Chapter Text
When they announced their marriage, William barely changed his expression. Standing in front of the mirror, surrounded by an arch of women brandishing the art of makeup on his face, although it was not necessary because his unprecedented beauty did not need any support, he did not see the need to take a charitable look at the ochre envelope that had the royal seal. No one seemed moved by the news, so infected by the spell of the groom's impassiveness that congratulations did not even come out of courtesy.
William got up from his chair when he was ready, never opened the letter and when he went to his charity presentation, he threw it into the fireplace without a hint of resentment.
The wedding took place ten months later, in Westminster Abbey Cathedral, in a media celebration that put the eyes of the world on them, as a union promised and consecrated since ancient times.
The London sky, covered with clouds, seemed to defy any forecast. The meteorological predictions, vanished like a white dream, were irrelevant before the relentless advance of time. It was as if the atmosphere itself wanted to oppose a wedding that seemed more the result of a whim than a considered political decision. Despite this, faced with the warning and the need to reverse the announcements, both grooms agreed that they did not care about the bad weather, being for them the festivity only a public entertainment. It was a truth, since Prince William II and Prince Sherlock I, behind closed doors, barely spoke to each other a couple of times. And all the occasions, of a protocolary nature with a crowd of spectators that did not even allow a minimum space for flirting other than frivolous formalities.
The union between the second British prince and the Monegasque prince William II Moriarty wanted to transform Westminster Abbey into a meeting point where French elegance would intertwine with British pomp, while English roses would mingle with the delicate white carnations of the Riviera. The efforts were so tireless that postponing the celebration now would be a terrible waste of resources that no one wanted to afford.
Thus, despite the ominous signs, a date was chosen that did not correspond strictly with the initial wishes of the kings, but in accordance with the protagonists, the day of St. George, patron saint of England, was chosen to magnify the meaning of the party. The London spring, with its magnolias in bloom and the renewed greenery of the Kensington Gardens, which was to offer a perfect setting for the ceremony, was spoiled by the strong, unseasonable gales that broke banners and floral arrangements. The loss was present in the end, but more so because of the ravages already predicted.
Consequently, the windows had to be closed to prevent the rain slanted by the wind from entering, causing a scorching heat. Most of the gathering of guests tried to take shelter in the cathedral to get relief from the roar of the enraged thunder that made the walls shake, breathing a dusty wind that disrupted much of the royal entourage, the cortege and the red carpet - which was to escort the Monegasque groom - ended up being so desecrated by the mud that it was unrecognizable. William observed through the carriage how even on the day that he was supposed to pretend the greatest happiness, he was in a shipwreck mood.
Even so, he asked his fiancé that the wedding should go on, because everything was going according to his plan, as each guest had to join in a calm truce to escape the rain, sitting as they could, mixing up the names of the guests, and the reserved places in the royal houses were dispersed in a promiscuity of force majeure that, at least for once, contradicted social superstitions. Many were laughing at the precarious situation and others were sunk in a lethargy of exhaustion, because even escaping the leaks was an indomitable effort.
With this, William II crossed the rain with an invincible smile, arm in arm with his brother King Albert, bearing the misfortune of having a wedding in the middle of a downpour as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, showing the composure and poise of his easy-going character so as not to give in to adversity.
The press was barely able to record and broadcast the wedding on national television, becoming a stellar procession of gossip in columns, programs and weeks on the covers of magazines as the groom arrived soaked to the altar, making Prince Sherlock smile, who rarely did so and who passed him his handkerchief to dry his face. For those who knew the insufferable character of the second British prince, this small gesture was taken as a good message that this marriage was ordained by God and not as a dishonor to the royal line because there would be no heirs. The great old conservatives had been in total disagreement that a union of two men would take place in a church that followed the sacred commandments, but King Mycroft had faced the reluctance before when he decided to change the Law of Succession, and whether it was a same-sex couple or not, it would have the rigorous criteria that a royal marriage demands.
