Work Text:
Sherlock stared at the scabbed skin beneath his right eye in the tarnished mirror of a New York hotel bathroom.
The reflection staring back at him looked gaunt; dead-eyed.
Even more dead-eyed than he’d managed to look in his entire 24 years, and that was a feat, to say the least.
He ran his thumb along the edge of the wound, already half healed, and he felt his gut twist.
It had been two weeks already.
Two weeks since they’d arrived on American soil, and Liam still had not woken up.
***
The hotel Sherlock had been put up in on his arrival in New York was not the worst sort of place he’d ever stayed at. There was a decent enough communal bathroom, the sheets were changed regularly, and he had his own fireplace in the room — quite the luxury.
It was also only a block away from Pinkerton’s offices, and three away from the Manhattan hospital where Liam was being treated.
The walk to the hospital drained him, at first, but Sherlock didn’t have the money to waste on unnecessary cab rides. His bruises from the fall were already beginning to fade, but his fractured arm still ached like hell, especially on colder days, and his back was often stiff and tender if he tried to do too much.
His presence was required at the hospital for physio therapy, but that wasn’t the main motivator for walking the same route there every day, come rain or shine.
No, for those first few weeks, despite the lingering pain from his injuries, the three-block walk was one of hope. Sherlock’s steps would become lighter, the closer he got to the building; his heartbeat picking up to a frantic pace as he couldn’t help but imagine the coy smile framed in gold that would very likely be there, waiting for him.
It was about time, wasn’t it?
God, how he couldn’t wait to meet that intense, scrutinising gaze again. Even the fear that ran beneath Sherlock’s restless sense of hope couldn’t dampen his heart or make his footsteps slow. Fear that Liam might be angry with him, after all, for forcing him to stay. Fear that the brief flash of animosity he’d witnessed on the bridge, as Liam had nicked along his cheekbone, might be genuine.
Nothing could crush Sherlock’s dogged determination to cling fast to hope.
Nothing at all, except …
Time.
Except the image of that lonely, unresponsive figure.
Lying beneath starched-linen bedsheets.
Slow, even breaths the only sign of life.
The same thing, day in, day out.
No change.
Gradually, a new type of fear began to grip Sherlock, and he found himself wishing the old one would return.
***
The work for Pinkerton was mundane. There were a lot of general administrative tasks to deal with in his first few weeks at the organisation; contracts for his new role, paperwork pertaining to his and Liam’s false identities on a foreign continent, and expenses forms for his general living arrangements, since he was essentially a nomad at this point. The fracture in his arm, although healing nicely according to the doctors, was another reason he was resigned to the drudgery of an office.
Sherlock jumped through every hoop they asked of him with a detached, mechanical obedience. His usual inclination to protest and moan at the boredom of it all was gone. It had abandoned him in the face of his new reality; an aftermath of actions taken out of love and compassion which he had not preempted: being separated from Liam in a different sort of way, in the most precarious of situations.
Whatever Billy might say about his reputation as a brilliant detective preceding him, Sherlock was painfully aware that he and Liam were both alive due to the good graces of the American government.
And he knew all too well how fleeting the good graces of governments could be.
Liam’s continued existence — even in a suspended state — was the single source of Sherlock’s enduring drive; the stark, secluded hospital room and the solitary figure that resided there, three blocks away, was always present at the back of his mind. He would cycle through the boring tasks given to him as long as they kept him alive and valuable and therefore a reason for Pinkerton to cover Liam’s hospital fees.
***
Weeks turned into a month.
The cut at Sherlock’s cheekbone all but disappeared.
The gash left by Liam’s blade on his shoulder was nothing more than a jagged line of freshly healed, pale-pink skin.
It was cruel, Sherlock would think to himself in the evenings, smoking alone in his hotel room as he watched the dwindling embers of a fire cling to their last minutes of life.
Cruel that his body should heal so fast; so eager to shed the marks Liam had left on him, when his soul still felt cut to pieces. Cruel to steal away the visible reminders of a man that had left him affected in endless ways.
The fire would have long died out by the time Sherlock surrendered to the late hour and somewhat haphazardly fell into bed.
Sleep often evaded him, as it had done back at home in 221b, and he would lie awake until the early hours, replaying the last conscious moments he’d spent with William James Moriarty — whole and solid and very much alive in Sherlock’s arms as they tumbled together towards potential oblivion.
“Sherly …”
“Finally, I’ve caught you now.”
To Sherlock, it felt disturbingly as though Liam’s presence was becoming unstitched from his reality, thread by scarlet thread.
***
The weather grew hot. Now in a fit state to be used in the field, Sherlock was given his first case by Pinkerton. Billy cheerily commented on how he’d made good on his promise to Sherlock that there would be cases and excitement soon enough, but Sherlock just felt numb. What was once the love of his life — the pursuit of mysteries — suddenly felt like a wound that shouldn’t be picked at.
