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The idea to make the trip to Durham had come to the detective in the early hours of morning, after a night that had involved a handful hours of unrestful sleep and many thoughts about a certain criminal. Sherlock debated if he should ask the guy to pay rent for the amount of space he occupied in his mind at this point. He wondered what expression Liam would make if he asked that of him.
He may not yet have enough evidence to prove his theory, but he knew he was correct. The professor was just simply too good at covering his tracks and playing innocent when faced with him. But there was no one else Sherlock knew who could reasonably be the Lord of Crime, no one else he wanted to be him. It had to be William James Moriarty. Only he could keep up with Sherlock’s own intellect, rivalled him even in the matter. Additionally, he had the influence and money needed to enact the crimes the Lord of Crime had pulled off. For Sherlock, the facts were this: Their meeting on the Noahtic had sparked William’s interest in him and Jefferson Hope had been the following test to see if he could prove useful for his plan. Evidently, Sherlock had succeeded in that, as since then he’d been dancing right in the palm of his hand, solving his mysteries one after the other and barely getting closer to the truth. It was frustrating.
With a sigh, the detective leaned his head against the cold glass of the window in his cabin. It was no use spending any more energy on that theory than he already had. He just ended up going in circles every single time.
But that theory hadn’t been what had kept him up last night. In fact, none of Liam’s criminal exploits had been the reason for Sherlock’s sleeplessness. No, instead it had just been the man himself that had occupied his waking moments, specifically their last meeting in Durham. As embarrassing as it had been to score a zero on the professor’s math test, the time there had been… refreshing. Sherlock was used to dumbing things down for the people around him, to explaining his thought process in detail behind every deduction made, but none of that was necessary with William. Despite the Lord of Crime and Detective Holmes being enemies, Sherlock and Liam got on like a house on fire. It was easy to bore Sherlock, but William had not once, since they had met, bored him, even just a little bit. No, the man was the most interesting and intriguing person Sherlock had ever met and he knew that he could happily spend the rest of his life unravelling the enigma that was, technically, his enemy. An enemy that, somehow, was more resembling a friend these days. A friend that understood Sherlock like no one else. That was what had kept the detective up almost all night. And the startling realisation that his feelings towards the professor exceeded the kind of friendship that he kept with John. Said best friend would call him an idiot for only realising that now after the weeks Sherlock had spent barely talking about any other subject… among the incriminating stack of Shakespeare plays on his bedside table. Watson had looked at him funny when he had come home with them, questioning him since when he harboured an interest in tragedies.
A valid question, and one Sherlock had yet to give an answer to. But he knew what look John would give him if he told him the truth. That he had spotted them in Liam’s office the last time he had been in Durham. That he had seen the worn-down cover of them, the signs of books well loved by their owner. And William had expressed his love for Shakespearian literature before, and had done so at length despite Sherlock being unable to participate in the discussion of the bard’s works. Since then, the detective had wondered about what it was about those plays that captivated the professor so. And despite his extensive research… he still was as clueless as he had been in the beginning. Sherlock could just not gain any merit from Shakespeare’s work. Romeo and Juliet had infuriated him to no end, Richard III had been blatant Tudor propaganda with the most unlikeable main character to ever exist, and Hamlet… well. Suffice to say, none of them had sparked his interest to read more of the dead man’s works. He’d need to ask Liam why exactly he was so popular. The prose was long winded and drawn out and the constant iambic pentameter and early modern English only served to make the reading process unenjoyable. If Sherlock wanted to read incomprehensible nonsense, he would borrow one of William’s books on Euler’s formula.
The only thing he had enjoyed had been some of the sonnets. But besides that, his research had been a total bust. And one of the reasons of why he had headed out before dawn and snatched the first train north without so much as a notice for Watson about his whereabouts. Sherlock just hoped he wouldn’t have to be confronted with John’s baseless worries upon his return home. But knowing his best friend, that was rather unlikely. He should’ve just remembered to leave a note. Sherlock hadn’t even remembered to take a proper coat with him and had shivered all throughout his wait on the platform. This was why he wanted Liam to pay rent.
