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Wondering not for the first time what his brothers and comrades may be doing at this very hour, William gazes up the clear night sky covered in countless stars, glittering like beautiful, distant diamonds. The noises in the background faded as his thoughts wander further, ignoring the exhaustion slowly settling in his body.
He wasn’t the only one exhausted. Everyone currently around him is– the people of Vermissa who fought bravely to protect their home and lands.
A lot of them are resting, but some are still awake, unable to find sleep even after the day’s intense events. The tragedy and fresh beginnings it would bring. Rebuilding some of the structures destroyed would take time, so right now, the people are focusing on things that should be done first: treating the injured, and collecting the bodies of their fallen comrades– soon to be given proper burial.
The people has also planned to push through a small festivity– a celebration of their victory, and in honor of the fallen’s bravery and sacrifice.
But for tonight, the townspeople rest and slept.
Tearing his gaze away from the evening star, William sought out to find Sherlock who has been helping with heavy work and building temporary shelters. He didn’t have to wander long, he found Sherlock alone leaning against the wall of a partially damaged saloon about to light a cigarette. A small lamp lay by his feet.
The moon was bright and big, and it gave Sherlock’s dark hair strands a faint, silvery-blue shine.
Pretty, William thought.
Having sensed footsteps, Sherlock immediately saw William approaching. “Oh, Liam. I thought you’re already sleeping.”
William held up a wooden box, “Not until I have you treated.”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock replies instantly. “I’ve got nothin’ serious.”
That’s what I thought you’d say.
Taking the lamp, William sat on a thick, fallen, wooden post nearby that undoubtedly used to be a part of the damaged saloon. He looked up at Sherlock and wordlessly patted the spot beside him.
Sherlock laughed, defeated. “Fine.”
With a damp cloth, William began to gently wipe Sherlock’s cheeks, forehead. . . his jawline, and down his neck, littered with small cuts and bruises. They were likely from splinters of wood, tiny shards of broken glasses and stones that went flying during the fight and explosions.
“Do you hurt anywhere?” William asks, checking Sherlock’s forearms. “You have deep gashes here. Do they hurt?”
“I told you I’m fine.” A soft reply, followed by a mumble, “Though I could get used to this.” It was an utter admittance that Sherlock was enjoying the gentle touch and attention William was giving him.
William laughed as his fingers gently dab at Sherlock’s bruises, applying medicine and disinfectant. “You often clean and dress my wounds when I was recovering, so I appreciate you letting me do this for you.”
“That’s different. Your wounds were deeper.”
In that tone, William was able to comprehend that Sherlock wasn’t only referring to the physical injuries. “Don’t say that. Wounds hurt all the same.”
And they both have their fair share of inner wounds that bleed, ache, and throb till now.
A calm silence enveloped them as William wrap bandages around Sherlock’s right wrist. Sherlock had likely strained it from his fights on the trenches, and from running and dodging bullets. William wanted to check Sherlock’s body for more injuries, for he was certain there were more beneath the clothing, but for now, he’s content and convinced that Sherlock wasn’t hiding any serious injuries.
The small flame by their feet flickered.
“It’s late. You should get some sleep.”
Sherlock raised a brow, “Don’t you mean we?”
“I’m not sleepy at all.”
Sherlock looks at William for a few seconds, studying the other man’s expression as William puts away the medicine, bandages, and everything back inside the makeshift box.
“You alright?” Sherlock asks, gentle and genuine.
Noticing Sherlock’s apparent concern with the way he spoke the words, William met those azure eyes and smiled at Sherlock assuredly, “I am. Truly.”
Sherlock raised a brow, “D'you wanna kiss or somethin’?”
A small, unexpected laughter burst forth, a faint flush across William’s cheeks. He pursed his lips, glancing over his shoulders where a few townspeople lingered, sitting by the fire they’d made.
“Maybe when we get home.”
A teasing smile on his face, Sherlock gave William’s colouring cheek a fleeting caress, “When we get home then. For now, let’s rest. Just lie down next to me– you might be able to fall asleep eventually if you do.”
William knew it wouldn’t hurt to do so, and thus, minutes later, he found himself lying beside Sherlock, staring up the ceiling of a room they’ve been given to share. Billy had just stepped out, unable to sleep, and William does not blame him for not finding it easy to rest just yet.
Next to him, Sherlock had already fallen asleep. Awhile ago, William was looking at Sherlock’s face as the man slept, but Sherlock had stirred, and now his back was to William.
Seeking something, and just because, William turned to lie on his side, and then pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s back, closing his eyes.
William inhaled deeply and let out a sigh, felt his shoulders and everything in him finally lax.
The familiar feel of that strong back, along with the heat emanating from it gently soothed the ache in both William’s body and heart in a warm caress, lulling him to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.