He continued to make the three block walk every day after work.
The staff at the hospital recognised him on sight, by this point — here again, Mr. Antrim? — always with a knowing (or sometimes pitying) look. But Sherlock evaded conversation as much as he could. Putting up with the pleasantries from office clerks and patronising air of superiors at Pinkerton took as much patience as he could muster, and by the time he was beside Liam’s hospital bed each day, he was thoroughly spent.
He was never unpleasant to the nurses and doctors, though. Not intentionally. He owed them his life, for taking care of Liam.
Sunlight filtered through the single window to Liam’s room, bathing the hospital bed in light; highlighting pale hair and paler skin.
Liam …
He looked somehow peaceful, beneath those stiff, white sheets. So much so, that it clawed at Sherlock. If it wasn’t for the eye bandages, and his rapidly thinning wrists, Sherlock might fancy he was simply enjoying a much needed sleep.
It was almost spiteful, to watch the doctors poke and prod at him in this state. He’d lost weight, of course, but there was something else that made him seem so much smaller and vulnerable in that hospital bed. It was as though the layers had been peeled away from him; his immaculate three piece suit and tie and carefully shined shoes gone to reveal gaunt collarbones and faded bruises and scars in places Sherlock’s gaze tried not to linger.
In the short time Sherlock had known Liam — and wow, what a surprisingly short time it was, when Sherlock thought about it now, considering he felt as though Liam was as familiar to him as the Yard’s collection of criminal records or the strings of his precious Stradivarius — he’d quickly pegged Liam as a man who was very particular and proud and private, when it came to his own person.
Perhaps, then, Sherlock had been unintentionally mean, in trying to keep him tethered to this world. Death would be far more dignified, compared to whatever the hell these people were having to resort to in order to keep Liam here.
But … hell.
No.
Sherlock just couldn’t accept that. He was selfish, then, and he hated himself for it, but still … a world robbed of the most entertaining, brilliant and so very selfless man he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting just didn’t seem bearable, now.
Sherlock hadn’t quite understood the depths of his own loneliness, until the day he locked eyes and minds with Liam on the Noahtic. And now the idea of returning to that — the tedious world of before — left him feeling utterly hollowed out.
“You know, although it seems like he’s not here, he may be able to hear you, if you wanted to try talking to him, Mr. Antrim.”
Sherlock jerked his head up from where it had been resting against his knuckles, hands clenched in Liam’s bedsheets.
He hadn’t heard the nurse come in.
“Uh … right. I see. Cheers.” The words tumbled out of his mouth dumbly.
She smiled at him sympathetically, completed whatever checks she had called round for, and then left.
Sherlock stared at Liam’s closed, uncovered eye; the faint rise and fall of his steadily dwindling form beneath the bedsheets.
He was fully aware that talking was something that was encouraged of visitors to coma patients. He’d discussed it with John, before. It made logical sense, for testing response levels, and such.
But they’d already tested Liam’s responses. The sound of voices had made no difference to his state of unawareness.
Besides, the idea of speaking now felt unsettling. It felt too raw. It felt like something Sherlock had spent so much time yearning for with everything in him — more opportunities, more time, more space to chat at length with the brilliant man before him — that opening his mouth to try and express anything that would be remotely close to what he wished to say to Liam could never possibly equate to enough.
On top of this, Sherlock was shit in these sorts of situations. Where honesty and vulnerability was called for. He’d managed it with Liam, on that bridge, when it mattered most, but that was because he wasn’t afraid, then. Not really. Not when it was the very last opportunity he might have to witness his equal standing across from him, meeting him perfectly eye to eye. Sherlock had something — someone — to bounce off; to read; to at least provide some inclination of whether he was actually getting it right, with what he had come to say.
But here, like this? How would he ever be sure the things he had to say were things Liam wanted — needed — to hear, if there was no way of him letting Sherlock know?
Better to just shut his mouth and be present.
There was little joy in one-sided debate.
***
Sherlock did talk to Liam, though.
And Liam talked back.
He found himself falling into the habit in his own head every time a new case file was slid his way at the office.
Sherlock had gotten good at pretending he was okay, by this point. Even if Billy was still prone to shooting sympathetic glances his way every day as Sherlock was about to leave for the hospital, his superiors at Pinkerton at least seemed happy enough with his work and general aptitude and mindset.
But in the evenings, back in his pokey hotel room, Sherlock would shed his coat, shed his forcibly pleasant demeanour, and he’d light a fire.
Cigarette dangling precariously from his lip, he’d spread his paperwork out on the bed.
Now then, Liam. What do we have here, eh?
He’d pour over the information before him, fingertip tracing printed-ink accounts and attached photographs as he worked his way through half a packet of cigarettes. He’d absorb every last scrap of detail quickly and methodically, and he’d turn it all over in his mind, and then he’d wait.