It seemed like he could barely remember actually important things these days, like getting his shirt mended or picking up a new box of tea, but he could still replay the conversation William and him had had four weeks ago word for word. They had been arguing over what poison was the most sensible to use for murder. A perfectly normal topic Sherlock had started because of the last case he had solved, in which the culprit had been slowly poisoning her husband with arsenic. While he personally was partial to thallium sulphate, given that the symptoms were slow acting and often attributed to other illnesses, William had agreed with his culprit of arsenic being the best choice. Easily obtainable and tasteless.
Case in point, his mind had at some point decided to reserve as much space for anything revolving around the second eldest Moriarty son as possible. From the faint freckles on his nose to Liam’s favourite number being i. Sherlock still had no clue how a letter could also be a number, but he had been afraid of another math lecture that no doubt would have followed that question. Everything he knew about the professor had been neatly catalogued and stored away in the depths of his mind alongside his files on criminology, chemistry, and sensational literature.
The other reason for his visit was simply that he wanted to see Liam again. A month was quite a long time and Sherlock missed conversing with someone who was on the same intellectual level as him, and the recent cases he had solved had been terribly simple and boring. He needed something more interesting. And so, he’d decided that today would be the day he’d solve the mystery of why in God’s name Shakespeare of all writers was William’s favourite. Hopefully the other would give him an in-depth explanation that would keep Sherlock in his office for hours, maybe even the entire day.
Four hours later and the train he was on finally rolled into the train station of Durham. The weather was as charming as English weather could be, meaning that it was raining buckets. Sherlock once again bemoaned his idiocy of leaving his coat behind in his flat, pulling up his suit jacket over his head as he waited to catch the next cab. At least he had the luck to be picked up rather quickly, the university building coming into view after just a few minutes. Unlike the last time he had been here, thanks to the current weather, the students weren’t sprawled out on the benches and lawn outside. Instead, they were hanging around in the hallways and the multiple libraries the campus held. Sherlock paid them, and the looks that followed him, no mind as he easily navigated towards the part of the building that contained the offices for the professors. Five more doors down and he found himself standing in front of William’s office once more. The likelihood that the other was in was high since there was no lecture currently taking place and the weather making the outside rather unattractive. Sherlock knocked and waited patiently, ears straining to detect any noise from within the room. He couldn’t contain the grin that spread out over his face when he heard footsteps approaching the door, Liam’s face greeting him a second later as the other opened the door.
“May I ask what you are doing here, Mr. Holmes?” Liam asked, a slight frown creasing his brows. Still, the man stepped aside to let him in, Sherlock happily taking him up on that offer.
“I was in the area an’ decided I might as well pay ya a visit.” He lied, seating himself on the chair opposite William’s desk. His hands pawed at his jacket, pulling out a damp packet of cigarettes from its pockets. Damned rain.
“Right. And I’m sure you arriving just a few minutes after the first train from London got here is just a coincidence.”
“Naturally.”
“Just like those dried splashes of mud on the thigh of your trousers are. Even though all streets around the train station are cobble stone. And it has only been raining in Durham for an hour…”
“O’ course.”
With a look that Sherlock decided to interpret as fond exasperation, Liam sat back down in his own chair. His desk held neatly stacked test papers that he was in the process of grading. They just looked at each other for a moment, William no doubt analysing every little thing about his appearance, from his lack of sleep to the missing coat despite the chillier weather.
“I suppose you’re in luck today with your visit, Mr. Holmes. My last lecture ended twenty minutes ago and I am not scheduled in for another this afternoon.”
“How lucky indeed.” Sherlock replied with the tone of a man that absolutely couldn’t recite William’s schedule from the top of his head.
In all honesty, William had suspected that his peace at the university in Durham would soon be disturbed by a certain detective again. It had been a month by this point since they had last seen each other and Sherlock never managed to stay away from him for too long. Because of this, seeing the man in front of his office that morning wasn’t much of a surprise. Rather William had anticipated that he would see the other again. It was a rather unfortunate affliction that had befallen him, given who he was. The wiser decision would be to stay away from Holmes as much as he possibly could without seeming suspicious, but William had never managed to shoo him away when he did show up. Not when the detective’s company was so immensely enjoyable.
He graced Sherlock’s comment with a thin smile. It wasn’t lucky at all and they both were aware of that fact. Maybe he should be a bit more worried about how much the detective already knew about him. But William couldn’t bring himself to care about the man having apparently memorised his schedule so well that he could still remember it after a night of almost no sleep and hectically heading out in the early hours of morning. But he hadn’t been able to remember to wear a coat. Something about that poked a hidden part in William’s heart. That the thought of seeing him, taking the earliest train as possible, had been so consuming to render the detective unable to take anything important with him. Even his matches, it seemed, as Sherlock kept rummaging through the pockets in his jacket and pants and coming up empty.
