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The first time Sherlock touched him he felt like he didn't deserve it.
The soft caress of calloused hands, worked hard through the training of his body. The scars, left from chemical burns and substances over which he had toiled, that were raised and smooth gave texture as they worked their way reverently down Liam’s stomach.
Liam. That is who he was now. The chance at a new life, a life Sherlock had given to him.
Sherlock’s lips pressed to a scar on Liam’s chest, newly healed with fresh skin, only freed from its cloth bandage just weeks ago.
Bandages were nothing to heal his broken soul, but Sherlock’s lips could sear shut the gaping wounds that had bled time and time again.
Each kiss felt as if it took away a sin, cleansing William Moriarty of his deeds so he could fully become Liam. A blank canvas to paint upon a new picture.
“Liam. Are you with me?” Sherlock asked, observant as ever, likely noticing the way Liam’s breath had stilled.
“Yes,” he breathed, letting out a soft exhale as his fingers traced Sherlock’s jaw, pulling him in closer to meet his lips.
He breathed in the scent of cigarettes and Sherlock. Liam melted into the feeling of the way Sherlock’s mouth moved in concert with his; of arms caging him, catching him, surrounding him, keeping him firmly in place so his sins didn’t drown him like the Thames; of being alive and here with the man whose smile brought a light to his life when he had felt only darkness.
Liam. His Liam.