And that familiar voice would always, always answer him.
Ah, Holmes. This one is quite the mystery, is it not?
Sherlock would smirk around the butt of his cigarette. He’d drag, and then pluck it from his mouth and exhale, tipping his head back until he could picture Liam’s perfectly composed face, brow twitching and lips lilting back at him through the shroud of fumes against a white plastered ceiling.
Yeah, it’s not bad …
The smoke would make his eyes water.
S’got nothing on you, though, Liam.
***
A month turned into two.
Sherlock made a decision.
“Billy.”
The pair of them sat upon a bench in Central Park, idly watching a pair of sparrows flitting between the eaves of a tree, as they munched through some pastries.
(Sherlock had surrendered to Billy’s nagging about his diet of cigarettes and coffee being unsustainable in the long run.)
“What’s up, Master Ponytail?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Told you, stop calling me that.”
Billy just looked at him expectantly, a flake of puff pastry stuck to his lip.
“I need a place. As in, a real place, not a hotel room.”
“Ahh …” Billy licked the food from his lip, turning his gaze to the half-eaten pie clutched between brown paper in his own hands. “For when William wakes up, you mean.”
Billy was the only one who ever spoke about Liam like he was a real person, and not an expensive, inanimate object occupying a hotel bed in Manhattan General Hospital.
Like there was still hope.
“Aye.”
Sherlock set his food in his lap and became suddenly very interested in studying his skull ring.
Billy nodded. “Sure thing, boss. Lemme see what I can do.”
***
Two weeks later, Sherlock had an apartment.
It was bigger than his hotel room. It had its own bathroom and two bedrooms and a little iron cookstove and a fireplace and south-facing windows which bathed the entire place in hot sunlight.
It was also completely empty.
And it was in Brooklyn.
Sherlock stood in the doorway to his new bedroom, cigarette smoke curling about him as he cast his gaze around the place. He no longer had his reservation at the hotel in Manhattan. Which meant he no longer had a bed, and he had a bunch of travel expenses to work into his monthly wages somehow.
“It’s much better to live here. Y’know, for William, when he wakes up.” Billy commented from his spot perched beside the kitchen window.
“Less foreigners, right?” Sherlock responded distractedly.
“Exactly right, Master Ponytail.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, toeing the half-filled suitcase which now cradled all his worldly possessions. “Yeah. Makes sense,” he slurred around his cigarette. “Good choice, Billy.”
Sherlock couldn’t see Billy from where he stood, back turned, but it was easy to imagine the way his face lit up at the praise.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, mentally running through the substantial list of items he was going to need in order to turn this little cluster of rooms into something of a home.
Ah, shit.
“Billy …” He said, glancing at the smoke now in his hand.
Better cut down on these, for a start. What a bloody pain.
“Think Pinkerton would let us work some overtime?”
***
By the time the end of the third month rolled around, Sherlock had managed to acquire two beds complete with sheets and blankets, a tiny kitchen table to suit the tiny kitchen, as well as two plates and two sets of cutlery.
It was a meagre dent in his mental list, and the less frequent smoking was killing him.
“Master Ponytail, before you go —“
Billy caught up to him as he was tossing his coat on to leave the office one Friday. Sherlock paused.
“I just wanted to let ya know. There’s no extra cases left for the weekend. We’ll just have to wait ‘n’ see what comes in next week.”
Sherlock had grown to like Billy a lot over the past few months. Not that he’d ever tell the git that aloud, though, since Billy was also prone to winding him up something rotten. He didn’t need more cause for that.
But Sherlock did owe him hugely for all his help with the apartment; particularly earning enough to furnish the thing.
“Ah. Righto, then. Suppose there isn’t anythin’ to be done about that.”
It had been a while since Sherlock had spent a weekend without an extra case-file or two tucked under his arm. This would set the progress on his shopping list back a bit, but it couldn’t be helped.
“At least you’ll get a rest this weekend then, too, Billy.”
Billy smiled so wide that his eyes crinkled, and for a moment, Sherlock was reminded of Liam, when they’d first met, and his gut twisted.
“I never mind. Got nothin’ better to do, really. Still have a bunch of stuff you need to check off your list?”
Sherlock stared at him. He sighed. “Aye. Too much. S’pose Liam isn’t exactly in a rush for it right now, though ...”
Billy nodded. “You try and get some rest too, Master Ponytail, and we’ll tackle it all again next week.”
But Sherlock didn’t know how to rest anymore.
He went to the hospital again, as he did every day after work.
“How’s his weight?”
“It’s still declining, but the rate isn’t alarming. It’s promising that he’s still responding to the tube feeding. We have —“
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, his insides churning. “Don’t need to know the details of it all. Just that’ll do.”
When the doctor left, Sherlock adopted his usual position with his forehead resting against his knuckles on Liam’s sheets.
