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It had been a long time since William had attended the extravagant gatherings of the nobles, whose opulence was highlighted from the gold-framed doors to the chandeliers that sent flecks of light to the vases filled with roses that left a scattering of petals on the floor. The ladies looked like peacocks, decked out in feathers and their borrowed jewels, with perfumes that seemed to attract suitors with pointed fingers and friendly personalities with fortune-hunting smiles.
William did not like this nest of falsehoods, although he had learned to deal with them. To sketch a smile with subtle creases and hold each movement with a calculated elegance, without abruptness, just a nod of the head in agreement, never expressing any emotion in an excessive way. To show absolute serenity, even when nerves were frayed. To observe without staring too hard, just enough to appear interested without seeming invasive. In conversation, to speak with moderation and calm, each word carefully chosen, avoiding trivial or overly passionate topics. To listen discreetly, nodding only occasionally, always leaving a subtle but unbreakable distance between himself and the others. Every detail, every gesture or pause, William knew by heart. Such was the conduct of a nobleman who was only silk skin that hid the true stench of what those frivolities and twisted hearts were.
Albert knew how to swim better in those poisonous waters, unlike him, who used to get overwhelmed internally and always wanted to run away.
“This is not my place,” he thought. “My place is a classroom and people who are hungry for knowledge.”
He sighed, swirling his champagne glass and Albert noticed his downcast air. He chuckled, a slight ringing that makes the ladies who hang around like carrion birds blush, while he placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You've been on so many missions, but a simple dance leaves you like a bird out of the nest, brother?”
A fleeting glint swirled in the folds of William's lips, barely a whisper as the joke did something to his expression.
"On those occasions, I have things to do with my hands or my mind. Now, it's just—"
"Boring?" Albert finished for him with a raised eyebrow as he took a sip from his crimson goblet that resembled blood so much. "Banquets always are. I hope this year's food tastes better than last time."
"Brother, I think it's time you revealed why you brought me here. I'm sure you have better plans than just hearing me sigh and run away from the ladies' indecorous groping."
The allusive glow and that playful smile with which Albert dressed his lips confirmed his suspicions; however, he did not let it manifest more than a polite nod and in a calm voice he said:
"None apparent, Will, except the plans for you to leave your office and get some air. Not the best in London, but being in these circles helps us remember our purpose.
"Or go to the East End."
Albert was going to say something when a small circle of shouts from ladies was heard behind them. The brothers did not turn their heads immediately, it would be indiscreet to show curiosity, so they just moved away to the table that occupied the entire width of the room, surrendering to a culinary mosaic so extensive and sumptuous that its limits were lost in a labyrinth of delights impossible to catalog.
"Oh, finally he did come," Albert said smiling.
"Who?" William asked, without seeing from that distance... until he recognized him in the crowd.
He did not know if it was just what Albert was referring to, but William forgot his surroundings when his eyes found Sherlock Holmes next to his brother Mycroft.
He was wearing a polished blue tuxedo with gloves, wearing a celluloid collar that was closed by a bow tie. William was lost in the sea of contemplation, noticing that he clung more tightly to his glass and decided to take a drink - the first of the whole night - because his throat was beginning to feel dry.
He was not surprised to see Sherlock sporting that bourgeois skin that was so out of place with his image of someone who did not have the money to pay the rent and William sometimes helped him silently by sending him cases so that he could survive the demands of the month; what surprised him was those impersonal eyes that smiled calmly, that tilted head that barely moved when women asked him questions and that smooth serenity of someone who knows how to handle the rules of the world.
He was struck by the fact that at no time did he see him open his mouth, so all he did was express himself through the depth of his expression and a slight tremor that was found in the corners of his lips, closer to a secret than an expression.
William needed to know why he acted like that. That was not Sherlock.
Almost without realizing it, his feet pushed forward and Albert seemed to follow him while he chatted with who seemed to be a colleague from the army.
