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“You really must look though this folder brother,” implored Louis for the third time in what felt like the longest lunch of William's life, but was probably only about half an hour. On the table between them rested a full manila folder. William resisted the urge to spill his tea on it.
“I know you have no desire to take a mate, but you are well past the age of majority and we simply can’t ignore the courting requests any longer.”
William knew that Louis had a point. Being an omega in the upper-class guild carried certain responsibilities, one of which was to be mated within a few years of coming out into society. He was also objectively aware that the only reason he was able to ignore this tedious responsibility for as long as he has, was because of Albert running interference with the aristocracy. However, since making the move to Durham and taking on a public and very visible role of a mathematics professor, the youngest in the history of not only his university but every university in the country, the demand for his hand in marriage had made a vengeful resurgence.
William sighed.
“I am aware of the necessity Louis, but might we return to it after lunch? We are having the most delightful meal, and it would be a shame to spoil it with this unpleasant matter.”
Louis bit his bottom lip, clearly hesitating.
“You know I always endeavour to honour your wishes brother,” he said carefully, keeping his eyes low and pulling the folder closer towards him. “However, in this one thing, I’m sorry but I must insist.”
Louis needn’t explain the reason for his insubordination. They both knew very well what happened to unmated omegas in society. The law was very clear on this front and was one of the few laws that did not favour the aristocracy over the lower class. An unmated omega was considered a disruptive force in a regulated, proper society that was England. A risk to the alpha ruling class. As such the law stated that any unmated omegas over the age of five and twenty must be apprehended and forcefully unified to court appointed alphas, or forced into omega homes where they remained imprisoned as labourers for the term of their natural life.
William was four and twenty.
Finally conceding that Louis would fight him on this if on nothing else, he capitulated and gestured to the folder.
“Fine. I suppose you’ve already had a look through the list of potential candidates, and I defer to your judgment on these matters.”
Louis smiled at the off-handed comment. They both knew that the trust William placed in him was a lot more significant than he let on.
“Indeed, I have,” he nodded. “I endeavoured to reduce the number of suitors to half a dozen most suitable candidates.” He flipped the folder open and extracted a sketch of a man. He appeared to be middle-aged, with a severe mouth set in a tight line. From the look in his eyes William could tell he observed the artist with no small amount of impatience and disdain. “This is Lord Sheraton,” Louis placed the sketch on the table, facing William.
“Oh dear, he looks an awful lot like the late Earl Moriarty, our taken-too-soon, dear father, don’t you agree?” William placed his cup resolutely over the Lord’s face. Louis sighed and withdrew another sketch. This one was of a younger man, his face dour and sullen. He had a long nose and a rounded jaw that gave him a mulish look.
“Lord Heston is three and thirty years of age,” began Louis. “His family is said to be quite active in philanthropic work in their hometown of Kent.”
“Is that so?” muttered William, looking out of the the window at the scenery speeding by. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Louis pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. No doubt he was wishing that Albert was there to gently bully William into compliance, in a way he never himself learned how. Quietly Louis replaced Lord Heston’s imagine with another one, sliding it across the table towards Will.
“Lord Merrion,” he said. William glanced at the sketch without moving his head from where it sat atop his knuckles, elbow on the windowsill. This image was more pleasing to the eye. The young man pictured had a gentle if somewhat foolish looking countenance. He had large trusting eyes set in a handsome face with high cheekbones and delicate features. The corners of his mouth ticked up in a smile, and he had a charming sprinkle of freckles atop his cheeks.
Louis, picking up on William’s drop in hostility, quickly prattled on.
“A most charming young man! He turns eight and twenty this fall. A recent graduate of Oxford University, majoring in literature. He is a distinguished cellist and is known to provide free music lessons at the public schools in his native Berkshire. Furthermore, I was recently informed that – ” Before Louis could finish his description of the illustrious Lord Merrion, someone dropped into the seat next to him like it was completely appropriate to do so without pardon. William smiled, observing in the reflection in the window Louis' obvious disdain at the sudden appearance of Sherlock Holmes.