Many were shocked that Prince Moriarty was pouring water on the whole gala, criticizing the House of Holmes for not canceling the wedding when the winds were already predicting a storm; but no one knew that it had been the Monegasque King Albert who insisted that it take place that day and King Mycroft, who had no lack of reasons to reject it, agreed because it was one of the few demands they made.
It was the biggest wedding of the year, but also the saddest.
However, William was enjoying the show when they sat in front of the altar and Sherlock had noticed in those evasive glances, in that cherubic smile, in that crimson look that revealed a silent cunning to mock the situation, that he was quick to weave his own conclusions. He didn't say anything except to ask for a fan to relieve the heat a little, but he ended up using it to fan his fiancé, who seemed slightly surprised because in the little time they had spent together he barely gave him a greeting that wasn't terse answers or icy monosyllables.
When it was time for the "yes" and the expected kiss, William wearing a damp veil despite wearing his family's military uniform, they intertwined in a gentle union that tasted of mint and road dew.
"You planned all this, didn't you?" Sherlock whispered after kissing him, looking intrigued and understanding why they had insisted on these dates.
"Don't you think it's the best way to unite our families?" William didn't deny it, looking amused and a cat-like smile decorated his lips. "I wanted my wedding to be remembered and I achieved it."
"You're interesting, Liam."
"And you still have more to get to know me," William murmured with a smile that was woven with shrewdness. "I hope you can get used to it soon."
Sherlock laughed loudly, throwing his head back, making his tied hair flutter. No one seemed to understand the joke and tried to get closer to hear his words, but Sherlock didn't mention anything else on the subject until the whole spiral of congratulations was over, looking at his new husband with a knowing look.
Moving to London was the hardest part of the plan, but also the easiest, William thought. He just had to get used to its humid and incessant climate, the fog sweeps, the waterlogged streets that looked like silver mirrors, and a grey sky that seemed to be in constant rest because the sun barely came out to illuminate the cypress trees.
A month after getting married, William was in his room looking out the window, immersed in his thoughts trying to decipher the last meeting he had with his royal majesty. The words were concise and without hints of appeal when Mycroft decided that William and Sherlock would not have a honeymoon.
Neither of them had a voice to say otherwise and it was not as if they were eager for it. Likewise, as the wedding ritual was necessary, William had prepared for the wedding night. He had moistened his thighs with hazelnut cream and golden frost, chosen a translucent robe that could show off the lines of his body and bathed in perfumed water that even left its traces in his hair. And, to his surprise, when he was in the velvet bed covered with a blanket that was supposed to mark the flower of blood of consummation, he found himself trembling with his virgin modesty with the idea assaulting him that he was under imminent rape.
It was the only thing that twisted one of the acts of his plans and he tried to calm down, understanding that everything had a purpose, that giving himself to Sherlock in a mess of flesh and sweat was only to further escalate his purpose. However, Sherlock when he entered his room untying the front of his uniform and found him pale as a sheet, his expression twisted.
"Don't worry, we won't do anything." His voice was devoid of any kind of emotion. "This is the main room and it will be yours. I will sleep nearby. You don't have to serve yourself the lies we have been raised with. Here, in this house, you are free. Let's pretend beyond the doors and here you can hate me if you want."
He didn't give him time to answer, leaving without further ado, leaving the room plunged into silence that was pierced by the weak ballad in the background that must inspire the night, leaving the scented candles lit that William put out to agonize after reasoning what happened.
William dropped onto the bed and placed an arm over his eyes. He couldn't believe he had hesitated in what he never believed he would do, as if protecting his body from desecration was something worthy, when it was he who dipped his threads into the chamber of nobles so that the second princes could marry men because they did not compromise the royal line. No one would know apart from his family that they needed to get their hands on British royalty, because they needed to give up certain services, but also to weaken it from within.
Due to these current times, thanks to the tireless marches of same-sex love pride, the monarchy, to ensure its preservation, had to be permissive with the acceptance of love in different instances and that the people also receive acceptance from above. They were already in a century where kings were only decorations for events and only a few countries still kept them. There was a tense situation about how British society was being seduced by a change and that they should be governed by a parliament elected by the people.