He hated the way the doctors spoke to him. As though Liam’s personal business was any of his.
But it was, now, wasn’t it?
Sherlock was all Liam had left, across the pond. If he didn’t listen, and understand, and keep fighting, then who would?
Sherlock lifted his head. He ran a hand over his face, and then glanced around the lonely, little room; void of anything at all that might suggest it belonged to the exceptional man before him.
The first week or two of Liam’s stay here, he’d brought flowers, and newspapers, and fruits from Billy, and fresh bread from a nice little bakery he’d happened upon on his regular walks over.
It seemed pathetically optimistic, now.
The papers had piled up, the crosswords untouched; the flowers wilted, the bread grew stale and the fruit rotted before it could ever touch human lips.
Through all of it, the recipient of such gifts slumbered on.
La Belle Au Bois Dormant.
Sherlock knew the fairytale from his childhood. If he’d believed in happy-ever-afters, he fancied he’d even have resorted to giving ‘true love’s kiss’ a go.
But he did not.
Sherlock had seen too much of life already to know such naive wishes rarely came to fruition.
Still, if there was a chance Liam would pull through this, he could not afford to give up. He’d need someone, when he woke. Better to stay the course and reach your destination with no regrets, whatever that destination may be.
Sherlock wasn’t about to do something as brave as kiss the man wasting away before his eyes, but he would stay by his side until his soul either resolved to live on, or gave up the fight completely.
He sucked in a breath, and was appalled to find that it bubbled into half a sob in his throat.
He crumpled forwards, fist pressed to his forehead — balled until it shook and his knuckles turned white.
Shit.
His teeth clenched together; his jaw ached.
Pull yourself together, Sherlock.
When it finally felt safe to do so, Sherlock unfurled himself, and dared to take another deep breath. He glared at the ceiling, willing the moisture at his lash line to stay fucking put.
Ridiculous.
But then … who was here to even see, if he let it all go for a moment?
The room was silent, save for the distant sounds of activity on the corridor beyond the door.
Still, Sherlock could not break.
Because if he started, he might not stop.
And Liam would need him.
Liam would need him.
He sniffed, wiped his eyes on the back of his jacket.
When he dared to look at that serene, vacant face again, a new lump formed in his throat.
Try as he might, he could no longer recall the exact shade of crimson belonging to that startling gaze.
“Are ya lonely, Liam?”
They came out hoarse and a little too pathetic — the first words he’d spoken aloud to Liam in the three months he’d been visiting.
He did not get an answer.
***
The journey home was now a lot longer than a three block walk.
Two cabs and a ferry ride later, Sherlock found himself outside his front door within an apartment block on the corner of Brooklyn’s 23rd Street.
It had been dark already for hours. Beyond his bare kitchen window, stars flickered their lonely light in the indigo sky.
Sherlock hung his coat over one of his bedposts. He lit the gas lamps and hovered beside the fireplace in his empty living room.
Shit.
He’d forgotten to get more logs for the weekend.
Well, that would have to be a job for tomorrow, then. He sighed, and plucked the carton of cigarettes he’d caved and bought on his journey home out of his trouser pocket. The pack would need to last him the weekend, especially with no overtime to be had, but the way Sherlock felt in the current moment, it’d be a job not to smoke the bloody lot before dawn broke.
He used a single match to light both his cigarette and the meagre pile of kindling and single log that remained in the fireplace. It wouldn’t burn for long, but Sherlock couldn’t face trying to sleep yet.
Instead, he settled on the floor before the hearth, and let his eyes flutter shut at the soothing rush of nicotine in his veins.
Before long, he was on his back, enjoying the harsh pressure of the hard floor as he smoked his cigarette and watched the way the flames painted a pretty pattern of dancing shadows on the ceiling above.
If only he could manage to give less of a shit about everything, and take himself off to obtain something stronger than nicotine to lace his blood with.
He used to be good at that. Not giving a shit. Veering wildly off the rails at any given opportunity. He’d made an art out of it, at one point.
But that was before.
Before he’d been inadvertently reeled in by that wonderful, infuriating mathematician. And now nothing less than that sort of high would do.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes as a fresh wave of emotion hit him.
These were always the worst times. Nothing to occupy his restless mind except dread and fear as reality would come crashing in.
Are ya lonely, Liam?
‘Cause I’ve never felt more alone.
Liam was there again, leaning over him, plucking the cigarette from Sherlock’s mouth with an arched brow. His face was a little fuzzy, the sensation reminiscent of blurred vision when one had consumed too much whiskey.
You have Billy.
He’s not you.
Go and make some new friends.
I don’t need new friends. I’ve got a perfectly good one lying in a hospital bed in Manhattan, ignoring me.
Liam’s mouth canted into a sheepish sort of smile.
I’m not ignoring you, Sherly. I promise.
