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Some people, namely Mycroft, would call the act of Sherlock tying together his bedsheets in the middle of the night, throwing them out of his window, shimmying down, and fleeing on foot to the woods beyond something like throwing a temper tantrum.
Sherlock, on the other hand, would much rather call it for what it is: a tactical escape.
He thinks, although he knows his brother begs to differ, that it is an entirely reasonable reaction to the news sprung onto him so suddenly just the morning before. An arranged marriage? What nonsense—as if Sherlock would ever agree to such an archaic tradition. Sherlock had tried telling his brother as much, but his words fell on deaf ears. In any case, it wasn’t as if Sherlock hadn’t tried any rational methods of getting out of the situation—he had, they hadn’t worked, hence his current solution of escaping, at least temporarily, into the trees just beyond their palace of residence.
“Bloody Mycroft,” Sherlock mutters as he shoves a tree branch out of the way. He doesn’t particularly care about the state of his clothes; he’d already rid himself of any identifying symbols of royalty, and though he doesn’t quite have a completely formulated plan yet, he knows that if he means to make it any further than the border of their lands, he’ll have to make sure his identity remains a secret. If he can make it to the village just beyond the woods, he’ll at least find shelter and something to snack on. Sherlock’s no pampered ponce, but still, he thinks he’d rather avoid a night within the trees if he can help it.
And after that, well. Sherlock still has to ponder a bit his subsequent movements. Mycroft is sure to throw a big fuss, and Sherlock only hopes he can find some way out of the mess before he finds himself trapped not only in a loveless sham of a marriage, but also at the mercy of a very disgruntled brother.
Sherlock pushes past another tree branch. The cold night around him grows colder, and Sherlock suppresses a slight shudder. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have left all identifying material back at the palace—there’s a rather thick cloak with the Holmes name embroidered on the inside of the fabric, and Sherlock thinks that he wouldn’t rather mind having it with him at the moment. Alas, he has no such cloak with him at the moment, and so he walks on against the biting breeze.
Sherlock is so determined in his path that he almost misses sight of a faint light in the corner of his vision. He turns to squint at it, but it’s too far to make out. He’s almost certain that he hasn’t made it close enough to the village yet to be catching sight of it, and Sherlock has always been nothing if not susceptible to mysteries. With a huff, he begins moving towards the light, slowly and cautiously.
Once he’s nearer, he can tell that it flickers—a fire, then. He peers from behind a tree to find an open sort of clearing with a single person tending to a fire in the middle of the area. A few feet away, if Sherlock’s making out the figure right from the darkness, there’s a carriage attached to two horses. A man is dozing peacefully in the driver’s seat—Sherlock can’t help but wonder if that isn’t an awfully uncomfortable position to sleep in.
After his appraisal of the scene, Sherlock makes to slip away quietly. He takes a step back, but his foot lands on a stray twig on the ground, and it makes a loud snap.
The man at the fire straightens. He turns his head, only slightly. Sherlock freezes.
“Is anyone there?”
Sherlock debates his options. On one hand, he could back away despite being noticed and continue his trek through the woods. On the other hand, he could reveal himself to this man—clearly of noble descent himself, clearly on his way to the palace—and at least get some warmth back into his skin.
One is a lot more appealing than the other. Carefully, with both his hands raised in the air, Sherlock steps out.
“Hello,” he says. “Sorry, don’t mean to intrude.”
The man at the fire eyes him, clearly a bit on guard, but he relaxes when he sees Sherlock’s openness.
“Hello,” he greets back cautiously. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Sherlock flaps a hand in the air. “Just passing by.”
The man stares at him. “At this time?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Felt in the mood for a midnight stroll, I suppose.” He eyes the fire between them not-so-subtly. “It’s awful cold out here. Mind if I warm up for a bit next to you?”
The other man hums. “Go ahead.”
At the approval, Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to plant himself on the log opposite the fire. He sighs contentedly once the warmth hits his skin.
“William,” the other man says abruptly. Sherlock looks up with a blink. “My name is William. And yours?”
Sherlock hesitates. He can’t very well give his real name, not unless he wanted Mycroft at his heels the first thing in the morning. “John,” he says after a brief pause, mentally apologizing to his friend for temporarily borrowing his name. “So, what brings you to these parts?” It’s obvious from the other’s appearance and demeanor that he’s en route to the Holmes palace, but Sherlock can’t recognize William at all—he may be generally unaware of the politics surrounding the royal affairs, that was Mycroft’s job after all, but he is still rather good at recognizing the frequent visitors. This William, here, is most certainly not one of them.
William’s lips curve into a polite smile. “I have some business with the royal family,” he offers—some sort of administrative arrangement with Mycroft then, most likely. “Unfortunately, I fear I underestimated the time it would take for travel. Hence…” He waves a hand to the space around them.
Sherlock squints at him. “You’re royalty yourself, aren’t you?”
William blinks. “What makes you say that?” he asks carefully.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “For one, your manner of speech. Second, your attire.” He gestures at William’s clothes. “That material isn’t from around here. Which means you either imported it—a pricy endeavor—or bought it from its source location. It’s more likely the latter, especially because your driver is wearing the same fabric.” He pauses to grin at William. “Now, I doubt you’re importing fabric especially for yourselves and everyone who works for you, right?” He shrugs. “Plus, if it’s taken you longer than a day’s travel to get here, you must be coming from quite a distance away—and you say you have business with the royal family here? No diplomat would go to such lengths, not when correspondence is entirely more efficient. No, the only reason anyone would go to such lengths is if you,” he leans towards William to accentuate the point, “are royalty yourself.” He leans back with a satisfied smile. “Am I right?”