When they reached their meeting, the ladies moved to a corner and stood waiting to steal a conversation with the Holmes brothers again. Mycroft Holmes, at their side, so scrupulous in his dress and his consecrated air of a serene personality, that despite being surrounded by a curious crowd, he hardly seemed affected. Although he seemed expansive and cordial, he had a solitary character and a heart armored to feelings, just like his younger brother, seeming like people from another world who speak of the truth more than someone can bear.
"Count Moriarty," Mycroft greeted with a smile in his eyes that were blue but with a haze of authority. "It's curious to see you here today."
The resemblance between the brothers was undeniable, thought William, staying away because he should not approach Mycroft yet, although his soul and heart fluttered with the unbridled desire to reach Sherlock, had to wait for the right moment.
"I am also part of the army, my dear director. It's good that you have blessed us with your presence," said Albert, half-closing his eyes and modulating his voice to another intonation. "What surprises me, on the contrary, is seeing again—"
And his seductive green eyes, with that amused smile, fall on the figure of Sherlock, whose response was only to nod to Albert and raise his glass towards him.
Why didn't he speak?
William, with his back turned so he wouldn't be recognized, pretending to take one of the grapes from the trays, tried to decipher this enigma. He doesn't look sick and instead... he looks like another person.
Mycroft answered for him, while watching him with an obvious triumphant smile.
"I have a feeling I once had the opportunity to introduce you to each other."
"I'm afraid not, but I've heard a lot about London's best detective," Albert conceded. "I'm surprised he's so silent this time."
"True," Mycroft admitted, smiling. Despite the invisible armor he wore every day and that had adhered to his face like a second skin, it was enough for his brother to be at his side for his eyes, guarded by shadows, to regain their lost glow, the same one his mother had inherited before she died. "Look, Sherly, the Count has questions: why don't you talk to him?"
Sherlock frowned and William wanted to laugh when he saw him press his lips together, formulating through his silent tongue all the curses that would make the saints shudder. His worries left him when he understood the situation and let out a small laugh.
The director was really... abominable.
Albert also had understanding on his face and laughed subtly.
"It seems to me that you are falling victim to your elder brother's wiles, aren't you, Mr. Holmes?"
In response, Sherlock massaged his head and showed a glimpse of his true personality before feeling his brother's sharp gaze piercing his neck.
"That's what happens to losers, isn't it, Sherly?" Mycroft drank from his glass, glancing sideways at his brother. "Straighten your back."
And Sherlock tensed like a rod reluctantly. William needed Albert to take Mycroft away so he could talk to Sherlock. Well, "talk."
And as if illuminated by a connection that didn't seem to be congenial to blood, or perhaps by Albert's benevolence in giving Sherlock a break, the latter decided to sketch a smile as he turned to Mycroft.
"May I have a few minutes of your time? There is something I wanted to discuss with you. Unfortunately, it is of an urgent nature, which cannot be made to wait any longer.
Smiling and letting himself be fooled by Albert's banal excuse, Mycroft tells Sherlock before chasing the nobleman's steps.
"Don't forget our agreement, Sherly." He put a finger to his lips. "Losers don't talk."
The words fall according to their weight in that lake called pride and Sherlock looked away, letting out a silent snort; then, he composed himself, taking a breath from the bottom of his belly and slowly his features became distorted. William watched with some amazement as the effigy of Sherlock Holmes, that casual detective who has no protection from rules or good vocabulary, left that body to emerge as a man whose dignity was manifested in every measured gesture. He didn't know that Sherlock could have that quality of acting, which made him more interested in him as if it were no longer possible.
Out of Mycroft's range of vision, William approached Sherlock with some reserve, letting that sly smile that always anticipates his best ideas appear and that was only a crack that did not allow a glimpse of so many of his afflictions and that sleepless sadness that would follow him daily.