Sherlock felt a crooked grin take hold.
… y’know, I do like it when you call me that.
Go to sleep. You’re delirious.
Aye, must be, if I’m talking to you.
Your imagination is quite wonderful, hm?
Sherlock felt himself sigh.
Liam, when you wake up, I’m gunna make you coffee so strong that you’ll never be able to sleep again.
But Liam was already gone, and when Sherlock opened eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed, it was once again only him and the dwindling flames of the fire.
He watched the last light burn out into oblivion, dimmed the lamps, and took himself off to bed.
Sleep came fitfully. Sherlock didn’t dream too often, but tonight, his dreams were vivid.
Flashes of childhood; a memory of playing in his mum’s garden with Mycroft. They knocked the heads off her flowers, and she cried, and Sherlock had never understood at the time quite how she could be so attached to some plants.
And then his father’s train came in late from London, again, and his dinner was left uneaten at the dining table, and Sherlock watched Mycroft apologising for the decapitated roses like he had some sort of word vomit that wouldn’t stop.
He was in class in primary school. He’d pointed out the illogical narrative in one of his classmate’s stories. She was clinging to the teacher’s skirts, crying as she pointed his way.
Now everyone hated him.
He was on a train. Liam was there, and Sherlock was high.
He felt the glorious swoop in his stomach; the pleasant giddiness, the lazy grin that wouldn’t shift from his face. Liam was grinning back at him, and Sherlock fancied he might just lean forward across the little booth they were sat at, and snatch up his hand, and kiss it, and pull off his silver, skull ring and —
But then he realised they weren’t alone. Liam was with his younger brother. But there was Mycroft, too, and Sherlock’s parents, and John, and Mrs Hudson, and they were all shaking their heads at him, and suddenly, the train was moving fast — much faster than it should have been — and the lights were flickering, and Liam was all dressed in blood-stained black beneath a top hat, and Sherlock no longer felt giddy; he felt sick, and when he looked down at his own hands, they were shaking violently, and when he looked back up, the train was gone.
Everything was gone.
Except Liam.
Against a backdrop of inky-blue eternity, arms outstretched, and his face was clearer to Sherlock than it had been in months — he could see the way a glimpse of regret tugged at his mouth and dampened those dazzling, crimson eyes for just the briefest moment, until they collided.
And they were falling — falling, falling, and Sherlock wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go —
And then pain.
Blinding pain like he’d been hit by the train they were just on. Like the breath had been expelled from his lungs far too quickly. Like something whipped along his limbs and face at great speed; shards of glass slicing skin.
He found himself suspended in liquid — in water, and he was sinking, and his arms were empty, and fuck — where was Liam?
He had to find him — he had to get to him, to save him. Liam had to live. He had to.
Live. We both must live, Liam. We both must —
Sherlock jerked awake to find the pain, although not quite as excruciating as he’d dreamt, was in fact real.
For a moment, he was so disoriented in the dimness that he couldn’t fathom where in god’s name he actually was. But then he noticed the window above him, void of curtains, and it clicked — he was on the hard-wood floor of his bedroom, in his Brooklyn apartment, tangled in his own bedsheets.
And Liam was not with him.
Liam’s mind was no longer reachable as he lay alone in a hospital room in Manhattan.
***
Sherlock did not visit Liam the next day.
He had been about to; coat donned and first cigarette of the morning dangling from his lip as he opened the door.
But outside of it, he found Billy.
And a sofa.
“Mornin’ and surprise, Master Ponytail!” Billy beamed.
Sherlock just blinked at him and the sofa — more accurately, a loveseat, perched upon four delicate mahogany legs, perfect for two. His smoke bobbed as he forced the lump in his throat down.
Like hell was he gonna cry in front of Billy.
Instead, he managed to croak out, “what’s this?”
“What’s it look like? A sofa, o’course.”
Sherlock snatched the cigarette from his mouth and took a steadying breath. “I know that, you bloody idiot. But where did it come from?”
Billy shrugged, leaning against the padded arm of the loveseat. “After ya left on Friday, since there was no overtime to be had … thought I’d see if Pinkerton might be generous ’n’ allow me an advance on my paycheque …”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You bought this?”
“Now, now.” Billy waved a hand at Sherlock’s look of disbelief. “Don’t be gettin’ too excited or nothin’. Was just second hand, but I saw it a few weeks back in a window, lookin’ like new, and couldn’t stop thinkin’ how darned perfect it’d be for the two of ya. So I went right back and bought it this mornin’. They were nice enough to cart it over here, too.”
Sherlock searched for words good enough for Billy in that moment. He tried, and he failed, because everything that began to form on his tongue only brought about the formation of a new lump he struggled to swallow.
He really believes Liam will wake up.
Maybe Sherlock wasn’t completely alone, after all.