This time, the smile William gives him in return is a genuine one that softens his expression. “Terribly astute of you,” he murmurs, clasping his hands in his lap. “Yes, I am, in fact, royalty, as you so cleverly deduced.”
Sherlock’s grin turns a little more smug.
“Now, then,” he’s surprised to hear William continue. “I suppose it’s my turn.”
Sherlock blinks. “What?”
“Your manner of speech seems, at first thought, to be similar to those in the village—perhaps you spend much time there? It is your vocabulary, mostly, that gives you away; that, and your approach to deduction, make it evident that you have had a royal education or its equivalent. More telling though,” William continues with a significant lookover, “is your manner of dress. Nothing but a dress shirt in this weather, at this time? It’s rather peculiar, almost as if you had left your residence purposely bereft of identifying sigils. You might have even succeeded, but you forgot a single element.” He taps his finger. Sherlock looks at his own finger, eyes widening when he realizes he never took off his ring. “I assume it’s a matter of sentiment, or maybe you were in a rush to leave, or maybe both. Either way, such a piece of jewelry is rather indicative of your actual standing…” He trails off with an enigmatic smile. “Am I right?”
For a few moments, Sherlock can only blink, speechless, before he breaks out into a loud laugh.
“Well, Liam!” he exclaims with a wide grin. “You’re rather astute, too, aren’t you?” He pauses. “Liam is fine, right?”
“Of course,” William says. “And I would call you John, but I suspect that is but a misnomer. Would I be correct in assuming so?”
“Yeah,” Sherlock admits with a shrug. “Caught me there.”
“Pardon my curiosity,” William starts, “but is there a reason you’ve taken to escaping in such a fashion?”
Sherlock scratches the side of his nose. “It’s a long story,” he mutters. “Basically, though, my brother wants me to get married. Me, I think it’s hogwash. So…” He trails off and spreads his hands in the air. “Here I am.”
“Here you are,” William murmurs. “Then, it is your distaste for your arranged partner that drives you here?”
Sherlock frowns. “No, I don’t even know who they are.” He shakes his head. “I just can’t stand the idea of getting married to some dull tosser, I mean—” He leans towards William with wide eyes. “Can you imagine how terribly boring it would be?”
William hums. “I do see your point,” he starts. “But would it not be more prudent to wait until after the engagement to take such a drastic measure as fleeing your home?” He tilts his head to the side. “There is, after all, a possibility that your arranged partner is someone other than…” he gestures towards Sherlock with an amused smile, “as you put it, a dull tosser.”
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “I doubt that,” he mutters. “Honest, Liam, I’d only be able to tolerate them if they were someone…” He trails off. “Well, someone like you, I guess.” He flashes William a grin. “I don’t suppose you’d want to marry me instead?” he tries.
William laughs, a light and quiet thing. “How forward,” he teases. “I am certainly flattered by the proposal, but I am afraid it wouldn’t be quite right of me to accept as of this moment.”
Sherlock deflates in his seat. “Worth a try,” he says with a shrug. He glances around at the trees that surround them, glances at the fire between them, then sighs. “I guess I should be getting back.” After this conversation, Sherlock doesn’t trust that he has the resolve to continue trekking aimlessly through the woods, and the thought of Sherlock’s bed is only growing more and more appealing in his mind. Escape, it looked like, would have to wait, as William suggested. Sherlock stands up with another sigh, stretching his arms in the air. “Nice meeting you, Liam.” He tilts his head to the side. “Maybe I’ll see you again?”
“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance as well,” William says. He smiles. “And perhaps you will.”
With a final wave, Sherlock heads back for the palace. By the time he makes it back to his room, his limbs are weary and his mind wearier, and yet the last thought that flashes through his mind just as he succumbs to sleep is the fleeting image of piercing red eyes illuminated by the fire light.
A few hours later when Sherlock wakes up, he feels terribly, unbearably groggy. His few hours of dreamless sleep apparently wasn’t quite enough to account for his impromptu midnight stroll, and he feels the toll of it across all his limbs. Still, he goes through the mechanical process of getting ready, scowling at himself in the mirror when he remembers the ordeal he has to go through today. When he hears a knock on his door as he fidgets with his collar, he rolls his eyes. It’s Mycroft, no doubt, coming to nag at him about punctuality.
“I’m coming,” he bites out. There’s a pause, then another knock. Sherlock lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I said,” Sherlock says, tugging the door open, “I’m co—”
Sherlock blinks.
“Oh,” he says. “Hi, Liam.”
William smiles. “Hello, Sherlock.”
“Err,” Sherlock says, tugging at his collar again. “I think you got the wrong door.” He sticks a thumb down the hallway. “Mycroft’s the door at the far end there.”
“I know.”
“Err,” Sherlock says again. “What?”
William’s smile widens. “I apologize, Sherlock. I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely comprehensive in my introduction when we first met.” He dips his head slightly. “William James Moriarty.” He looks up. “That is, your betrothed.”
Sherlock blinks once, twice, thrice in rapid succession. “You—you’re—” He shakes his head. “When you said you had business with the royal family, you—you meant this?” His mouth drops open. “You knew—you knew the whole time, didn’t you?”
“Perhaps,” is William’s innocent answer.
Sherlock lets out a breathless laugh. “Unbelievable.” He grins. “But you’ve already rejected me once, dear Liam,” he says dramatically. “What am I to do if my own betrothed doesn’t want me?”
“Don’t you remember my answer, dear Sherlock?” William responds in kind. “It wouldn’t be right of me to accept as of that moment—this is a different moment, is it not?” He tilts his head to the side. “Why don’t you ask again?”
“Then, what do you say, Liam? Marry me?”
“I’d be most delighted, Sherlock.”