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On that sunny afternoon, when the steam rose in spirals through the noisy streets, the heat was a common enemy because of the thunderous feeling of suffocation in his dry throat, so Sherlock cleared his throat with increasing difficulty.
He returned from work with fatigue weighing on his eyes and discouragement in every part of his labored breathing, discouragement that did not leave him a minute of respite when he crossed the door of the room of that hospital forgotten by God.
He walked aimlessly, chasing William's ghost, only to find the saturated image of that man lying in bed with a cadaverous face, who was vegetating and made him understand that everything was reduced to his terrible loneliness. He ignored his throat on fire, the pressure in his chest that he didn't know if it was born from the terrible desire to cry that didn't even fertilize a breath of pity, or if his lungs had contracted the seasonal virus due to the change in climate.
The shivers began to climb up his spine and with that he confirmed that he really shouldn't get too close to William if he had a cold. William was in no condition to contract additional viruses that would attack the poor defenses that still prevailed with a cardboard shield and sword in his organism.
He told Billy to stay with William that night, while he stayed in the room he rented for basic matters such as eating and sleeping when he was thrown out of the hospital to bathe or rest, since he could no longer sleep on the arid floor or on the edge of the sick man's bed.
Billy had insisted on decorating it with some furniture and necessities for the bedroom or the kitchen; but he refused to do anything. He used to have breakfast in the nearby cafes or at the charity of some client who noticed his lack of resources, receiving some gifts for his benevolent wisdom and gentle personality, which was nothing more than a substitute image of a past William that he kept alive in his conscience by dint of his obstinacy.
He had as a neighbor a retired military man who could still produce melodies with his out-of-tune piano and every night he used to dedicate songs to the empty corners of his house, which more than once brought tears to Sherlock's eyes on the other side of the wall.
He listened to him while smoking with dry tears in his eyes, laughing bitterly because everything, even music, reminded him of William. He began to write verses and poems that only fateful love could inspire, awakening his soul from the torn and dusty pages that traced the outline of a foul-mouthed man who was actually a true poet. Therefore, he began to compose poems for William every time his heart withered. He wrote on the rough pages of books or the profiles of criminals that Pikerton asked him to analyze. He also wrote on the bare walls of the kitchen and bathroom, and when he ran out of space, he wrote on his arms as a way of fighting his darkest thoughts. Reading the words on the skin of his wrists reminded him to keep going, for William and for himself, and that time would smile on them later. Or at least, that was what he hoped.
Likewise, he hoped not to stay too long in that room that smelled of damp, grazed by rodents and dressed in tapestries that peeled off the worm-eaten walls that made him think of the fact that his conscience lay in the same way.
He lay down on the floor when a dizziness hit him with enough conviction that he was forced to hold on to the wall, before giving in to exhaustion. He curled up on a sheet that served as a bed, shivering from the icy cold that his body exuded, always thinking of William.
He felt the warm tears leave crystallized paths on his face, releasing involuntary and broken sobs, without knowing the real reason for which he was crying. Maybe it was because reality told him that William would never wake up or maybe he had filled himself with so much swamp water that they were the memories splashed by nostalgia, feeling that something swollen and painful had burst inside him. He saw William in every corner of the house, sitting and omnipresent, reading the walls with everything he wrote for him, every unspoken promise, and that mocking time seemed not to want to give their unfortunate souls a chance; but Sherlock knew that they were only ravings because of the fever.
He let himself be dragged into the mud of a trembling and restless dream, until he fell asleep completely, without changing his clothes and hugging the clothes that William had on when he jumped off the bridge, squeezing between his fingers the card that they had found in his heart. Asking that invisible entity that gave William strength to give it to him as well.
The fever left him out of action for several days and if Billy had not had the divine providence to go and look for him when his absence was prolonged, he would have been found dead. He found him with his lips cracked by the fever, his skin pale, wasted, dehydrated, and bathed in old sweat.
He had run out to find a doctor who, upon making the diagnosis, said that he needed to be hospitalized, because his fever had reached a point where he was speaking incoherently and he barely recognized the faces that looked at him.