Liam had been right. Billy was a true friend, too.
***
“Know what you need?”
Billy kicked his feet as he and Sherlock sat at the roof edge of the apartment building, sharing a loaf of bread that was still warm in the middle. They’d stocked up Sherlock’s cupboards with some groceries from a local general store, and arranged for a delivery of wood which should last at least the week.
“Enlighten me.”
Sherlock watched the clouds drift lazily along the air currents above their heads.
“Somethin’ to take care of.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Like a cat?”
Billy shook his head. “Nah, not a pet. Start small. Was thinkin’ more like, a plant?”
“A plant?”
“Yeah, y’know,” Billy ripped another piece of bread. “Just somethin’ to nurture, a bit. Practice, for when William comes home.”
Sherlock choked on his mouthful of food. “You comparin’ Liam to a vegetable, Billy?”
Billy did not laugh. He looked pained; mouth lilting downwards as he clearly struggled with how he was mean to answer that.
Sherlock averted his gaze, sliding his skull ring off and on his finger several times. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice thick. “Wasn’t even a little bit funny.”
But Billy just nudged his elbow and gave him a sad, little smile.
Sherlock sighed. He suddenly wasn’t very hungry, anymore. “You always seem so bloody certain …” His pulse thudded in his ears, fear making him breathless as he pushed on with a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to: “but do you really reckon he’s gonna wake up, Billy?”
Billy shrugged. He wiped the crumbs from his hands. “Who knows, Master Ponytail. But I s’pose, in the grand scheme of things … this time’ll pass us by, whether we spend it hopin’ or mopin’. And when the time’s up … if it ain’t the outcome you were desperately wantin’, it ain’t gonna hurt no less, whether you believed in him or not.”
The words hit Sherlock like a punch to the sternum.
But Billy was right.
Whether Sherlock hoped or not, anything other than Liam living on would hurt immeasurably.
Therefore, was it not better to spend the hope while it was still there for the taking?
Sherlock fished his carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. This would only be his second of the day; not too bad, really. Maybe finding out if he could raise a plant as well as he could decapitate one mightn’t be such a bad idea.
“Alright then, Billy.”
He exhaled, dousing the skyline of New York in tobacco fumes.
“Let’s go find me a plant.”
***
Sherlock returned to the hospital on the Sunday.
No change, still.
He settled across from Liam, running his thumb along his bottom lip as he gazed at him.
He hated the idea of a one sided conversation like this, where he couldn’t fill in the blanks with the Liam in his head, but maybe it would help.
It had to be worth a try.
“Oi, Liam. Billy got us a sofa.”
He paused, as though by some miracle, Liam might have an answer to that.
He did not.
Sherlock cleared his throat. He continued.
“I should probably add, we have an apartment, now. S’in Brooklyn. Little bit of a trek away, but still. Makes a bit more sense, if you know what I mean.”
Outside, the murmur of conversation drifted towards the door. Sherlock waited, but the sounds floated past, and they remained uninterrupted.
“I got a plant.” He licked his lips, sitting forward an inch. “Don’t laugh. But I don’t have the best past record with plants. If you really want, maybe I’ll tell you about that at some point. But, anyway … Thought now might be as good a time as any to see if I’ve matured enough to be considered a responsible adult, eh …” He drifted off, unsure if the tickle in his throat would emerge as a chuckle or a sob.
Bloody hell.
“It’s rather stuffy in ‘ere, you know.”
The distinct smell of hospital lingered thickly in the air.
If this time with Liam was it; if this was soon to be proven finite, for them both, Sherlock didn’t want to feel like they were both trapped between walls so bare and impersonal. He wanted Liam to be able to feel the breeze in his hair once more.
“Look, I hope ya don’t mind, Liam, but I’m gonna open a window. Just a crack. It’s a nice day, an’ all …”
Better to offer this one sided debate, than taking words to the grave you’d wished so desperately that you’d had the courage to speak aloud in life.
Air rushed into the room; balmy but pleasant and fresh.
Sherlock stared out across the New York skyline for a moment. It wasn’t terribly dissimilar to London, in some ways.
He turned, leaning a shoulder against the window frame, and watched Liam.
God, the urge to touch him was astounding. To just reach out and run a knuckle along one cheek. To feel the reassurance of warm skin.
He cleared his throat.
"Just thought you might like to know, Liam. Even if you don't feel it right now; you are far from alone. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, not until you make me."
***
Sherlock adopted a miniature rose plant.
It had been an adoption, and not a purchase, because the little florist’s in Northern Brooklyn that Sherlock happened across on his pursuit of an unwilling victim to share his flat with had been about to bin the thing.
“Ever raised a plant before?” The florist stood in the doorway to his little shop, clad in his green apron, and looked Sherlock up and down.
“Raised might be a strong word,” Sherlock said, thinking about the half-a-dozen potatoes he once cultivated for an experiment concerning the exact level of glycoalkaloids needed to poison a dog.