“You can use these.” William helpfully supplied after watching him struggle for a bit, procuring a small matchbox from one of the drawers in his desk. Holmes took them gratefully, but still aimed a critical brow at him.
“I didn’t take ya for one t’ smoke, Liam.”
William watched as Sherlock pulled one of his cigarettes from the damp paper box, the stub hanging down at an odd angle. It took a few tries before he managed to light it, inhaling deeply before blowing out a cloud of smoke into the direction of the ceiling. It was a habit Sherlock had developed after he had voiced his displeasure for cigarettes in the past. A simple gesture to keep the smoke away from getting into William’s space. Still, the smell of the tobacco reached him despite the detectives’ mindfulness, rich and warm and entirely too strong for William’s personal tastes. There was a slight acidic note in it that he suspected to be something stronger than tobacco. Knowing Sherlock’s vices, it wasn’t too unlikely.
Normally he despised the smell of tobacco and nicotine as it would cling to his hair and clothes for days, making him feel itchy and unclean. And it always manged to give him a headache. But it wasn’t the case with Sherlock. Instead of hating every moment the man smoked in his presence, William felt more at ease as the smell slowly filled the room, a scent that was entirely Sherlock’s own. One that was ever-present on the man’s own clothes and hair. It was the only reason he allowed him to smoke in his office while the windows were closed.
“I only do so very rarely.” He finally replied after a beat, eyes too caught up on watching the pale line of Sherlock’s throat that was leaned against the back of the chair. It exposed far too much of his clavicle and chest and William once again thought that he would benefit greatly if the detective dressed more appropriately.
“You still haven’t answered me why you’re really here.”
Sherlock moved his head slightly to look at him, a crooked grin on his face as he answered.
“I was bored. And I wanted t’ see ya. Specifically, I wanted to continue our conversation from last time.”
William tried to look unimpressed at his words, face remaining neutral. But his heart did stutter there for just a second at Sherlock so casually admitting to simply wanting to see him.
“Which conversation exactly?”
There had been multiple, at length and in-depth conversations the last time Holmes had visited him unexpectedly. They had been so caught up in each other in fact, that William had almost missed his lecture that afternoon.
“You were in the middle of explaining t’me why ya like the portrayal of love in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ so much.”
“Oh, yes. Although I can’t remember where exactly I left off. Would you mind if I explained my reasoning again from the beginning?”
Sherlock waved his hand in lieu of wanting him to go ahead.
“The floor is yours, professor.”
And so, the detective let him go on and on about the themes of love within the comedy and how Hero and Claudio and Beatrice and Benedick were set up as contrasting commentaries by Shakespeare about the question of true love. How throughout the play it becomes clear that true love is only achieved through trust, commitment and understanding. That without a meaningful connection between a pair, trust can’t grow and easily tear a relationship apart as shown through Claudio being deceived about Hero and accusing her of betraying him. How despite Benedick and Beatrice disliking each other at the start of the play, their previous knowledge about each other’s flaws makes it possible for them to develop a far more meaningful and trusting relationship that goes beyond the superficiality of Claudio and Hero. The whole thing got out of hand at the end there as he started to compare Claudio and Hero to Romeo and Juliet and the many similarities they shared with each other.
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.” William concluded after his extensive explanation. Holmes had been listening attentively to him throughout but had made no comments of his own or moved to interrupt him, content to be lectured.
“And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
He froze as he heard those words uttered back to him in Sherlock’s rich timbre, eyes widening slightly as they stared at the man seated in front of his desk. The last time they had spoken, the detective hadn’t even been able to identify one of his comments as a quote from Hamlet, but now he could suddenly recite A Midsummer Night’s Dream? William’s expression quickly recovered, a pleased look replacing the shock.
“From what I recall the last time we spoke you weren’t even aware of the existence of the play you’re quoting from.”
Sherlock, apparently now aware of what he had said as well, shifted on the chair, eyes more interested in taking in the room than looking at William. There was a new stiffness to the line of his shoulders as he tried to appear nonchalant. The following silence was an answer on its own. Caught him.