That was why they used Billy's copy of the apartment key as a survival resource, because he was so deep in fear that William wouldn't wake up, that he was a danger to himself. But it was a lie, because Sherlock still clung to vain hopes despite seeing that body losing more and more weight, the wound in his eye still not healing and fighting the pain that that dead socket would never focus on again. Sherlock learned so much from the nurses - and from Watson too - that after Billy found him lying down, suffocated by an asthma-like cough, he made some concoctions that helped him cope with the body fainted by memories and crushed by hopelessness. Five months had passed and William still hadn't woken up.
The next time he got sick again was when he had forgotten to bring his coat to work and the hint of scratches from the cold awakened even the swear words. He had arrived with the evidence of pink petals on his cheeks, deep shadows under his eyes, and short of breath. When William saw him, he dropped the book he was reading.
“Sherly…”
“Don't come near me, I'll infect you,” Sherlock said, raising a hand to reassure him. “I bought you dinner, but I'm leaving tonight. The last thing I want is for you to catch a cold because of me.”
But William wasn't one to sit around and do nothing, especially when it came to Sherlock, forcing himself to stand up when he only had a couple of days to rehabilitate his walking. He couldn't take more than two steps without having enough strength in his legs. Sherlock was shocked when he saw him, after leaving everything on the table, turning around to catch William, almost falling to the ground. There wasn't much distance between them, so he arrived in time to catch him. He held him against his body, giving him support.
Thanks to that closeness, William understood that he was sweating and his breath was short, but he still checked by touching his forehead and then lowering it to his cheek.
"You have a fever, Sherly," he informed, with a grimace that gradually revealed his concern.
Sherlock wanted to tell him that he was fine, that it was not that bad, that he just needed to rest; however, his voice left him trapped in the web of relief that had William alive and seeing him, he found himself with his eyes clouded with tears and with his hot face falling into William's hand.
“I missed you so much, Liam,” Sherlock said in a whisper, kissing his palm and letting his head fall on his shoulder tiredly.
William felt crushed by those words that held so many cracks behind them, understanding those so many silent cries, those prayers to deities he didn’t even believe in, but which he sought any means to hold on to. He hugged him, feeling the tears also come to his face, apologizing even when he didn’t have to, and Sherlock had let him know it.
They were soon back in bed, William calling the nurses for extra help, enveloped in an aura of anxiety as Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately, sinking into a state of feverish prostration and his body opening up in a shameless delirium that took a whole night to stabilize.
They gave him a room apart from William's to rest in, Billy paying the extra costs even though he was on a mission at the time, so all that was left was for him to recover.
Sherlock felt his mind coming and going, waking halfway, seeing floating and blurred things. He sailed in a turbulent reverberation, hearing words from people around him that were lost in the distance. A cloth was constantly placed on his forehead, under his armpits and at his feet. A worried and familiar voice from the nurses could be heard. William's pleas.
In a moment of consciousness, he had opened his eyes and found a scene of two nurses holding William by the sides, preventing him from reaching him.
“You can't go near him!” a nurse tried to reason with him. “He's going to infect you and in your case it could even be fatal!”
And yet, William stretched out his arm towards him, without listening to what they were saying to him. Without taking into account the warnings or the danger, because all he wanted was to be by his side.
Why? Why was it difficult? Why so many barriers?
“Sherly, Sherly,” William called and Sherlock wanted to go to him. Tell him that everything was going to be okay, that it was just a damn cold and that please, he shouldn't cry in that way that made his soul and heart shudder.
He raised a hand towards William, as if trying to reach him and tried to offer him a smile to reassure him.
“Liam… everything will be okay.” But he had barely finished saying that when he fainted in the mist and fumes, fatigue cracking his bones like a lead rod, letting his arm fall loose from the bed, causing the opposite effect as William fell into a panic attack. They had to assist him as well, when he found himself vomiting what he had barely been able to eat due to anxiety and anguish. It was a hubbub and a doctor and four nurses had to intervene.
They set up a constant lookout and no one could have imagined that trying to keep alive two men with faded names, no papers and an English accent was going to be such a difficult request from the government.