“Huh, in that case, you’re gonna need something easy. Ferns are fairly hardy. Got a few nice ones, this way —“
But before Sherlock could be lead through into the shop proper, a tray of sorry-looking, small, potted bushes beside the doorway caught his eye.
“Are these roses, by any chance?” He crouched down, studying the wilted leaves and tiny thorns.
“Ah, well. Once, they might have been, yeah.”
Sherlock frowned. “They look small.”
“Mmm. They were an experiment. Roses are a bit big and temperamental for indoors, y’see, but figured if I could breed something on the smaller side, might be good enough for a house plant.”
But Sherlock had fallen at the word ‘experiment.’
“I’ll take one.”
The shopkeeper chuckled. “You really are an amateur gardener, huh? These’re as good as dead, already. Turns out small also means even less hardy and even more temperamental.”
A challenge.
Well, Sherlock was never one to do things by half.
If he was going to do this, might as well make it interesting.
“No matter. I’ll still take one.”
He received an incredulous look.
And a few moments later, a free miniature rose plant.
***
When Sherlock returned home from Manhattan on the Sunday evening, Billy was at the apartment waiting for him.
“Any news, Master Ponytail?”
“Not this time.”
Sherlock shrugged off his coat, draping it over the arm of the loveseat (such a welcome change to his bedpost).
“Don’t you have a home to go to, Billy?”
“I was plant-sitting.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny it felt nice to have company to return to. Especially when saying goodbye to Liam filled him with a greater sense of dread each and every day, in case there were no more hellos to be had.
“Well that’s a relief; otherwise the thing might’ve gone walkies from my livin’ room window sill. Coffee?”
“M’all good, thanks. I’ll be headin’ back now, anyway.”
“So you really were just here for my rose bush, then.”
Billy chuckled heartily. “S’not much of a rose bush right now. Ya got ya work cut out, there!”
Sherlock sighed. He glanced around at his apartment, suddenly looking a lot more like an actual home since the weekend had begun, but not only due to the addition of a sofa and a pathetic looking plant in the window: the gas lamps were casting a warm glow about the place, and a fire had been set and lit already, the quiet crackle and pop of logs a soothing cadence to break what would otherwise be the silent mark of solitude in the little flat.
Billy was already halfway out the door when Sherlock called after him, “cheers, Billy!”
It contained only a fraction of the gratitude Sherlock wished he was able to convey to his newfound friend. If only he weren’t so damn hopeless at this.
This is why I need you around, Liam. You’d make ‘im understand with just one flash of that exceptional smile a’ yours.
***
Sherlock spent the next two weeks waking up, taking notes on whether his latest efforts were improving the condition of the miniature rose bush — secretly nicknamed Mary, not that he’d ever admit that aloud to anyone (okay, maybe Liam at some point) — heading out to work, visiting Liam, returning home, testing soil PH levels as best he could with limited resources, leafing through the ‘Complete Manual of Houseplant Care’ Billy had shoved at him, and rewarding his efforts for the day with a cigarette or two before bed.
The plant really did give him a purpose outside of work and visiting Liam; it was a welcome focus — not life or death, but still a challenge Sherlock was determined not to be beaten by.
By day seven, Mary’s leaves at least looked a little fuller. Sherlock had pruned the worst of them, and now the remaining were more healthy-green than wilting grey-brown. Still no buds, but that was probably a long way off. Just reviving the thing would be victory enough. There would be time to hope for flowers in full bloom later.
He sat beside the living room windowsill one morning, cigarette jutting from between his pursed lips, notebook balanced on his lap as he jotted some observations from his latest bit of reading and experimenting.
Prefers damp top half soil, dryer roots. PH should be on acidic side of neutral — 6.5 seems best. Minimum 4 hours sunlight.
Perhaps he should try her on Liam’s sill — that room was the best in the place for sunlight. But would Liam mind? Did Liam even like plants?
“Bet he does, y’know.” Sherlock snapped the notebook closed, leaning an elbow on the windowsill as he took a drag of his cigarette, gazing at the plant. “Reckon he seems the type to know his way around a bit of gardening. He could probably fix you up without all this bloody trial and error and reading homework.”
Mary, of course, had no answer to this.
“Maybe I’ll ask him about it today.”
Sherlock was getting very good at these one-sided discussions.
***
Sherlock did ask Liam.
He also let slip Mary’s nickname, and then immediately found the need to explain.
“It’s supposed to be a pun. You know, rose-mary, like the herb? A rose called Mary. Rose-Mary.” Sherlock chuckled to himself. “ … Mary’s a good name though, anyway, don’t you think?”
Sherlock opened the window a crack, as he did every day now, when he came to visit. The air was warm enough not to worry about giving Liam a chill, and there was something enlivening about seeing the breeze sway Liam’s hair gently against his forehead.