Only when he was so close to Sherlock did he notice that a fresh breath of lavender preceded him and not the stench of cigar smoke that was more of an identifier in the fabric of his clothes.
"I find it a little disconcerting that the great Sherlock Holmes frequents these parties, dragged by a leash by his older brother," William announced, taking another glass of champagne from a tray that passed by him when he had forgotten his own in the other corner.
Sherlock opened his eyes in slight surprise and tried to make a sound that never came out, clearing his throat subtly to dispel that break in his performance. He managed to cover up that impropriety with a nod and extended his hand in a vague greeting. William was going to enjoy this.
"Oh, aren't you going to say hello to me, Mr. Holmes?" William asked smiling. "Has our last meeting on the train left you with such a bad impression of me that you've decided to stop talking to me?" Sherlock shook his head repeatedly and cleared his throat as if he wanted to speak, but only let out a small sigh. Frustrated. William could see the spiral of emotions swirling around his expression and tried to keep his lips from betraying him with the hint of a smile.
"Could it be that he was offended that you lost to me in that thinking game?"
Calling that thinking game murder was a frivolous thing to say, but he, who had inherited from his family the gift of dressing cruelty with silken words, knew that under the mask of nobility all barbarity could be named with the delicacy of a sigh.
He received no answers and the detective rigidly maintained his vow of silence that had sealed his lips as if condemned to death. William wanted to know how many limits he had. He took another step closer and looked for his gaze that lay low as if he were crying out for some kind of help from some entity on the tiles, cursing his destiny or his brother... Although knowing him, it could be a cold cocktail of everything mixed together. William could only feel sorry that it did not match the well of malice that made him laugh at the detective's new chains, in imminent defeat before his older brother, repressing only a little the haughtiness of that spirit and using the virulence of pride to his advantage.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Calling him, Sherlock seemed finally inspired by the prodigal mind and approached him, making a sign with his hands for him to take off the glove. William hesitated. Not because he had anything to hide, his hands were perfectly clean, as those old scars from childhood had almost disappeared. The only thing that was dirty was his conscience and that was a sufficient factor to make him back off. Even so, Sherlock's pleading expression... with those velvety blue eyes and that smile of firm folds that transformed into a net and captured his designs, were enough to break down the barriers in which he had surrounded his heart. He took off the glove, fulfilling what he asked, because despite being a man entrenched in written reality, sunk in stormy sessions of guilt, Sherlock had an ability pushed by the winds of his spirit that made him realize that the world seemed to regain its shine when he was by his side and that the sacrifice was worth it. If only he had known him before and perhaps he would not have chosen that path of blood; but real wisdom was not worth it if it could no longer be used.
What was true was that the only thing he was aware of was that he and Sherlock were adrift in the undertow of a world too slow for their minds, too innocent, perhaps ignorant or disconsolate, leaving them abandoned by their intelligence and whose end was only resigned to the breaths of nostalgia.
Trying to control his trembling, William placed his bare palm in front of Sherlock and the latter used his finger to trace some words that sent shivers down his spine and he had to take a deep breath to keep his composure.
“I always come to these parties with my brother, but I think you've already realized that it's not of my own free will”
William had already imagined that information. Sherlock's finger was still in his palm and William wished he could close his hand to capture his.
"Why does he force you to be in that vow of silence?"
The finger that had the skull ring and seemed to be attached to that skin continued to move, slower and softer, and William began to believe that it was really a bad idea to communicate like that.
“Because my mouth is too viperous for these sensitive spirits called nobles. And I already got into trouble once. He thinks I look more decent when I'm quiet”
He couldn't help it, the professor let out a barely audible chuckle.
"One last question.
Sherlock cocked his head curiously, expectantly.
"Why does he force you to come? You're not from these circles, I see. Now that I remember, you were at the Noahtic too."
"They're both related: my damn brother. At the Noahtic, he told me to go because 'something interesting' was going to happen; at these parties, he does it more to annoy me. I'm the violinist on duty."
