorce.
He chose one of those three responses.
~
“A ‘your mother’ joke is not a valid reason for a divorce, Liam.”
“It absolutely one-hundred-percent is.”
Liam pinched one of Sherlock’s knees that rested beside him. He was sprawled in between his legs, getting his hair brushed and blow-dried by his now soon-to-be-ex-husband.
Sherlock’s entire body flinched, nearly sending the hairdryer through Liam’s skull.
“Oi!”
“Good. You’ve learned your lesson.”
An overwhelming softness melted Sherlock’s frown. Typical.
He took a section of Liam’s hair and let it slip through his fingers, letting each strand flow from dampness to softness. Liam’s hair was perfectly designed to be touched, massaged, cuddled into, smelt, kissed…
Much like the rest of him. All of him, actually.
Liam was crafted to be loved.
Sherlock just hoped he was a good artist.
Time passed in a homely silence as Liam’s hair finally dried. Their night routine continued as Sherlock headed to make dinner.
Liam felt as if his hair floated above his head, dancing around his face in glee as it no longer carried a whole thunderstorm.
He put on his favourite pyjamas which Sherlock lay at the bottom of their bed. Even though it had only just turned September, they were the Christmas set that always made them both laugh.
They had matching pairs. White cotton with red writing, saying “all the jingle ladies.”
Liam looked in the mirror and he couldn’t not smile. Even if he wanted to.
His gaze drifted between his pyjamas, his well-pampered hair and hands stained pink.
Every part of him, every crevice of his being. Every train of thought he’s had.
It had all known love, because of one man that had just so happened to be on a boat on a friday evening.
When you know, you know. That’s what they always say.
Liam stroked the golden band around his finger.
He felt so lucky to know. He felt so lucky to the point of disbelief.
“Dinner’s ready when you are, sweetheart,” a soft voice came from behind him.
Liam turned to the angel in the doorway. Meeting his gaze for the millionth time still felt like the first.
“I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
Sherlock grinned as he came over and wrapped his arms around Liam’s waist, keeping him cosy with his love. Gently and slowly, he swayed the two side to side.
“Which is?” He whispered.
Liam smiled.
“Dinner in bed?”
Sherlock buried his giggles into Liam’s neck.
“You’re talking my language.”
He pressed fairy kisses along Liam’s shoulders, which danced up to his cheeks, then to the corners of his lips. Liam ignored the fact it was dreadfully ticklish but, of course, the detective saw through it. With fingers as light as a feather he tickled Liam’s tummy, earning hearty giggles.
His favourite sound in the world.
“I love you.” Sherlock murmured into his skin, and it reached Liam’s heart instantly.
“I know.”
Sherlock held him with the love of a thousand lifetimes.
He reached down to grab Liam's hand, kissing the golden band around his finger.
“Me too.”