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William was soaking wet, cold, and numb in both body and mind.
The final problem, his staged last stand, the solution to purge the evil of London—years of planning, meticulous planning, and hiding the intended dramatic great end to the Lord of Crime from friend and foe both—had failed.
William had resolved himself to diving off the Thames and letting the greatest London detective take credit for ridding the country of the Lord of Crime while it rebuilt itself without the evil infesting it. William had resolved himself to take all the blame on himself, leaving Albert, Louis, Moran, Fred, and James’ hands clean of the blood staining theirs.
William had resolved himself to die at 5:00 a.m. sharp in front of the watching, angry eyes of London.
Sherlock Holmes had read his letters, heard his final words, and said, firmly, no.
Sliced up by his blade, he had pulled William ashore, tucked both of them inside dark cloaks laid in advance, grabbed his arm so hard it would be bruised for the days William hadn’t planned on living, and ran.
William resolved himself to letting the selfishness of Sherlock Holmes take his life by the reins while he figured out a plan to give London the end of the Lord of Crime it needed. They had seen him take the fatal fall, but hadn’t seen Sherlock follow him, nor the detective drag his limp body across freezing waters and onto shore.
The rising sun really was beautiful; William hadn’t ever truly appreciated it.
Sherlock rushed them through the desolate, charred streets, pulling him around frantically and shoving his hood back over his head every time it slipped loose by a hair. Completely exhausted, out of breath, and promising him any number of impossible things, Sherlock was on the brink of shattering, and William had never seen the detective so frantic.
“That was stupid,” Sherlock cursed at him, but he hadn’t sounded angry.
“You’ll never get to see the world you’re making better if you just give up,” Sherlock had said just before William grew tired of fighting off the tight, forceful pull of a desperate friend.
The early morning hours passed by, and soon they were stumbling to a small house far away from the heart of London—it was not much bigger than a wealthy farmer’s shed—with Sherlock forcing him into a dusty armchair. With the small glance he’d gotten, William had seen a kitchenette and a half-open door leading to a bedroom no bigger than a small child’s.
Sherlock clearly had no intent of letting him die just yet.
William would let the matter go. His fight had long since died down. His bones were weary, his skin was still tingling from the frozen waters, and the bags under his eyes had deepened considerably. With the way Sherlock was frozen still, staring at him, he must look quite pathetic.
Oh, how Lord William James Moriarty had fallen.
Wordlessly, Sherlock removed both their cloaks, then William’s still-damp suit jacket, leaving on only his white dress shirt and clinging pants, then huffed and threw it all to the side, promptly taking off his own and giving it the same treatment. Once he deemed his tasks done, he all but collapsed to the ground.
“You’re a real bastard, you know that, Liam?” His words were biting, yet still not quite angry. “I already hated swimming.”
William remained silent. What was there to say in the face of his greatest failure and Sherlock’s success? What was there to say when he was faced with either living an unwanted life stained with the blood of many or staring Sherlock in his bright eyes and saying, just as firmly, no?
“I lied,” Sherlock whispered after many moments of silence. Their eyes didn’t meet, and Sherlock was still catching his runaway breath, just as William was. “I wasn’t on that bridge as a friend.”
William had no idea what he could possibly mean. He had made it clear he wasn’t there to be the hero of this tale of evil coming to a close well enough already. The detective was meant to defeat the Lord of Crime. Sherlock Holmes against William James Moriarty. Good against evil. Light against dark. That had been the plan, and William had failed at some point. Where was his only question. Where had he gone wrong?
“John is marrying Mary next winter,” Sherlock said, flopping onto his back and beginning to stare up at the ceiling. “She wants a small wedding. Just a few friends and a priest. John wants to surprise her with doves.” He laughed once, but it came out more like choking. “I thought I couldn’t ever be like that. I mean-” the choke-laugh returned. “I’m a crazy detective with a drug addiction and a problem with authority. Who could ever want me, right?”
William remained silent once more. His plan hadn’t spanned to Sherlock in such a way; vaguely, he knew the detective would settle down eventually, perhaps even shortly after the final problem, when his greatest enemy was forever gone. He would find someone to soothe his scattered brain, and William would never get to meet them.