“Mr. Holmes, have I finally succeeded in making you read Shakespeare?” He asked, a teasing lilt to his tone as he observed the man in front of him squirm in discomfort. Sherlock scoffed, blue irises meeting red again.
“I may ‘ave read some that guys’ plays. I still don’t get why he’s so bloody popular.”
“Some?” William asked with a raised eyebrow. The fact that Sherlock implied of having read multiple of Shakespeare’s works was baffling when William knew the detective to detest prose and verse.
“Took inspiration from the ones on ya shelf.” He replied, nodding to the side of the room.
“… You are aware that I keep sixteen of his plays in my office alone, are you not?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that you have read every play on that shelf within the last month?”
“I might’ve…”
William stared back at him with incredulity, unable to keep his face from expressing his own amazement at the detective’s words.
“Why exactly?”
“Well, ya keep ranting about him ev’ry chance ya get, Liam. Quoting him in some way or form when it fits. And frankly I wanted t’ know why y’are so enamoured with his writing.”
Warmth blossomed in William’s cheeks at the admission, his heart stuttering once more because of that damned detective. That damned detective that had apparently thought his ramblings important and enthralling enough to warrant research. Who had taken the time and put in the effort to read through almost half of Shakespeare’s existing works just to keep up with him in a conversation and understand William’s personal infatuation. He hid his embarrassment behind a cough, turning his eyes away from Sherlock who was now scrutinising his reaction.
“And you have not been swayed by his works despite your… extensive research?”
“I haven’t changed my opinion that Shakespeare would be more enjoyable if he’d jus’ written his texts in an actu’lly comprehensible language. But I did enjoy ‘Much Ado About Nothing’. Better than all those tragedies.”
“Here I thought you would have enjoyed the dramatics of his tragedies given your personal inclinations to theatricality… I rather think you resemble Hamlet in some of your behaviours.” He replied with a smug smile.
Sherlock shot a glare at him for those words as if comparing him to the fictional prince was a criminal offense. And considering Hamlet’s flaws, William supposed it was in part.
“I would ‘ave never taken ya to be so cruel to me as to compare me to tha’ jackass.”
William had to suppress a giggle at the sour expression that he was now presented with.
“He’s not all terrible, Mr. Holmes. He does exhibit a strong desire for certainty and truth throughout the play. Is that not something that resonates with you? He is quite persistent in his pursuits.”
That seemed to placate Sherlock at least somewhat.
“Possibly. However, I do not agree with his terrible cynicism. Most of his misery stems from the problems he creates fer himself.”
“I would argue that that is rather the point of the play. His internal struggles are a study in the human condition and portray the consequences of overthinking.”
“I feel like the point of the play is rather how easy it can be to let yerself be consumed by thoughts of revenge and how that obsession will only lead t’ one’s personal demise.”
“A fitting interpretation.”
The irony of that analysis was not lost on William.
“Would you care for lunch, Mr. Holmes?” He asked, changing the subject to something less troubling to him. “There’s a new tea shop that opened a couple weeks ago and I haven’t had the chance to dine there yet. And doing so alone is rarely enjoyable.”
Sherlock’s eyes sparked at the question, his lips curving into a sly smile.
“Nothin’ I’d like more. I’m starving.” He replied, jumping up from his chair.
“Have you had a chance to eat breakfast yet?” William asked while putting on his coat, aiming a critical look at the detective after that reaction.
“Forgot to.”
William let out an exasperated huff, turning to Sherlock with a slight frown.
“What good will be London’s master detective to the people if he doesn’t take care of himself properly.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes in response to that.
“Don’t chastise me for it too, Liam. John already mothers me enough.”
“Given what I know of your lifestyle, I believe you deserve to be mothered occasionally.”
“Tsk.”
Grabbing the umbrella from beside the door, William headed out, Holmes following close behind him. The professor ignored the looks they were thrown in the hallway by his students, staring after the unlikely pair. He had already caught some rumours circulating around university due to Sherlock’s more frequent visits in the recent months. William had yet to figure out what exactly those rumours implied, although he could take a good guess at them.
It was still raining as they stepped outside, dark clouds covering any sliver of sunlight. Sherlock looked unenthusiastic about having to walk back out into that weather, eyes shooting over to Liam at the sound of him opening the umbrella.