Something interesting...
William underlined that information in his head. That meant that Director Holmes realized that Albert moved MI6 for that operation. Does he know that they were behind Enders' death? If someone from MI6 spoke, they could get wrapped up in a web of problems that would spoil all their plans. They needed Director Holmes' silence at all costs.
Those thoughts were a flicker in his head and he sketched a smile on his face to avoid those thorns that would later take more attention. That night, he only wanted to pay attention to Sherlock.
"Oh, so, will you be showing up today?"
Sherlock nodded and did a number with his hands.
"If it's in thirty minutes, shouldn't he be getting ready?"
Of his own free will, he put his hand back in front of Sherlock so he could draw on it. If only he could also draw caresses and those feats that make even the most cautious gasp. Realizing his thoughts, he internally denied those insinuations.
"I have time. Besides, I'm with you."
William tried to make those words have no effect on him.
"I'm afraid I don't want to steal any more of your time."
And he turned to walk away, because he needed some air. Being with Sherlock for too long caused him to break all his principles and turn his will to ashes. He wanted to be with him. He wanted to leave everything for him. Again, those intrusive thoughts that awoke on the train and William can't allow it. He can't allow those seeds to germinate inside him and destroy what he so loved. He worked hard for his entire life.
He was running away, not from an external shadow, but from the one he himself projected: a spectre of regrets that followed him faster than his own steps. Each breath was a restrained sob, each memory a wound that opened and closed, burning him from within like embers that did not allow the comfort of oblivion.
He took refuge on the balcony, seeking that the cold of the night would give him some comfort and that his heartbeats would find their course, bringing his hand to his nose, noticing that… he still smelled like Sherlock.
When Sherlock stepped onto the stage with his instrument already in hand, there was barely an expression on his face. Whenever Mycroft forced him to perform, Sherlock would always take his violin out of tune and play the worst piece in his repertoire to ruin the ears of that petulant audience without a hint of mercy, filling the room with murmurs and dry expressions, but no one dared to say anything out loud. Mycroft's shadow still fell over him like a protective halo, making it impossible for anyone to complain or let out sounds of dissatisfaction.
No one flinched when he picked up his violin, and the conversations, the laughter, the flirtations, and perhaps even the groping under the darkness of the skirts, made him seem invisible. It didn't matter. Sherlock had long since grown accustomed to that. In fact, it was just what he wanted.
He positioned the violin under his chin and tapped the strings with the bow, checking their condition. It was popular law among musicians to always check the intonation of their instrument, to fraternize with the touch and find a refuge between the curves of the deep ebony body. With his fingers he checked the condition of the strings, dragging a vaporous sigh that was the announcement that it was ready to be used. With that, he decided to give his emotions to his instrument and let it sing them for him.
He slipped the first long note, letting the sound be a reverberating echo because it was his sarcastic way of telling the audience: you are idiots. Then another followed, where he criticized them for their chimerical appearances and called them brain-deprived.
He wanted to use his tongue, disabled by his brother's regiments and punishments for his bad behavior, for a retaliation, because good listeners will know what he can transmit; but instead, he ended up sinking into a sorrow that had no future and that had the name of a nobleman who seemed increasingly unattainable to him. Sherlock played a song dusting off the memories he had abandoned in the depths of his heart. He used the strings to open those wings and admit that he loved someone who vanished from his hands every time he wanted to reach him.
He closed his eyes and wanted to tell through music the story of two impossible lovers who could never touch each other. A love that could not be. The silent cry of those who love and are not heard.
He played on his violin when these lovers met adrift on a ship, under the vestige of a glow from the top of the lamps, in the company of an angel who witnessed this meeting. But... these two people were from different worlds. Of unequal classes. Of different souls.
And then, realizing this, the angel cursed them.