“Professor,” said Holmes, leaning across the table towards William. “What are the odds?” William composed himself before turning towards him.
“I remember,” he said, “you and I met aboard the Noahtic.”
“The name is Sherlock.”
“You’re quite famous these days,” William said, resting his hands on the table. “I recently read in the newspapers how you solved the case of Lord Drebber’s murder.”
“That is the real mystery,” Sherlock frowned. “My intention was for Lestrade to take all the credit for it. Either a reporter sniffed out the truth or someone leaked it.” He seemed deeply troubled by this turn of events, which puzzled William. His intention to rise Sherlock from obscurity had clearly not landed as well as he’d hoped with the man.
“And that’s a problem? As a result, your fame as a detective has grown. Isn’t that good for business?” smiled William.
“Mmmh it pays yes, but between us I’m not that interested in all those dull tuppenny-ha’penny cases, what fascinates me is – .”
“Pardon me,” Louis cut in, irritably “but we were finishing our meal. Perhaps some time later you – .”
“But you haven’t even been served your dessert or digestif yet,” Holmes looked down at the empty plates and caught sight of the manila folder atop which rested the sketch of Lord Merrion. “And who might this fellow be?”
Louis bristled.
“That is none of your business Mr Holmes,” he said, quickly replacing the sketch inside the folder. Holmes paid him no mind and reached across the table to slide Lord Sheraton’s sketch from under William’s cup. “And this one?” he asked, studying the sketch carefully. “What an unpleasant looking chap. Wouldn’t you agree Liam?”
Liam!
Louis twitched and reached for the knife. William smirked. He entwined his fingers and rested his elbows on the table, his chin atop his hands.
“Completely," he said. He was enamoured watching Sherlock’s face cycle through a series of emotions as he studied the picture, varying from anger to disgust. The minute twitch of his upper lip in a sneer, the dancing grooves of his frown. William had never been so absorbed in the mundane workings of a single person before.
Louis reached out and unceremoniously plucked the image from Sherlock’s hands, effectively putting an end to William’s fascination.
“That’s enough,” he said, placing the sketch inside the folder and tucking it out of sight. “This is private, family business Mr Holmes. Meddling is not appreciated.”
Sherlock lifted his hands in supplication.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“No harm done,” replied William, leaning back in his seat. “To be honest my brother and I were growing bored with said business, so your interjection is rather timely. We really should thank you for this reprieve.”
Louis clearly couldn’t disagree more but kept his silence.
“In that case,” Sherlock smirked. “Permit me to bend your ear a moment more.” He went on to describe his suspicions and his interaction with Hope. William was happy to entertain him. Between Louis’ growing panic and Holmes’ exuberance it proved to be quite amusing for him. That was until – .
"The person he named is sitting here,” Sherlock pointed at William. “William James Moriarty.”
It was obvious that Louis was at breaking point even though he trusted William to call Holmes' bluff, but if this escalated he was clearly prepared to dispatch of him immediately, and that simply wouldn't do.
“I confess,” he shrugged, “that you made a most amusing assertion. However, it is impossible to prove something I did not do. Besides the burden of proof would be your responsibility, seeing as you’re the detective.”
Sherlock threw back his head and laughed.
“A joke,” he declared, with child-like glee. “Too good really!” He sat up and met William’s eyes across the table. “However, if you were indeed this mastermind, just how would you reply in this instance?”
William’s eyes widened. For a moment he was genuinely caught off guard, but his surprise was gone just as quickly. Stretching one arm across the back of his seat he tilted his head, displaying his unmarked neck to the best effect. He watched Sherlock’s pupils dilate, and the sight of his excitement caused a burn in his own naval, a pleasant rush of warmth.
Next to Holmes, Louis wasn’t even trying to conceal his horrified expression.
“Come and catch me if you can, Mr Holmes,” William purred.
Sherlock gasped.
Louis sank his face into his hands.