“I don’t suppose you fancy using your suit jacket against the rain again.” He told him, slightly tilting the umbrella towards Sherlock. The detective shot a grin back at him as he readily stepped beneath the shelter, shoulder bumping into William’s. He hadn’t anticipated such close proximity, but Sherlock seemed to refuse to let any drop of water touch him as they walked. William had to force himself to not flinch every time their arms or hands touched on accident, growing more flustered the longer they walked. It made it difficult to concentrate on the subject Holmes had brought up, complaining about the Alphonse Bertillon method and how ridiculous it was. He only listened with half an ear, agreeing here and there with a hum, but not adding any input himself. Holmes shot him a look somewhere throughout his ramblings, silently questioning his quietude but not saying anything.
When the tea shop came into sight, William inwardly let out a sigh of relief, finally free from being so close to the detective. And yet he missed the others warmth the moment he stepped away, the cold of the rain seeping into his very core.
The inside of the tea shop greeted them with the aroma of freshly baked pastries, Earl Grey, Darjeeling and Chamomile. Sherlock watched as William took in the room, shoulders losing their previous tension at the atmosphere surrounding them. His eyes glanced around the place, noting the rather elegant looking table décor, fine china and well-dressed guests, knowing that he looked out of place in his wrinkled and improperly done up attire. Not that he cared much for the opinion of these highborn pansies. If they had a problem with his clothes, they could stick it somewhere else. He just couldn’t be bothered to waste his time on putting on a tie every morning. And he had never much cared for the societal dress code. Just a lot of peacocking and way to show off your status.
They were quickly led to a table close to the fireplace in the room, something Sherlock was grateful for. He really should’ve remembered to bring a coat with him, the trip back home would be terrible if the weather kept at it like this. But for now, he was seated in a comfortable chair in a warm tea house with the most interesting person he knew. It was no use worrying now; that was going to be future Sherlock’s problem. The waiter that had brought them to the table handed them the menus shortly after and the detective tried to not make a strangled sound when he looked at the prices. John was going to kill him if he spent part of their rent money on drinking fancy tea with a rather lovely professor. Liam did seem to notice his hesitancy when he ordered a cup of Darjeeling for himself. He only ordered that because the place didn’t have any Lapsang Souchoung, quite offensive in his opinion. But the tea he’d ordered would be enough to wake him up, as the three hours of sleep he’d had were starting to catch up to him after the long journey.
“Could you please make that a teapot of Darjeeling?” Liam asked, hands neatly folded over the table and the picture of propriety. They surely contrasted each other wonderfully, Sherlock having one arm slung over the back of his chair in a way too casual manner. “And may we have the full breakfast and a piece of Battenberg cake, please?”
A graceful ‘thank you’ followed the order when the waiter took away their menus and the professors attention turned back to the detective in front of him. The detective in question tried not to show the internal crisis he was having over the order. Sherlock must’ve not been very successful to do so.
“There is no need to appear so stressed, Mr. Holmes. Let the payment be my worry. I invited you after all. And I would rather hope you to actually consume something more filling than a single cup of tea.” He told him, silently chastising Sherlock for prioritising the tea over a proper meal. The detective responded with a sheepish smile.
“Maybe I should let myself be invited by ya more often in that case.” He shot back, having the audacity to wink at the professor over the table. Let it be his imagination, but he could swear that William’s cheeks took on a pinkish colour due to his words.
“I will not for the simple fact that you would come and bother me even more frequently at work than you already do.”
“Oh, don’t be like tha’, Liam. I know ya enjoy our meetings just as much as I do.”
“That is rather presumptions of you to assume that, don’t you think so?”
“Not at all. You’ve never sent me away before the last train so far.”
Well, now he certainly wasn’t imagining Liam’s face gaining colour. A grin spread out over Sherlock’s face at the sight. The other let out a huff.
“Fine, I will concede that you are quite engaging company.”
“No legacy is so rich as honesty.”
“You really do have more of a fondness for his comedies.”
“Fondness is a stretch, but as I said, I prefer them over the tragedies.”
“I must ask, were the plays from my shelf the only works you have read?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a teasing expressing appearing on his face as he watched William’s eyes glint with incredible curiosity. It illuminated the red of his eyes and more than once had the detective felt the urge to get lost in their colour.
“What, reading sixteen plays in a month is not enough fer ya? I do have a job, y’know.”