He condemned them to go through the world calling each other without listening to each other. To be separated by different mountains and never be able to jump to the other. The lovers refused to decide their destiny by the dictates of a divine being and fought against him. They ran, ran and ran, trying to reach each other... but each time, the distances were longer.
The angel, angry that these two lovers continued to seek each other, decided to call them by the names of Light and Darkness and deposited his power to show them that they could not be. However, the lovers did not heed those orders, they were fierce spirits with lethal interests, and when they finally managed to be close again, Light asked Darkness for his name, but Darkness only smiled at him.
“You know it, even if your mind doesn't remember it”
And it was true. Light knew his name. Light felt like he knew his name even before he met him. Before he knew he loved him, before he was born perhaps, because destined loves can cut through the threads of life.
“You can't love him”, said the angel.
But Darkness didn't listen to him and used his hands to push the angel out of his way. He snatched the truth from his mouth and pushed him into perpetual silence. That way, Darkness would always know where Light would be; but Light would never know where Darkness would be.
It was a punishment.
And yet, Darkness forced the torn pages of his battered life and found Light again on a train lost in time despite the warnings that he couldn't continue to outwit the angel. It didn't matter, if he could see him again.
Light glows in golden fireflies every time he sees him, but he doesn't know that this is slowly killing Darkness. But Darkness can bear it. He doesn't mind dying in Light's arms, if he can be with him a little longer.
It was a mystical journey, to lands that didn't matter and with the same destination.
"I'll die soon," Darkness tells Light. Because the more they were together, the more they hurt each other.
"I'll die with you," Light replies to Darkness.
The music flowed from Sherlock like silky breath floating through the listeners who had stopped talking, the song slid through them like the whisper of a loving mother, like the kiss of a saint, as he composed the song of his life and the pain of his spirit.
The end of the chorus came, telling how Light and Darkness meet the angel, enraged, who separates them again. He throws Darkness into the abyss and Light into the heavens.
“Seas and lands, heavens and hells will separate them, and your hands… will never meet”
That was the command. That is why day could never meet night. That is why light and darkness could never be together.
Still, they cheated. In the transition of separating, Light can meet Darkness for a few moments. Precious minutes that are an eternity and they love each other, as no one could ever see, turning black and white into a spiral of colors when dawn breaks.
Or so humans say, but don't believe them.
It is Light and Darkness loving each other… for all eternity…
When he finished playing, Sherlock had tears in his eyes and covered his face, unable to escape his pain. He decided to face it and drink from that cup full of thorns. For a musician and for a listener, the song would always have a different meaning because the heart decides to adapt it to personal experiences.
Sherlock emerged from the unfinished dream and noticed that everyone was watching him. People were still, as if the song had penetrated the ice shells they carried in their hearts and melted their wills. Sherlock saw faces in tears. Women at their husbands' chests, men holding on to their pride so as not to break; but it was impossible. Every human who had truly loved could understand the song of Light and Darkness; their story of loving and losing each other, and loving each other again, in just moments stolen from memories and inventing new worlds where they could be together.
Then, a murmur of released sobs emerged like a breeze. Dead souls come to life with the shock of reality.
Sherlock strikes his strings with a broken smile and says without words:
"Relax, they will continue to find each other... as long as there is dawn. As long as the sky has color and there is still a canvas to paint"
Then he looked for William's gaze among the audience, finding him, because Light was always going to find Darkness and he wanted to express that with his eyes.
“Right, Liam? Will we continue to meet? Will we continue to defy that angel called destiny and be able to be together?”
And with that silent declaration, but firm enough not to need to be expressed in words —because feelings are not made to be spoken—, and only the Holmeses possessed the language of the heart in their hands, the bloody handwriting of a poet's soul; applause came.
A thunderclap that breaks the silence.
A barrier that breaks.
Wings that open and beat the ground.
Light has found Darkness and has told him I love you.
But… Has Darkness heard him?