Thanks to this, William had been instilled from an early age that monarchies should no longer exist nor should they be maintained with the money from those lands that no longer belonged to them. The land belonged to those who worked it. They were already in a century that needed a change. Someone who really did not want to survive, but to care for their people. It had been a job that he had been stubborn about since he was a child, bending the laws thanks to alliances with his country, since he found out that the second prince was a boy. Everything had been easier if one of the two was a woman, it would have saved so much bureaucratic change and years of resolutions between the laws. His plan to be able to reach the heart of royalty to discover the real reason for Lady Moneypenny's death. His family was sure that the previous queen, who William did not even want to remember, murdered their first envoy who was destined to marry his son Mycroft. The news that it was an accident was not even considered by anyone. The world knew she was murdered by the British crown, but no one really used their advantage to question it.
Lady Moneypenny had won the favor and love of the people, became the queen of the British heart, and the Moriarty royal family wanted revenge for her early death, eliminating what they so protected: power. Through that bloodlust, William had planned since he was ten years old that he would marry Sherlock Holmes by any means possible. And he could not believe that in the end he found himself shaking like a leaf at the thought of the nuptial commitment.
He had brought them to this even when Sherlock did not seem interested in men; but as a token to satisfy an increasingly demanding society. There were also many more additions and the people had blessed that union. William did not have to put his hands in there, because the communities repressed by conservation already had more and more influence. Time was quick to prove them right.
Sighing, taking out his phone, he sent a message to Albert telling him that the gap between him and Sherlock would take time to close.
Albert replied not to strain himself and that everything would be fine. William read the message, deciding to smoke a cigarette to relieve the stress, forming spirals that could trace his abandonment. He deleted the message so as not to leave any evidence.
He had started off on the wrong foot and now he had to make amends.
Living in that region flanked by finely pruned trees and long gardens outlined with floral decorations, fountains that sighed tears in arches and a three-story mansion with all the comforts so that he would not have to go out if he did not feel like it, made him think about the impossibility of approaching Sherlock in this way without revealing his desperate glimpses. William was patient and had enough time to reach the heart of the younger prince. He knew his tastes, his weakness for chemistry, his studies abroad and a large part of his life thanks to the fact that the identity of the royal family was public.
Many had told him that their personalities would collide, that this marriage would bring nothing but shame to both surnames for such initiatives, but William was willing to bend any iron if necessary for his plan. So he didn't mind waiting to find out where to stick the stake in the prince's heart to intoxicate him with the false love he needed, even if there were so many uncertainties about that marriage so rushed and with tangled mysteries, that it seemed as if one of the houses did it to cover up some premature carelessness.
At the commemorative events, they were the perfect couple. Sherlock always had a hand on his waist or lower back, while they smiled at the cameras with those expressions of feeling happy being with each other. Not only in appearance, because they also represented a game of contrast, but they soon discovered that they could follow his line of thoughts as if it were practiced. However, it was not the case and even for them it was almost an unbelievable fact, smiling between the blinks of privacy and understanding that perhaps that game was a little fun.
Inside the home, William took the lead as in ancient terms a wife would do, arranging the decoration and also the guidelines on the control of the workers.
At first, this was being delegated to a man named Patterson, whose shrewdness and scrupulous work could shoulder not only the accounting of the prince's finances but also the overall direction of the household. He was a good man and William was quick to win over his ideas, because a month after his marriage, on a cold morning when he came downstairs after a restless sleep because a reading had robbed him of the charm of a peaceful sleep, he found the servants in chaos with halos of panic because the rice for the workers and also the vegetables had run out.
William had entered the kitchen hearing the collective concern and asked politely what was happening. The first to speak were the matrons who had looked after the Holmes for generations and spoke with such a strong accent that William had difficulty understanding them. Even so, he needed only a few pieces of evidence between an empty piece of paper, open sacks with barely any residue in the pantries, the stove turned off... and then he understood the situation.
"Does anyone have the permission record to order food here?
"That is handled by Mr. Patterson, but due to a family problem, he was absent for a while. His Majesty is also unaware and we do not dare to call him," said one of the maids, one of the youngest, with a docile character and a casual look, whose name was Mary. "If that is the case, the workers will not be able to eat between today and... tomorrow."