The matching red of the professor’s cheeks suited him too, he decided.
“On the contrary, I would argue that reading sixteen plays in such a short time minimizes ones’ ability to truly comprehend the meaning of every piece properly.” Liam replied, clearly not letting Sherlock’s behaviour slide.
“That’s what I ‘ave you for, don’t I? To explain ev’ry meaning to me in detail.”
“I will reconsider paying for your expenses if you don’t answer my question, Mr. Holmes.”
“Ya wouldn’t. But fine, yes. Besides the plays I also read some of his sonnets. Got to… 25, I think, before I fell asleep last night.”
“And your opinion on those being?”
“Less arduous than the plays.”
“I fear classic literature is lost on you.”
Sherlock slightly rolled his eyes at that.
“There were a few lines throughout the sonnets I did like.”
“One in particular being?”
“But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, and, constant stars, in them I read such art.”
William hummed at his declamation, a brief unreadable expression passing over his face. They were interrupted by the waiter bringing them their order and the moment passed, conversation turning to the tea and food for a while. It was lovely enough to turn Sherlock’s thoughts away from Shakespeare entirely, thoroughly enjoying the taste of well-brewed Darjeeling, baked beans, salty eggs and bacon, savoury sausages, fresh tomatoes and mushrooms, and buttery toast. It was rare he could indulge to that degree for such a simple meal as breakfast. And most days he did not care or had the time to do so. Something that John begrudged him for every time.
Despite their silence while he ate and William sipped his cup of tea, it was a comfortable thing. Sherlock found that no matter if they conversed or stayed quiet, he still enjoyed the other’s presence far more than he ought to. He ought to stay away considering the suspicions he harboured about the other man, but he simply could not. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he kept returning to Liam, slowly inching ever closer to the danger lurking beneath those scarlet eyes, his wings beginning to shrivel due to the heat, just like his good sense. He knew what awaited him if his suspicions were correct, what William likely wanted him to do. But the detective didn’t know if he could follow through with that want. He had grown far too fond of the brilliant and beautiful mind seated opposite him, even despite the darkness that he withheld from him. And catching him, having him convicted of his crimes, would spell William’s doom and the end of whatever existed between them right now. Once more Sherlock dared to hope that he was wrong, just this once. No matter how unlikely it was for him to be wrong about this. A confusing and frustrating paradox of needing William to be the Lord of Crime, and dearly wishing that he was in fact just… Liam. That their shared future wasn’t doomed to end in tragedy. How Shakespearian. Doomed ever since they had met. He was quite sure William would immensely enjoy the poeticism of it all.
“Would you care to elaborate once more why you are of the opinion that the… Alphonso Bertillon method is an ‘insult to criminology’ as you so kindly called it?” William prompted him after his plate was empty, pulling Sherlock out of his rather dreary thoughts.
He didn’t need to be asked twice, once again jumping into his rant that he had already held in the rain. Sherlock had suspected Liam hadn’t been fully listening. This was the proof.
They quickly fell back into their usual back and forth, jumping from subject to subject, bantering, drinking tea, and all-together forgetting the time as the hours ticked by. Guests got up and left, new ones joined the tables next to them. But the two remained by the fire, entirely enthralled by each other’s presence. William somewhere along their conversation ordered another pot of tea, a sweet Oolong blend.
Evening had settled over them when William finally chanced a glance at the time, eyes widening when he realised just how long they had been sitting at their table. And in alarm when he remembered that the last train to London was soon to depart from Durham train station.
“Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to interrupt, but we will have to leave within the next five minutes or you will not be able to return to your flat tonight anymore.” He told Sherlock, stopping him from talking about his latest case. William’s mind itched to hear the rest of it, to be witness to more of the genius’ mind at work, but their time was up. At least for today. He already mourned their soon separation.
The detective now also turned his head on the wooden grandfather clock in the room, expression mirroring the alarm on William’s face.
“Bugger, why does the last train ‘ave to leave so early?!” He exclaimed, shooting up from his seat while William called over the waiter to pay. Sherlock went ahead to gather the other’s coat from the garderobe, and his umbrella, waiting by the door until William was done with settling the payment. In a previously unknown gentlemanly like fashion, Sherlock helped him shrug on said coat before he pulled him along and out of the tea shop. Thankfully they discovered that the rain had stopped in the meantime, saving them time by not having to open the umbrella.
