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Sherlock starts to wake as sunlight peeks through the window opposite the bed, its warmth falling over his body. He smacks his lips once and rolls to face away from the unwelcome intruder, his gaze coming to rest on William’s still-sleeping form. The blond is lying on his side, facing Sherlock, and the shirt he wears has slid up enough to reveal a sliver of skin. His eyelashes cast the faintest of shadows over his cheeks, his breath coming and going peacefully through parted lips. A moment’s glance fills Sherlock with affection enough to suffocate. Swallowing, he leans forward to press a kiss to William’s hair. They haven’t given a name to what they are to each other, and certainly he wouldn’t be so bold if William were awake. But it turns out that the risk of him waking at any moment is just the right amount to persuade Sherlock to continue, his fingers beginning to stroke through the other man’s hair.
The flat Sherlock had instructed Billy to look for— the one they now occupy— had not been one with a single bedroom to share, but rather had two rooms, each furnished with a double bed. But when William laid up awake in guilt and Sherlock woke in the night thinking he’d lost him after all, it made more sense to have the other close by. And so half a month in, they had begun to share, Sherlock’s things migrating into William’s room. It was something carefully never mentioned to Billy, excuses made to keep him from the room he knew as Sherlock’s, now free of the mess and disarray Sherlock brought with him to every other room in their flat. But still they haven’t discussed whether this secretive sharing means anything, whether William takes comfort in his presence as a friend or as something more. It remains a matter Sherlock cannot conclude upon based on his own intellect. At least, he muses, it had allowed him to be able to witness the mornings like this: William at rest, trusting him with the vulnerability of sleep.
“Sherly?” William’s voice is rough with sleep, bringing Sherlock’s focus back to the sight before him, to the mathematician now reciprocating his gaze. And surely William must recognize the look in his eyes, the yearning he can’t manage to suppress in a moment’s time.
“Liam.” He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. When he opens them again, William is still looking at him, his own expression unguarded. Sherlock lets his fingertips slide into William’s hair, moving to rub his scalp unhurriedly. For precious moments, they lay in silence, the moment too tender for him to dare any action that might shatter it. He examines William’s cherry-red eyes, first the injured one, then the good one. There’s no telling what William is thinking, only that he is intrigued. Sherlock glances at his lips, then hesitates. Certainly there is no hiding his own attraction now. He registers the soft intake of breath only inches from his own face, the subtle tilt of William’s chin towards his own. Ah. So he does feel the same. Sherlock relinquishes the hand in William’s hair to frame his face, then closes the distance and meets their lips.