Chapter Text
It had been a pleasant day. Sherlock ignored the fact that he was exhausted after coming home from work and sat down at the table with Liam to tell him everything while he peeled an apple for the blond. He was getting better every day. “One step at a time”, was what the doctor always told him. But Sherlock couldn't stop worrying about his increasingly constant fainting spells and bouts of depression that he thought the detective didn't see. The dark-haired man took great care to respect his limits but always felt he had to worry more.
As night fell, the absence of Billy (who had been introduced as your tenant for rent arrears) became more imminent. Liam liked to drag a chair to the window - always to the window and never to the balcony, because he knew Sherlock would draw his attention to possible colds and the dangers of New York's night air - and sit there, wrapped in his favorite shawl to enjoy the sky. Sometimes he slept there, but didn't say a word.
Sherlock would take the opportunity to draw him. During the time he was out of work and William was unconscious, he discovered a new talent when he went through Billy's things and found some crayons and colored pencils. He had drawn several portrats of Liam, and used to hide them all so that Billy wouldn't create speculation - even though Billy was good at finding things that didn't concern him.
At times when Liam sat by the window, Sherlock used to find it more enjoyable to draw him. It was infinitely better to see him awake than lying like a corpse in bed. Sherlock still got chills thinking about him like that. But even so, Liam seemed sad, lonely. He sometimes talked about London. About his childhood, his brothers, but never about the plan that had brought them there. Sherlock knew what he missed, because it was present inside him, but he couldn't help thinking that it would be much better if they never came back.
He pushed the thought away as he went to get his drawing materials - because now he had bought one for himself! It had become easier to draw Liam, considering he was his only model, but Sherlock still found it more challenging to draw his scars. Liam hated them, he could feel it. He clung to that eye patch and only took it off in strictly necessary situations. Or sometimes it was just for Sherlock. He knew that the detective had never looked at him any differently. Liam had always had an overwhelming beauty and the incident hadn't changed that fact at all.
That night, he slept too early. They had been there less than an hour when his head began to waver. In his haste, Sherlock dropped the utensils on the wooden floor and cradled the blond's head in his hands. Then he crouched low enough to reach his legs and, carrying him to the bed, carefully dropped and covered him. He would hardly remember falling asleep. He rarely did.
Sherlock organized his mess and put on his pyjamas, heading for the bedroom he shared with Liam. It was dark when he entered, but he could hear his partner's low moans anyway.
- Liam?
- Sherly? - he sniffled, lifting his face just to peek in the door. - Still not asleep?
- I was going. What's wrong?
- Nothing, don't worry about me.
But Sherlock wasn't convinced.
- Liam...
His friend's low cry started again, and Sherlock instinctively went towards him. He knelt down where he could see his face and took her hands in his. They were silent for a moment, with only Liam holding Sherlock's hand closer as he whimpered, until the brunette began to speak.
- What can I do?
- don't go out of my sight - his voice sounded hoarse as he said it. Sherlock let go of one of his hands and used it to push Liam's hair back a little.
- I won't. I swear. - the blond man nodded, his eyes closed tightly. Sherlock sat down on the carpet, his hands still intertwined with Liam's, who looked at him.
- you can't sleep there.
- don't doubt my abilities. - Liam released his hand and moved a little away from the corner of the bed. Sherlock frowned. - Are you sure? - the blond hesitated to nod, holding out the blanket for Sherlock to join him.
The detective slipped into the space provided for him and let Liam cover him. They were motionless, both staring at the ceiling as if they couldn't look anywhere else. Then Sherlock's hand began to search for the hand of the man next to him, until he found it and entwined it with his own. Liam sniffled one last time before letting their shoulders touch, and Sherlock felt him relax. He relaxed too. Liam's pulse on his palm made him feel safer; he hoped the blond felt the same.
- Good night, Sherly.
- Good night, Liam.
----
Extra:
When he arrived in the morning, Billy was already crawling across the floor of Sherlock and Liam's apartment, a little surprised to see neither of the two men already awake. He removed his scarf and coat, and left the bag of fruit for William on the kitchen counter, peering at the pans of food left out by – probably – Sherlock, in case anything had spoied.
He rolled up his sleeves, heading down the hall. Billy wasn't the kind of inconvenient American who liked to cock-block your colleagues, or simply enter rooms uninvited – he considered himself almost a vampire under this clause – so he knocked twice before opening the door to the only room of the apartment.
For some reason, it wasn't surprising to find Sherlock's bed untouched. He let out a sigh and approached the windows. He opened them and the light reached the previously completely dark room.
— wake up, lovebirds. Someone here needs to work to pay the bills.
Then he turned around only to see that both of them hadn't even moved. At least they are dressed, Billy noted. Their foreheads were touching and one of Sherlock's hands was on Liam's cheek. The American smiled at the sight, without knowing why. He couldn't even judge them: even though it sounded like a simple touch - most likely nothing had happened before, and Billy, like a good rommie, was great at noticing when things had happened before - they acted as if they had been waiting for centuries.
[...]