“We will be faster if we head to the train station on foot! Waiting for a carriage would take too long!” William announced, feet carrying him into the correct direction with haste, Sherlock right on his heels.
Indeed, they reached the train station much faster than he had anticipated, a couple of blessed minutes left before the train was supposed to roll in. It was enough time for them to catch their breath, and for Sherlock to smoke another cigarette. Besides them, there was no one else waiting on the platform. The sun was slowly going down, the orange ball of fire sinking behind the horizon, and tinting the sky in lovely hues of orange, pink and blue. One of the sights that, no matter how often he watched them, never ceased to enrapture William. Neither of them talked, his eyes remaining locked on the beautiful display of colours right in front of them and inhaling the acrid and rich smoke wafting over to him. The moment felt perfectly serene and he wished that he could keep it in a jar, delicately place it next to the plays on his shelf. To look at and cherish it on the nights where the darkness seemed to swallow him whole, where he could smell the metallic scent of blood in the air, where he was never able to scrub his hands and soul thoroughly enough of the sins that he had committed. The simple comfort of Sherlock just being near him could alleviate all of the pain he felt on those nights. It was a startling realisation to come to, now of all times, that there was no one in his life who made him feel more human, more willing to live, than the man right next to William. It stole the breath from his lungs more than the cigarette smoke clouding them could.
His gaze dragged away from the sunset, sweeping over landscape and train tracks, before landing on Sherlock next to him. The sight that he was met with punctured the last bits of air remaining from his chest. Sherlock appeared luminous in the fading light features softened by the orange glow of evening. William wished he could capture him in oil paints, hang it up right above his dresser so it would be the first thing he saw every morning. With startling clarity, he understood now the turmoil he was feeling whenever he was around the detective. He had, against all odds, fallen in love. With Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of the train horn announcing its arrival broke him out of his reverie, eyes snapping over to the approaching vehicle and silently cursing it for being punctual. When he turned to the detective, he had put out his cigarette, squashed out on the ground by the heel of his shoe, his eyes finding William’s. Had he previously been blind or had Sherlock’s eyes always resembled the colour of the night sky?
“Looks like it’s time fer me to leave, Liam.” He told him. And did his face hold a similarly mournful expression or did he simply imagine that? It took a second before William found his own voice.
“I believe we won’t have to suffer of being apart for all too long. You never fail to return to me.”
Whatever had possessed him to utter those words, it was all worth it to see the genuine shock rise up on Holmes’ face, a blush blooming in his cheeks, mouth slightly agape. The shock quickly receded, giving way for a look that William could only describe as adoring. Next to them, the train began to slow down to a stop, but neither of them paid it any mind. Before William could stop him, Sherlock had breached the gap between them, reaching for his right hand. Calloused fingers wrapped around it, lifting it up towards him, the index finger coming to rest on his pulse point. The sensation of skin-on-skin contact made sparks zip over his skin and through his veins. All he could hear was the sound of his heart beating loudly in his ears. And then chapped and dry, but soft, lips pressed against the back of his hand, very close to his wrist. He felt faint and light at the same time, warmth spreading out from Sherlock’s lips to his very core, ignite the embers in his heart and transforming them into a roaring fire.
All too soon the detective leaned back, his hand lingering on William’s before letting go.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
“… that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”
William watched as Sherlock boarded the train, the man turning around in the door to look at him before the train departed.
“I’ll see ya in a few weeks, Liam!” He called over to him, a radiant smile displayed on his face, eyes sparkling with the promise of another dulcet day.
“I will be awaiting you most ardently, Sherlock!”
And despite the disappearing light, William was greeted by the rising sun as a joy so all-consuming stretched out over the detective’s face that it seemed to make him glow from the inside. A beautifully melodious and rich laugh followed it.
“I heard it this time!” Sherlock happily shouted back, voice just loud enough to ring out over another whistle of the train.
The wheels started to move, Holmes waving to him as he left the train station, and Liam on the platform, behind. He watched until he could spot no piece of Sherlock any longer. His skin on his hand still tingled where Sherlock had kissed it.
The sun had finished setting when he left. Sherlock had taken all of the remaining light and warmth with him, leaving William to return to his Durham residence in darkness, his core gradually growing colder with each step. He had never expected to sympathize with Juliet.