The nurses had to keep William constantly informed about Sherlock's condition and yet he had bypassed the security that protected his partner's room, after putting two nurses to sleep with the sleeping pills they gave him from time to time.
William had leaned on that old, worm-eaten cane, walking with weak steps through the corridors through the soporific silence, leaning on the walls until he reached Sherlock's room, which luckily had no guard at the door.
He found him asleep in a single bed, naked and with many damp scouring pads, feeling his soul returning to his body when he saw him looking better. He sat next to his bed and ruffled his hair that smelled of sweat, but he didn't care. He caught his hand and interlaced their fingers, comforting himself with his thumb on top of his wrist to feel his pulse.
He was alive, he was breathing. Sherlock really had a bold and reckless spirit that could bear anguish better than he could; because if William had kept Sherlock in a coma for so many months, he could not guarantee that he would be able to bear it. He could barely deal with the anguish of having him sick and not with the certainty that he could find him dead at any time of the day.
He brought his lips to Sherlock's forehead and kissed it, then went down to his nose and stopped at the mouth that he always wanted to touch but didn't, because in the end he had lost many of his initiatives and became a pusillanimous man.
He collapsed on Sherlock's chest and cried silently, because he still had a net of thorns around him that did not let him free. He still had the stake of fatal love written in blood stuck in him.
It was only two hours later, when dawn was beginning to break through the darkness and warm the cornices, that Sherlock woke up, more lucid, noticing that William was sitting next to him.
He was awake but noticed that he was struggling to keep his eyelids open, while he checked his temperature.
"Liam—" he called in a weak voice, tilting his head towards William's touch on his forehead and William shuddered a little when he heard him speak.
“Don't strain yourself, you need to rest.”
“You're going to get sick. Don't worry about me...”
William smiled sadly and felt a fist in his stomach.
“It's impossible, Sherly. If something happens to you, I don't know if I can bear it.”
Sherlock laughed briefly, convinced that William was still too irascible to bear a joke, so he decided to sit up by force of his will to hug him. He was definitely stable and grounded, drawing him to his chest and William letting himself come as if he had wanted it all along.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you.”
“Don't apologize, Sherly,” William asked, shaking his head and making a sad gesture. “Don't do it. Please.”
They were so devastated by anguish, anxiety and scandalized nerves that they could only stabilize themselves when they connected their lips in relief to the many wounds of the soul.
The flavor had different nuances of medicine, which made them laugh as they guessed them, immersing themselves in slow caresses and short kisses, that it did not take long for them to forget the world and at the same time, the world to forget them.
It was not until the sun officially entered through the window, filling the corners with light, that they heard one of the nurses bellowing William's name. They looked at each other like children caught red-handed, sprinkled with knowing smiles, and Sherlock told William to hide in the closet.
He carried him carefully, because he still had time before the screams were alarmingly close. The nurse entered his room, ready to take William by the arm or ear, and saw only Sherlock sitting and breathing softly on the edge of the bed.
"What about Liam?" Sherlock asked as if he were disoriented.
"He's not here?" She returned the question with a lash of bad humor that diminished as she realized that Sherlock looked bewildered.
To crown his performance, Sherlock stood up, shakily, painting an urgent expression.
"Where's Liam?"
"Easy, easy. He must have gone out for a walk, as he usually does, and we didn't notice. The nurses I left looking after him fell asleep. Go rest, as soon as I find him, I'll let you know.
And she ran away, because to speak more would be to wrap Sherlock in threads of panic. When the door closed, the detective sighed in relief and heard the creaking of the closet door just as William came out of it.
“Majestic performance, Mr. Holmes, I am touched. Really, the theater must be in mourning for losing an actor like you.”
“Oh, shut up, and explain to me how you drugged the nurses.”
They both ended up laughing, relieved to overcome one of the many storms that predicted their fate.
The third time he got sick, they had been in New York for almost two years and it was Christmas Eve. William was the first to notice, because by then they shared a bed and Sherlock had tossed and turned so much in the sheets because of the discomfort of the fever that it didn't take long for him to wake him up.