By the time he got off the stage, he decided it wasn't wise to seek out William right away. At least not yet. He needed to pull himself together from what he had composed and expressed, for he knew he still had traces on his face from how he had broken down on stage. It was the curse of musicians.
Not long after, Mycroft appeared next to Count Moriarty, with scrupulous etiquette and admirable restraint. Especially William's brother.
"Allow me to congratulate you on such a piece, Mr. Holmes, I've never heard anything like it."
"You haven't heard a musician by vocation, then."
However, he kept his expressionless face, still having to brandish that mask of etiquette that he had to promise he would do, and nodded unhappily. Only when he narrowed his gaze a little, he noticed that the Count had red eyes.
Sherlock didn't know how to feel. At his side, his damned brother stood with his back straight and his face like...
Wait.
He contained his surprise, but not enough to hide it, when he noticed that his brother's right tear duct was wet. He honestly didn't think anyone could understand what he was playing, but apparently he was wrong about that profile.
"You didn't sing, but I thought you did," Albert announced, smiling.
"Sherly, it was a spectacular piece. Did you write it?"
He nodded solemnly.
"When?"
Today.
He shrugged.
Sherlock didn't know what happened next, or rather, he ignored it, because the ailments of an audience he doesn't know didn't concern him. The dead will take care of themselves.
He abandoned the conversation when he noticed that more nobles wanted to congratulate him and he didn't want to receive any congratulations for what he considered a lost love.
Sighs could still be heard among the groups and certain calamities began to occur: a woman in a corner was clutching a photograph to her chest and had died of sadness. They found her body not long after, discovering that what she pressed to her heart was from an old love she had and could never be.
The room was filled with a stench of nostalgia. They began to talk about lost loves, lovers evicted from the corner of memory because there were statuses that should not be broken.
A baron shot himself in the bathroom and the noise filled the room. They found him with a letter in his pocket saying that he married out of duty and not out of love, no longer able to bear the misfortune of being with a woman he hated. The song was truly a stake to the heart. A curse. It stripped away the dusty memories and called for the tears buried by resignation. There was a sepulchral silence. A silence of respect for those empty tombs where faded names of those impossible romances were buried.
When Sherlock finally found William, he was leaning on the edge of the balcony, his velvet face illuminated by the moonlight.
William did not turn to look at him.
He did not say anything, and it was not as if he could, but William was his voice.
“That was… a beautiful song, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock perceived the broken nuances between the words. The lump in his throat. The tightness in his chest. But he could barely see more. Because William was a wall for him, his expressions were difficult to penetrate. Still, he could see him. He could see the true effigy of what this character was, who was more than a math teacher.
Outside of all protocol, beyond the fact that they had only met twice, since he felt he had known him all his life, Sherlock shortened the space that separated them, hugging him from behind as if he heard the senseless and unspoken pleas.
William pressed his hands on the balcony railing, still without putting on the lost glove, drowning in his breathless breathing, however, without letting anyone see the nature of his brokenness.
Through surrounding his body with his arms, Sherlock felt him tremble, as if he were resisting that stifled cry that refused to let out. He had lost his smile and his eloquent character and had also sunk into a silence of despair, a silence of resignation, of loss, which Sherlock did not interrupt because through the song the seeds of rebellion had also dried up.
William raised his hand and held the arm that was on his chest, turning his face with small quartz crystals sliding down his cheeks. They were the saddest tears Sherlock had ever seen and would ever see in his entire life. "It's the saddest and most beautiful song I'll ever hear, Mr. Holmes. And it's true, Light and Darkness can never be together.
Sherlock shuddered. Even without singing, William understood everything he had written through the notes of his violin. What he carved with the blood of his heart.
"So, let's keep looking for the dawn, Liam."
And with that, stealing only a few forbidden moments, protected by the smile of the moon with its blatant silver frost, Light and Darkness joined their lips in a harmonious, forbidden kiss, seeking a kind of agreement with life and finding shelter in those silken lips that would make his bones tremble.