“I don’t know how John did it,” he said. “He made it look so easy.”
Really, it felt like Sherlock was speaking not to him but to the early morning skies above the wood grains.
“I’m good at solving crimes, not-” Sherlock stopped, and the room once more descended into total silence. “Look.” He sat up suddenly, staring at William with pleading eyes. “I want that,” he said, then swallowed a visible lump in his throat. “With you.”
William finally understood.
He only regretted that he had to be the heartbreaker on what was supposed to be his death day, and to the person who had dived down to the icy waters with him when he refused to be saved.
“There is no place for it." He meant to sound cruel, as the Lord of Crime would be to onlookers. It came out sad, like he had been slapped in the face by one of his brothers for not telling them about his death... then hugged because Louis had a kind, forgiving heart and Albert was just as likely to take the fall with him had he known.
Sherlock hadn’t looked forlorn or distraught, but quite like he had expected it. “You said we could be... in another life.” William had given him a letter with those words, and he had meant it wholly, yes. Had things been different, they could have found each other and been more. “You’re not the Lord of Crime anymore. He died below the Thames. And, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not ‘Master Detective Sherlock Holmes.’ He solved his greatest crime and disappeared a hero.”
He had practically spat both titles like it left a sour taste in his mouth. William slowly shook his head, unable to help a small, bitter smile tracing his face. Once more, his wonderful Sherlock was trying to convince him of the impossible. No matter how much he would give anything for a world with both—a pure-hearted London and the freedom to accept Sherlock into his life like he was asking for—there was no room for it.
“You don’t have to- it’s not like-” Sherlock fought for the right words but quickly gave up with a huff. “You’re stubborn, Liam. I know that as well as you do. So you don’t have to answer yet. Just…” He stood up, now towering over William, and held out his hand. “I have a change of clothes for us both. And I know you haven’t slept.”
Ah, so that was how this was going to play out.
Sherlock was going to bolt him down for the night while he hurriedly put together a plan for two wanted men to spend their time together in a bare living space while unable to leave to go to the shop without a hood to obscure their faces.
“Very well,” William said, and he stood unaided. He, too, would bide his time. He would think of a better ending to this tale, one that washed his brothers and friends’ hands clean like he promised.
Sherlock looked not pleased but relieved. “Good,” he said, breathless despite having had plenty of time to rest. “Good.”
As promised, Sherlock had planned this in advance, and there were two sets of folded pyjamas awaiting them on the bed.
Nevertheless, when they were both in fresh, dry clothes and Sherlock pressed his tired body under the somehow warm sheets, William couldn’t relax. Sherlock climbed next to him, stuffing himself under the sheets as well.
William hadn’t been expecting two beds in a space this small, and it was all but a miracle that the last owner had managed to fit a dresser and nightstand in the space. He had seen a small door before Sherlock shut the light off and assumed there was a bathroom behind the wood. It was quite a nice find in such an isolated location.
But William was used to falling asleep to the ticking of the grandfather clock inside his room or to the snores of Louis when he could only find peace with his big brother after a night terror. To the silence only broken by Sherlock’s breathing, he had great trouble relaxing, let alone sleeping.
“You’re beautiful.” Sherlock’s voice was husky and low, barely more than a whisper. Somehow, it felt louder than when he was shouting on the bridge. Though William knew from anyone else it would be pointless flattery to get on a Lord’s good side, his Sherlock was genuine and didn’t like lying when he didn’t have to.
William didn’t like being touched by anyone other than his brothers, yet when Sherlock ran a gentle hand through his tousled hair, combing out the tangles granted by the Thames, he didn’t feel like shoving him away.
Quite the opposite.
With Sherlock’s hand brushing through his hair and his other resting on his slowing rising and falling torso, he had his first selfish thought of the night-turned-morning.
He let himself dream of a future with the two of them—not as Lord of Crime William James Moriarty and Master Detective Sherlock Holmes, but as Liam and Sherly. It was a children’s fantasy, nothing more, but he’d be selfish and allow the thought to dwell until morning.
Just until morning.