"Why is that not controlled directly by someone from the internal workers?"
And not by a noble.
The women lowered their gazes in shame.
"I'm sorry, my lord, but... no one here knows how to read or write."
William opened his eyes slightly in imperturbable surprise. It had to be a joke. How could someone at this point not know with so many technologies that offered the ease of knowledge? His educational vein lit up, but he decided to appease it for the moment. He ended up sitting at the table where only the workers would be, who panicked and told him not to sit there but in the study, but he ignored them.
"Does anyone know the amounts for the request?" he asked, starting to write on a piece of paper that was given to him.
"We have to go to the sheds in the granary, you know. That's where we keep all the food packages," answered one of the old women. "I know what's missing more than anything, but the amounts change according to the season."
"Is there an accounting record for this?"
"There must be, but that would be in Mr. Patterson's office."
William decided not to drag the matter out any further and deducted an initial amount based on the active workers, and also reserves for the winter. He was surrounded by the matrons who served him his favorite tea, learning little by little the demands of the prince consort, and providing him with a warmth that turned that kitchen into a refuge of confidences. Sherlock had arrived early that time, swearing lightly because he hated meetings with his brother, seeing the scene from the doorway but not daring to interrupt. When he was about to leave, William watched him from the corner of his eye and greeted him.
“You’re early today.”
Being caught, Sherlock walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder in greeting, while he scanned the kitchen situation, understanding the problem had worsened.
“Shit, I forgot about that.” He put his hands to his head in a weary gesture. “I’ll go see what’s missing to make the request today.”
“It may be bold of me, but could you help with this?” William asked in a manner so respectful that it almost seemed sacrilegious to refuse.
“I have no problem with that. I’ll tell Patterson to teach you.”
“One more thing…”
“My, what a demanding husband I have,” Sherlock mocked with a playful smile that made his head tilt and accentuated the shadows of his expression.
There was a giggle in response.
“Can I teach them to read and write?” He pointed to the small sect of women Sherlock lived in for sport. "It seems like a bullet to their studies that they don't have that basic knowledge."
Sherlock shrugged.
"If they don't have any problems, go ahead. Don't force them.
"I'm afraid I've already considered preparing my rope to tie them to the chair if any of them resist." And he looked sweetly at the women who were quick to fall into the trap of his seduction: "I hope it's not necessary."
The kitchen was filled with warm laughter. Sherlock was quick to say goodbye to hurry up the matter they had left abandoned for a few minutes. William stood up from the chair with his serene poise and asked in a voice that invited confidence:
"Can I go with you?"
"Do you want to come?" Sherlock seemed slightly stupefied. "It's quite dusty there. You're going to get dirty."
"That's not important, do you want me to remind you of our wedding?"
The memory provoked a crystalline laugh from Sherlock, which he accompanied with an affirmative nod, savoring the memory, and ending by extending his arm. "So, come with me, Liam."
William let himself be led with a smile, resting his hand on his husband's arm.
As they left together, the maids watched the couple, commenting among themselves that they hoped they would be a good marriage and not one of the many fateful hells that had brought misfortune to the Holmes name.
Sherlock was exhausted by royal events. In the salons of the London aristocracy, where protocol was in the air like a dense, still air, he felt that every royal event was a trap designed to suffocate his true essence. Born into the concavity of a noble family, he was supposed to accept with grace the rigid ceremonies of the crown, but his spirit, undisciplined and voracious by nature, was fighting against the social mask.
The protocol receptions at Buckingham Palace, the Trooping the Colour meetings, the diplomatic banquets and the charity galas became a real torture for him. Smiling until his cheeks hurt, holding empty conversations, maintaining an impeccable posture... all of it represented a performance that consumed him from within. It was a reminder of the suffocating etiquette that imprisoned him, despite his restless and nonconformist nature. The nobility, with its sumptuousness and circumstance, was for Sherlock an artificial world from which he longed to escape when William and he had spent all day under the spotlight of the cameras, under the representative frames of the new generation that was opening up to change. A part of that marriage was so empty and acted. They both knew it but they had not put their hands on their hearts to admit it.