He had felt soft hands on his face, thumbs smoothing his cheekbones and kisses that chased away more than sorrows.
"Sherly, you have a fever."
He didn't feel like talking much and all he produced was an incomprehensible murmur.
It already seemed like a punishment, although it was already evident that the waters of the Thames seemed to ruin something inside him too. There was no doubt that his immune system was in retirement, because he couldn't believe that he had gotten sick again. However, William was already prepared, since that time in the hospital, he had asked Billy if Sherlock had gotten sick before and Billy said yes; William asked him if the fever had been so overwhelming that it had weakened him so much and Billy threw him to the lions saying that he had almost found him dead.
William had to hold on to the table, looking at him reproachfully and Sherlock had to excuse himself that he was going to take better care of himself, but for his companion it was not enough. How could it be when he knew that his beloved Sherlock was about to die in an abandoned room adrift and with no one to mourn him?
The mere thought that he could have woken up and received the news that Sherlock had died of a fever was enough to send him to the coffin too, because he was not going to live the new world without him.
Billy had given him the medical prescriptions for the first fever, combining it with other recommendations that he learned from the nurses. William had been aware of the change in climate, of trips to inhospitable lands where ice fragments were breathed, of night outings or sunrises that could aggravate Sherlock's health. What had previously been a joke, which was that Sherlock was weak to the cold when they were dealing with Alan's case, ended up becoming a reality and William began to consider winters as an enemy, so he decided to prepare him with a saint's dedication.
When they first received that frosty blanket, William had already covered the windows first with plastic and cardboard and then with heavy curtains; he had bought velvet rugs for the floor and fluffy sheets; he devoted all his monetary efforts to having a closet just for winter clothes and asked Sherlock to prepare a dressing table in the second disabled room with dust baths everywhere, in which he would keep an entire medicinal armory.
Sherlock had not said anything about his conscientious care and efforts in fighting his weakness now, he laughed from time to time, because that also benefited William. Maybe he ignored it or maybe not, but William was also very prone to getting sick from the bites of a body consumed by vegetative days.
He tired easily and there were days where his right arm, covered with a bandage and which he would have to wear for a long time because there were more scars on his consciousness, hurt him so much that he tried to contain his grimaces when he lost strength. Sherlock had also had some paralysis in the arm that held him on the bridge, but with the rehabilitation of his time, he was able to regain mobility without problem and without pain
So all that was left was to fight against the inclemency of the weather, because Sherlock had already shown impermeability towards seasonal germs or viruses as was supposed. His enemy was the cold. And William had already foreshadowed that consequence, when they had been assigned a mission to Transylvania. It took so much effort to prevent illness during the trip, so he could not believe that they had the bad luck to leave a window open and in an early morning with premature rains after returning from their trip, where the cold entered like a tenacious inhabitant.
William and Sherlock had barely covered themselves that time, because they had been frolicking in bed, feeling like a couple of hurried lovers who needed more hours in the day to love each other, drifting between nakedness and reaching the edges of a splendorous virtuosity. Even when they were exhausted in the exaltation of quiet pleasures, after some lazy and languid kisses, long licks and whispers on the mouth, sliding between sweat and reddened skin, they found a better way to take advantage of the lethargy.
It had not taken long for them to fall asleep naked, with their limbs tangled and Sherlock enjoying the intimacy of being able to caress William's back, all speckled with kisses, and to rest his hand on his bare buttocks.
So, as expected, on the third day, when he thought William had won, Sherlock ended up with his cheeks flushed and his skin in a broth of sweat.
William did not bother to accumulate any remorse, as scrupulous as his personality was, he did not let himself be carried away by anything but concern and began to work. First, he sent a letter to Billy, to inform him about the capricious, ragged precariousness of fate as Sherlock had fallen ill; then, he arranged all the arsenal he had prepared in advance and did not give himself a breath of rest until he knew that he had won the fight against the fearsome fever.
