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Formal events always bored Sherlock. Especially those where he had to let his hair down and wear ties. Controversially, John seemed very excited about the event. He was surrounded by women in the center of the room, and he glanced in Sherlock's direction for help or companionship, he didn't know how to interpret it, and anyway he wouldn't lose his precious place in the corner of the room for ladies. He dramatically swung his glass and took a sip of his drink.
— Boring — he hummed, dropping his glass halfway onto the tray of a passing waiter.
It turned out that, in the previous week, he had killed Milverton, discovered that his friend Liam was the Lord of Crime, been arrested for murder and released for lack of evidence. All in a single night. John had forgiven Sherlock but, since that day, nothing had changed. The materials said to have been leaked by Milverton in the case of his death had still not been published and the detective no longer knew what he should do. All he knew was that he shouldn't be there, wasting his precious time partying. What was there to celebrate? The crisis that the lower classes were facing? The poor mad with hunger and fear? Rich people scared Sherlock - even though having a lot of money is a problem he'd love to replace with a lack of it.
But then something caught his eye. An old-looking waiter with tired eyes passed by his table and left a blood-red envelope. It had his name on it.
— a gentleman in the next room was watching you. He asked me to bring you this. — Then the man disappeared.
Sherlock picked up the envelope as quickly as if it were proof of a crime he himself had committed. He opened it over his lap, watching out for the noblemen passing by, and read the words in the familiar handwriting.
'I thought that because you knew, you would have done something by now.
You said you wouldn't play my game, but you're exactly where I wanted you to be.
W.M.'
Sherlock's heart beat out of rhythm. He stood up, making his way as quietly as he could to the next room. It was very crowded, everyone standing. All noblemen. It would have been difficult to find the sender of the letter if he hadn't looked so unusual, in Sherlock's opinion. The cold red eyes could be considered demonic, but the detective has always found them gentle and angelic.
It wasn't difficult to find him. Far from any group of noisy rich people, there he was, his blond hair swept back elegantly, a glass of wine in his hands and talking to what must have been his brother, the one who worked with Micky. He looked diabolical, having such a handsome appearance and such a troubled mind, even though he was wearing a white tuxedo - nobody looks good in a white tuxedo. He looked restless.
His red eyes found him at the entrance to the hall and he raised his glass with a smile. Sherlock crossed the distance between them and Liam hooked his arm in his, as a lady would do to her fellow partygoer.
— Mr. Holmes, it's very nice to see you again. Let me introduce you to my older brother, Albert. — His green eyes immediately caught sight of him. His dilated pupils, the strong smell of alcohol and his slurred voice gave away Sherlock's near drunkenness.
— It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Moriarty — Sherlock offered a hand and Albert shook it, smiling.
— the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. — It seems the fatally beautiful smile ran in the family, Sherlock thought. — my brother's been talking about you a lot.
— don't expose me like that, brother. — Liam gave a shy smile, squeezing Sherlock's arm even tighter. — it turns out that Mr. Holmes is a very competent man at his job. - Now he leaned forward to whisper. — I even heard that he had discovered the true identity of the Lord of Crime.
— no way! — Albert exclaimed in a whisper. — This information will probably make you very famous, Mr. Holmes.
They both stared at him. Sherlock couldn't understand what William's game was, why he was there and what his plan was for the following events. Whether he had managed to get his hands on Milverton's evidence or whether he was just as anxious as he was about the wait. He wanted to ask, but he didn't know how.
— I...
A song silenced him, and a group of men made their way to the center of the hall, letting out excited shouts. Sherlock watched them with a frown, but even though he was London's greatest detective, he wasn't expecting what was coming next.
— You guys should dance — Albert commented.
— What? — Sherlock asked, exasperated.
— We should, um. — Liam slid his arm away and gave Sherlock's forearm a gentle squeeze, which sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. He walked towards the men, but not before looking over his shoulder at the man. — Come on.
Sherlock doesn’t know for sure what made him go. The red eyes hypnotizing. The easy smile on thin lips that he was not sure if expressed real feelings. The doubts and all professional questions he had to ask. The personal questions.
Why me?
When he realized, he was already on the wheel. The gentlemen were giving hands and going back and forth, kicking the air and shouting. Sherlock was clumsy in the dance, but Liam’s cold hand in his and the laughter that emanated from him every time the detective was late to follow the partners made it seem a little less embarrassing.
At some point in the dance, Liam had to lead and doubles graduated. The blond put one hand on Sherlock’s waist and the other, intertwined with him, rising at the height of his shoulders. The detective instinctively leaned in the direction of his partner, so as not to bump into another pair just behind them. The pace was too fast. They were too close.
— Sir detective, don’t make me make a scene here. — Liam smiled, his nose almost touching his own, and Sherlock took distance. He led the dance for a few moments, his eyes so connected that they hardly dared to speak. In the case of the detective, it seems that he just couldn’t. — Come on, I imagine you have questions. And it’s better to do them before my head ends up in a guillotine.
— I suspect you have no interest in answering any of my questions.
— Of course I do. But I also like to dance. And you, Mr. Holmes? I suppose you have driven women crazy with your skill in ballroom dancing. — the man mocked, but Sherlock was not fooled.
— women are not my type — oh, that didn’t sound good. Liam took advantage of an exaggerated turn of the rest of the room to pull Sherlock closer and whisper in his ear.
— to be quite honest, neither do mine — Sherlock felt his whole body shiver.
— what is your goal Liam? if you know that it’s wrong, you know that will die, why does it continue? — Suddenly, his expression wavered, but he quickly got back on track.
— my goal is far greater than you can understand just by studying my background, Sherlock.
Sherlock felt a pull in his stomach. He remembered the first time he heard Liam call him by his first name, in the middle of that visit to the college where he taught. He had felt like a silly child when his cooler colleague finally accepted to be his friend. Now, it was not exactly that feeling.
Liam let go of Sherlock suddenly, and until he realized this was another dance step, they started spinning with their hands together above their heads, from side to side.
— I know I’m going to die. I’m not exactly worried about it. I just wanted to enjoy a little before becoming an outlaw.
— you would rather die than surrender? You must pay for your crimes, but you do not have to die.
The song ended. William looked at Sherlock with a sad look, but smiling. their hands were still intertwined. Liam rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's rough palm and then let go. The detective didn’t know what to feel about it. It didn’t even seem real. He felt himself falling into an immeasurable void.
— I will explain everything to you, later this week. I promise you — the tone of voice he used, as if that promise was worth all his dignity, made Sherlock’s features wobble. Liam was already moving away from the center of the track when a sound of firm steps took over the whole room.
— WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS HE? — the whole room was silent. It was Lestrade, in his most dignified inspector’s suit. Just by the dress, Sherlock already knew what he and his team were doing there.
The two eyes turned to Liam, who looked perfectly calm taking half a glass of champagne.
— Sir William James Moriarty, you are being accused of being the Lord of Crime. Do you deny that? - Some whispers and surprised noises came from the nobles in the room. Liam left the cup aside, put his hands on his back gracefully and stared at the inspector.
— I do not deny.
Even though Sherlock was waiting for what came next, he didn’t know that Liam’s team was so well prepared. In fact, he should know, since he was dealing with a mind as whimsical as his. As soon as Lestrade’s team made mention of heading towards him, Liam was already in the air, pulled by some contraption that took him to the gigantic chandelier where it took him a few seconds to take its way into some space on the ceiling that would lead him straight out.
He had gone. Sherlock felt it in his hand still tingling at his touch.
[...]