He slipped into the silent corridors of the mansion, still with his military jacket open, wandering with a glass of brandy always thinking that this marriage was a mistake. And it was not because William did not awaken some thought in him, because from the first moment he knew that he would marry a man and not a woman, he was grateful in the bathroom that his pleas were heard because the female gender had long caused him repulsion.
He had not refused the hasty preparations or the amendments of the new laws with the warnings with which many repudiated his union; However, far from all rejection, Sherlock liked to cause a stir, so the idea seemed hilarious to him, to get into such a lifelong relationship with the Monegasque prince that it seemed like a silent victory.
William had a parsimonious manner and a willful character, it was not difficult for him to win the hearts of half the country, and the portraits of the two of them in the weekly magazines were the best sellers. There was no doubt that they were becoming a product to sell and he had received some compromising letters with unfounded stories about creativity in impossible scenarios.
Far from being an inconvenience, Sherlock thought about his husband and how his profile had some holes. He had taken him as a buried playwright, with the heart of a child, a passive character and a defined solitary vocation. But all those threads began to attenuate with the coexistence between them and he began to suspect that there was something behind it.
Mycroft had already warned him on the day of the wedding about the conjectures and uncertainties that he brought with the Monegasque kings and no one will ever find out that he insisted on him to cancel it. They could bring the hopeless dishonor, the breaking of political ties and the shadow that could fall on the family name due to the social affluence that wanted the success of that marriage so that other kings or royal heirs who also had secret loves could venture to come to light.
Despite his brother's suspicions and his warnings, it seemed to Sherlock a good chance that things had to change in that society and William was his only chance.
"There is a possibility that they want to kill you," Mycroft warned, frowning. "Sherly, it is dangerous."
"It makes you angry that you could not control this marriage. And that you cannot influence my opinion here. If you want to cancel this wedding, you know you can do it; but at this point, we know that your hands are tied as well."
And that was how he led the Monegasque prince to the altar, perhaps both were using each other for a purpose, so it did not bother him. After all, that was the crown.
He went to William's room, noticing that he had left the door open and after sneaking in, without the will to announce himself, he found his husband asleep in bed still in his formal clothes.
Sherlock couldn't help but smile, seeing that exhausted face, crushed by the day, and he was quick to approach to look for a blanket in the closet to cover him. He didn't consider it appropriate to undress him, so that simple gesture didn't cost him anything and wouldn't weigh on his conscience. One of the maids in charge only of William's needs was cleaning the room a little and it was there that Sherlock noticed that there was a vase near the bed whose contents were some lilies, and some with more vitality than others. Which meant that the vase was constantly being renewed.
The maid saw his gaze fixed on the ornament, and like the spell of women who could guess the strings of the heart, she told him that the prince liked white lilies. Sherlock nodded with his indecipherable expression and took the vase, taking out the flowers.
Two hours later, there were three new ornaments in William's room and all with freshly cut lilies.
In the symphonic daily routine of silences, every morning William began to receive a new flower in his vases. At first, he felt suspended in a moment of ethereal perplexity because Sherlock was not one of those affections and there was a silent pact, a regime in mutual agreement, that it was not necessary to pretend that they were a happy marriage. Their conversations were comfortable and he could not deny that sometimes he liked to share the snack at his side while they rambled on about the news summaries on their phones.
As the days went by and the flowers began to arrive, along with books and other details that caressed William's heart, he found himself waking up early one morning and going to the kitchen in search of help.
He had been received by Martha, the old dinosaur with a marked accent that William understood better with living together and had sat at the small table as usual to drink her routine tea but this time she was pushed by other more select motivations.
"What kind of food does my husband like?" she asked after taking a sip, on that cold morning when William no longer knew the last time he saw the sun.
The old woman smoked in silence, lost in her thoughts as if studying the question and allowing herself a puff, weaving with the same dedication the modest lunch for the workers and the opulent banquet reserved for the princes, she answered:
"My lord is not exquisite in food. He tends to get bored quickly. In addition, he eats very little."