He had bathed Sherlock with warm cloths and many soft kisses, while telling him that he was an obedient patient but in reality, it was that the illness left him totally prostrate. Even to complain. Which was rather strange because mostly Sherlock was the worst patient ever, filling himself with pride and evasions, complaining about diagnoses or fighting against medical prescriptions to invalidate any suggestion; but now he was just a child who was being embraced by the tremors. William let himself be enveloped by tenderness. He caressed his forehead and tied his hair, kneeling in front of his detective to also clean his calves and wash his feet. Sherlock did not stop looking at him with sacramental devotion, despite having his eyes clouded by tiredness. He smiled from the fog of his barely awakened consciousness and William felt naked before that keen attention of a detective busy and with much honor.
"You are so beautiful, Liam," Sherlock said, bringing the hanging blond lock close to his face and holding it behind his ear. "It seems a lie to have you here."
But it wasn't. And William drew him to his chest, kissing his hair with meticulous affection.
"You'll recover," William replied instead, fighting his own fears but resisting the lashings of anxiety with resolute determination.
Unlike before, there was nothing to prevent them from protecting each other, there were no annoying absences, no nurses being obstacles between them; so, in the same way that they had irreverent impulses in bed, they also had such dedication and commitment to taking care of each other.
He had lain down with him in bed, Sherlock resting his head on his lap and had stroked his curly hair to encourage better rest. He kept track of the time in which the medicine should take effect with his pocket watch, checking that some prescriptions were better than others.
Sherlock was barely aware of William's coming and going. He could hear him in the kitchen stirring the pots, the kettle letting out unbearable sobs in his ear that expressed his headache, and he could also hear him taking quick steps to keep the fireplace in its state of exaltation of embers just right.
He drank chicken broth and herbal tea, wanting to recover as much as possible, and by the time Billy arrived two days later, he only had a slight cough that William was already fighting with honey and laudanum tea.
“You survived, Ponytail! I'm so glad,” Billy said, sweating, because he had also rushed to travel to them when he heard the news. “William, you look very tired. Go to sleep, I'll take care of our dear Ponytail.”
“I appreciate it, Billy, but I'm fine,” William replied, obviously lying, because he had dark circles under his eyes, a winter pallor, and his voice was softer than usual. “Were you able to bring what I asked for?”
“Yes! Here you go.” He handed him a basket with some small bottles inside and a feast of fruit. “I had to go to Ponytail's old residence, because we had forgotten to send for cleaning and they thought there was a dead person there. I took advantage and brought you your poems, Ponytail. By the way, thank you for your craft of writing on the walls. Now I must send them to be painted and the tapestries changed.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Sherlock snapped, snatching up the papers in a flash. “Let them be thankful that I didn’t report them for having the rats as extra tenants.”
“And what did you write on the walls, Sherly? I was right that you used to shoot them, but do you also commit such an insult?” William mocked, checking the basket Billy handed him.
“Oh! You don’t know, William?” Billy enthused. “If you saw those romantic and courageous poems written in your name and…”
“Say no more!” Sherlock interrupted, jumping towards Billy and chasing him, completely forgetting the bundle of papers on the table, which William took advantage of in the commotion of the confrontation to take and save to read later. There was a loud crash and when he looked up, he found the two troublemakers watching in panic as they broke a vase that had been given to the mathematician by a neighbor for teaching her daughter to read.
“Look what you did, Billy!”
“It was you, Ponytail!”
With his natural authoritarian essence, William slammed his hand on the table, leaving his companions in a frozen silence.
"I hope that just as you have the energy to create disasters, you are there to take charge of the consequences," he said with crushing calm, smiling in a calm but also… chilling way.
"I'll get one right now, William…" Billy stammered, backing away and going to the door until he disappeared through it.
In the deathly silence, only he and Sherlock remained.
"I'll go too…" the detective began, but he was soon interrupted.
"You're not going anywhere, Sherly, you'll have to wait for me to prepare you a wild cherry bark tonic with what Billy brought me."
"Enough of concoctions, Liam! You're going to kill me! I don't want to!"
"You'll drink it even if I have to force you, Sherly," William threatened with a smile, approaching him. "Don't make me use the ropes we use in bed and use them for real."
And he sketched a malicious smile, leaving Sherlock with his lips tightly, swearing that he would not get sick again for the rest of his life.