“You remember John? You met him once, on the train from York that day. Terrible mix up, eh? Now that was a good one, wasn’t it, Liam? The best. We make a bloody good team. But what was I saying? Ah yeah, John. Anyway, sure you know plenty about him from observing us, too. Well, you know he got married. Her name was Mary. No — is,” he corrected himself. “Didn’t much like her at first. But that was just the child in me, y’see, Liam. Couldn’t handle being second best.” Sherlock rubbed his chin. “Really is a stellar name, Mary.”
Silence.
“Was my Mum’s, an’all.”
Sherlock sighed.
“You were right, on the Noahtic. She’s a cockney, born and bred. Her rose garden was her pride ‘n’ joy. Me and Mycky once decapitated almost every flower in it. Made her cry.”
That lump was back, once again. Sherlock swallowed it down determinedly.
“Wish I could tell her how sorry I am, now. Seems raising somethin’ so temperamental is no mean feat.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the roses, or something else entirely.
“Do you like plants, Liam?”
He returned to his seat at Liam’s bedside, leaning forward to clasp his hands together atop the sheets.
“I bet you do. You strike me as the type who could quite easily develop a green thumb. Mind you, reckon you could probably turn your hand to most things …”
Beside Liam’s upturned palm, Sherlock’s thumb and index finger twitched. The urge to run his touch along the heart-line he could see quite clearly was damn well distracting.
“See, this is why I need you to hurry up and come back,” Sherlock croaked, clenching his fists to keep from touching. “Need you to come take joint custody of this damn plant. S’a tricky thing, being a single parent.”
He half-laughed, half-choked on his own surprising candour.
“Really, though. Take your time. I’ll still be here, waiting. Still got plenty to get ready for you at the flat, anyway. So there’s really no rush, Liam. Just —“
Sherlock stopped himself. He tucked his chin, squeezing his eyes closed, and took a steadying breath.
Just don’t give up, yet.
Not yet.
… I’m not ready to say goodbye, yet.
***
Three weeks after he’d brought her home, Mary was green all over. She was no longer dying.
“Now that’s what I call a rose bush,” Billy had commented on seeing her progress. “A miniature one, at least.”
“Not yet,” Sherlock had muttered around his cigarette. “She’s gotta bloom, yet.”
Beautiful, crimson petals. Sherlock could see them in his mind’s eye. They’d come, in their own time; he was sure.
Hope was a powerful thing.
***
Pinkerton office was one of the few places in the borough with a phone-line; naturally, such a government organisation would be high on the priority list for new communications technology.
Manhattan General Hospital was another.
As luck would have it, Sherlock and Billy were hunkered down in the office working overtime on the day the phone call came in.
“Master Ponytail, it’s … the hospital.”
Billy stood stock-still in the doorway, fingertips idly tangling in the hem of his bandana.
Sherlock dropped the cigarette he’d been about to light.
“Shit,” he breathed.
All at once, his world began imploding.
His heart beat so hard it hurt; it rang against his eardrums; it made him dizzy.
He scrambled from the desk, his legs moving of their own accord despite a warning screeching off in his brain:
Don’t.
Don’t take the call.
Don’t take the call, and you can stay here in the safety of the in-between.
Don’t take the call, and Liam is both simultaneously living and living no more.
You don’t have to find out the answer.
Don’t pull the trigger. Burn the envelope. Preserve your precious hope for just a little longer …
But Sherlock could never comfortably exist in such a place, in such purgatory — because now he suddenly remembered …
The relief was always in discovering the answer to the mystery.
***
William James Moriarty regained consciousness on a Sunday afternoon, one hundred and twenty-four days after he had tumbled from the Thames bridge in Sherlock Holmes’ arms.
Billy knew, because he’d counted each and every one of those days.
He did not believe in happy-ever-afters; he had seen too much of life for that. But Billy had spent one hundred and twenty-four days watching his new friend bounce between hope and grief and all the way back again, and he had found himself praying that, against all odds, this story
Would have a different ending to his own.
It was a bright, breezy sort of Sunday.
* * *
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
On the morning of the twenty-fifth day after Liam made his decision to live on, Sherlock found him seated beside their living room windowsill, bathed in glorious sunlight which perfectly highlighted the golden tones of his hair and lashes.
Beside him, one of Mary’s buds had finally broken into bloom.
The petals were not, as Sherlock had expected, rich crimson, but instead, they gleamed pure white in the glow of first-light.
White, like a beautifully blank canvas.
Liam turned, and Sherlock found himself eye to eye with his equal once more. A smile that he would recognise anywhere lit him up from the inside-out.
“Good morning, Sherly. It appears your determination has been rewarded.”
“Aye,” Sherlock smiled in return, his lashes wet and his cheek dimpling. “So it has.”