William received that information with a raised eyebrow. Certainly they did not share meals together, except for the occasional dinner or perhaps the Sunday lunches that were the day of rest and he had not paid attention to that small detail. He always believed that it was just a way to avoid him.
"Does he have any medical control that can help him with his eating disorder?"
The old woman pondered the question.
"You know, my lord. The prince is very secretive and barely leaves his office when he is not studying some real cases. His royal majesty asked us to always bring him snacks because that would keep him going. Although he always drinks coffee, that is routine. He had to go to rehabilitation to kick the cigarette habit and I won't talk about how half the servants wanted to quit those days."
William let out a little laugh, a mischievous echo that seemed to caress the silence.
"Will you allow me to prepare breakfast for him?"
The question made the old woman drop the spoon along with a curse from the bottom of her chest. When she recovered, she wiped her hands on her apron with clumsy gestures.
"No, no. How can I allow that? Better tell me what you want to do and I can prepare it."
But William was already next to her, putting on an apron as well. There was no way anyone could make him desist otherwise. So an hour later, he found himself entering Sherlock's room that still lay in semi-darkness with a tray in hand, while opening the windows that looked out onto the lovely garden. William noticed with some astonishment that the sun had risen and sketched a small smile.
Sherlock seemed unfazed by the sweep of light, but not enough when William sat down beside him and woke him with soft caresses.
There was a low murmur, almost a pitiful moan.
"Liam...?" Sherlock acknowledged when he rubbed his eyes, a complaint fighting on his lips and there was not enough strength to express it.
Faced with the confrontation of the imminent name, William's lips engaged in small dubbings. That way of calling him had been when they had barely met and although he had received reprimands about it, Sherlock continued to call him that.
“I brought you breakfast, why don’t you eat some?” he said softly.
Sherlock shifted in the sheets until he sat up. William couldn’t help but laugh at how disheveled he looked.
"I'm not hungry... I ate a lot at dinner," Sherlock said in a sleepy voice and with that impassive look of the man who had refused the gestures.
"You're not going to want the breakfast I made you, which is from my land?" William tried to reconcile the facts. He wanted to prove that the same man who left a flower every morning on his moonlight dressing table was the same one who was in that bed surrendered to the darkness of that room impenetrable to anyone other than its owner.
"Did you do it?" There was an irony in the blue eyes that was disguised as a subtle mockery. "I didn't think you knew how to cook."
Taking advantage of the disbelief, William placed the tray on his lap and sat down next to him.
"I will feel very hurt if my husband rejects my good offer." Willian placed a hand on his chest where the golden ring could be seen, an ancestral jewel that had cost enough to buy three furnished houses. What was worse for William was the certainty that that was the ring that Lady Moneypenny wore. "And I must feel lucky that... you won't, right?"
Without falling into those pretensions because Sherlock was not one to let himself be entangled by courtship, he agreed to take a small piece to taste his palate. Reserved for unbridled reactions, Sherlock limited himself to smiling faintly.
"For a prince, you're not doing too badly."
It was more than he expected and William couldn't help but smile ecstatically. In the process of getting up with his objective accomplished, Sherlock took his wrist in a subtle touch, leaning a little towards him.
"Would you like to go out for a walk today? It's one of the few times the sun has come out. Maybe I can introduce you to some places.
The stone blocks begin to fall and William sees the man who erects the name of Sherlock Holmes. Immune to urging, flirting and even frivolous before the specter of love, William knew he was gaining ground in the area.
"I would love to.
Little did he know that a sharp blade cuts both ways.
Two hours later they were disembarking in a park far from the hubbub, the rules and perhaps even the false appearances, because when William was sitting on a blanket that they left to rest on the ground was when Sherlock let out the real reason why he brought him there.
"What is your goal, Liam?" The question was crushing and he said it without the slightest tremor in his voice. "I think you should tell me now."
William was surprised by the virulence of that statement that almost seemed like an accusation, but he did not let himself be compromised by that voice of broken glass and sketched a calm smile.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Sherlock dropped down next to him, crossing his arms behind his back. His eyes wandered over that rarity of the open sky, as rare in London as the sweet gesture that illuminated his face.
"Liam, you must know by now that I am not stupid. Just as I know that you are not either." Sherlock observed him sideways, the seriousness in his expression recovering old shades of tiredness. "If my brother accepted this marriage it is because he also wants to find out what you want and it is his way of controlling you. Or, rather, of holding you hostage."
William had already suspected that scenario. However, he kept his words to himself, because it seemed that Sherlock was not finished yet.
"We're the first princes who've broken with tradition and gotten married. It's only a matter of time before the Curia turns its attention to us." He sat down and took William's jaw to bring their faces closer; his terrible and beautiful blue eyes locked onto him. "Yesterday a note arrived from the Nunciature: the Pope, that reactionary old man chosen after a controversial conclave, has publicly accused us. He can't change the Act of Succession or remove us as head of the Church of England, but he's threatening to launch a diplomatic and moral campaign against our family. He's already begun mobilizing conservative Catholic sectors within the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, and pressuring allies in Europe to isolate us internationally."
That piece... had already begun to move. Magnificent. William intended to kill two birds with one stone.
"I'll be honest with you, I have several ideas about your objectives, but I only want you to confirm one. If you want our country's monarchy to lose credibility, I'm fully prepared to help you."
Faced with the offer, William did not give in even to the temptation. He shook his head and folded his hands in his lap. He was surprised that he had discovered part of his plans, which encouraged a flame of excitement that pricked up his spines with concern at the imminent danger.
"I am apparently married to a man with a wild imagination," William finally explained, narrowing his eyes. "But I must assure you that, without any basis for your accusations, I have nothing to say. So far, nothing proves my involvement, nor my actual innocence. It is up to you to dictate the verdict on whether I am or am not what you say; but what is a fact is that you have just threatened me. I can bring an accusation against you."
"Do it," Sherlock challenged with dapper integrity and master of his nature. "I want to see you throw away your own plans. It suits you and is in your interest to be married to me, Liam."
William considered taking those words and showing that he was not in anyone's hands, that he could find a thousand ways to reach the crown, that Sherlock's path was only the most feasible, but he was careful of any gesture that seemed like a show of his musings. He didn't say anything else and they didn't talk for almost a month.
The flowers kept coming, but William started throwing them away.
William couldn't say with typing precision when he fell in love with Sherlock and how their relationship went from being a nest of silences and evasions, to being so dependent on each other that he couldn't go a day without knowing where they were, or being together.
It happened at the time when they had already been married for seven months and their relationship only got worse. They barely spoke between meals or when they met in the hallways of that mansion so big for them that they could last a day without coinciding even if they were both there. William knew that the real wall to break down was not changing the royal laws, gaining the favor of marrying the second eager prince or even awakening the fangs of the Vatican; the undoubted challenge was being able to win the favor of Sherlock who had offered him that help that he took as a trap.
He had been investigating through his network of subordinates about any change within the Holmes' private circle that would prove the veracity of Sherlock's words, but he could not find anything other than vague arguments. His royal majesty spared no effort when protecting the confidential information of the family and even of Sherlock, who was only known for his studies and his tastes, some public snubs, but otherwise so clear that he remembered why marriage was the most feasible option.
He had relished the idea of getting a divorce or at least proposing it, because he did not like the symbol of Sherlock feeling that he had power over him when in reality it was the other way around and he found himself with the reasoning that really if he did that with only months of marriage, it would be a victory for the royal council and the chamber of nobles, and he had not yet reached its center to find out about Lady Moneypenny's death. Perhaps this social explosion could serve to dictate an ultimatum to the monarchy. William knew this, but he also understood that it could have fruitless consequences for the Holmeses. He did not want to even imagine public executions in the 21st century, although everything seemed to point in that direction.
William tasted with a bitter taste that... he didn't want Sherlock to die. He didn't know when or how he developed that feeling, but he considered it. The death of the Holmes was perhaps an inevitable event, one that was without shadows of doubt, without haste or outbursts. However, he would also use his sharp mind to avoid it. He was not a bad person and he wanted to prevent unnecessary casualties. That was all.
And as if it were a premonition from some entity that wanted to clear the fog over the uncertainty of his thoughts, an incident occurred. It was at a commemorative service for Commonwealth Day when there was an attack by an uprising of a group of people who were soon beginning to gain influence, but it was just a few activists with weapons made from fireworks that only served to generate chaos. It didn't amount to much, the real security was an impenetrable iron fence, but it had been Sherlock who had broken free from his grip, as they usually pretended to do on the outskirts, mocking the mass of protection when a little girl had been left adrift by an angry crowd and fleeing from that group with fake weapons that they were quick to suppress. The problem came when Sherlock couldn't escape from the congregation of that panicked mob and had no choice but to use his body to protect her, staying under the trampling. William had lost sight of him when the security service sent them to an isolated place, having to reduce himself to calling him on his cell phone but he soon heard the device drifting off the road a few meters away, with the screen cracked, still resisting one last minute of the final death kick with the call, before it was turned off forever and sent to voicemail.
He didn't show an outpouring of fear, but rather concern escaped his expression, asking everyone he saw in the shelter where Prince Sherlock was. When the order was given to return, William still couldn't find him, limited to not being able to search for him on his own, so he didn't hear from his man until the night when he was brought to the house covered in bloody sheets with wounds all over his body. He had a broken ankle, bruises on his head and four broken ribs.
The doctors worked voraciously and it was the first time in months that William found himself alone with His Royal Majesty Mycroft, and he barely had enough nerves to be a good host. However, there was no need, because Mycroft noticed the trembling in his hands and it was he who offered him a cup of tea.
"Please don't, I should be the one to offer it to you."
Mycroft sat down in front of him in the hall.
"I don't know whether to call you a good actor or if you really care about my brother."
William received the irony without a trace of sarcasm, and anger after months ignited from the depths of his belly.
"I don't know who you take me for, but I don't wish death on anyone. Least of all on the one who by law and vows is my husband." He raised his hand showing that shining ring. "Our marriage is nothing more than politics, and yet, Sherlock is still my partner and I have to worry about him as much as I have to. Please, limit yourself to those comments in bad taste."
Mycroft was not surprised, instead he smiled. The discussion branched off to other, more impartial topics until the doctor returned and announced that Sherlock was out of danger. They had both gotten up to go to the patient, anxious, but taming their rebellious pulse, until they reached the chambers. What had been just a room that William had only been in once when he brought him breakfast, was now a medical chamber and Sherlock was tied to cables everywhere, his face scratched and swollen and his ankle in a cast. He was awake, fighting against the claws of the anesthesia, reminding him of the image of how he had not cared to be in that state just to protect a nameless girl. His defenses dropped even further when, without seeing him and with a voice of glass, the first thing he managed to string together was a question:
"Is Liam… okay?"
And just hearing him mention the integrity of his state above his own was enough to place him in the hands of compassion. He felt an irresistible urge to start things over from the beginning with him, even over the misgivings of both of them, and he hurried his steps towards Sherlock without caring that there were other spectators, losing control of his self-control to reach him to hug him.
No one could take as an act the way he surrounded Sherlock with his arms, encouraged by the laughable fear of imagining how the crowd had passed over him, taking great care not to awaken new ailments and inspire unprocessed affection.
"How could you risk yourself like that…?" William's voice trembled.
Sherlock raised his arm and stroked his back, patting him lightly to reassure him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you… Aren’t you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Holding his cheek with a calm look and the most exhausted smile ever seen on that steely face, Sherlock said:
“What a relief.”
In this way, it was not clear to Mycroft if this mutual concern was based on love or on the comfort of the political agreement that had black hands behind it.
Neither Sherlock nor William knew either. What really transformed them? The doubt persisted between two possibilities that occurred at the same time: the event itself or the days and nights dedicated to his care. The temporal coincidence between the two factors caused the change in their relationship irrevocably and forever.