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“Can I buy you a drink?”
William glances to the side at the man who has slid himself into the seat at the bar next to him. “Pardon?”
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man repeats with a boyish grin. He’s actually quite handsome, with dark hair framing cobalt blue eyes. William’s never thought to have a type before, but this man might just come close.
That, and there’s something about him that flickers recognition in William’s mind. Maybe it’s the curve of his smile, or the way his eyes twinkle even in the dull light of the pub around them, or maybe it’s something else entirely. Either way, William thinks there’s no harm in taking the handsome man’s offer, so he tilts his head in a slight nod. The other’s grin widens, and again, William gets the strangest sensation that he’s seen this specific picture of joy before.
As the other man calls a bartender to order drinks, William indulges himself in another look. The man’s fingers are lithe in a way that indicates practice of a stringed instrument, most probably a violin; even within the pub, William can catch a hint of smoke lingering on the man’s clothes that suggests a particular habit; and although his manner of dress is somewhat slapdash, William can gather from the ease in which he carries himself that he is of at least a middle class standing.
These deductions, William picks out as he observes, and yet they come so easily to him and without doubt that again, it feels more like a memory than a deduction at all.
“Do I know you?” William finally asks, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
The man turns to him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Not yet, you don’t.” He breaks out into another grin. “The name’s Sherlock. And yours?”
“Sherlock,” William repeats under his breath.
“Yeah, I know,” Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. “Like the detective books. What can I say, mum had a sense of humor.”
“I don’t suppose…” William hesitates. “You have a brother named Mycroft?”
Sherlock lets out a rather aggrieved sigh. “Yeah, I do. Unfortunately. Consistency, and all that, I suppose?” He regains his cheer quick enough, leaning towards William again. “And you?” he asks again.
“William,” he offers after a beat. Sherlock hums.
“You don’t look like a William,” he says, to which William can only blink at him, bewildered. “Can I call you Liam?”
“Ah… if you’d like?”
“Well, then,” Sherlock says, brightening when the bartender brings their drinks over. He nudges one to William and takes the other into his hand. “Cheers, Liam!”
“Cheers,” William returns, albeit a bit more subdued. They both take a sip from their respective drinks, with Sherlock enthusiastically slamming his mug on the table once finished. “If you don’t know me,” William asks, resting a hand on his cheek while turning to look at the other man, “why would you offer to buy me a drink?”
“‘cause I’m trying to hit on you,” Sherlock says bluntly, and William blinks.
“Ah,” he says. “That makes sense.”
Sherlock grins. “I gather it’s well received?”
William hums noncommittally as a response. “There’s still time for that yet.”
“Fair enough.”
“It’s a busy night,” William remarks as he takes another sip from his glass. “Why me, of everyone here?”
“Fishing for compliments?” Sherlock teases. “All you had to do was ask, Liam.” He takes a sip of his own. “I don’t know, really. You looked lonely, I suppose.”
“Maybe I wanted to be alone,” William points out.
“Ah, but if you had, you’d have told me to bugger off long ago,” Sherlock responds with a knowing smile. “So tell me, Professor, what brings you here? Long night of grading maths exams?”
William’s eyebrows raise. “How could you tell?”
“It’s obvious you’re a man of academia from the way you dress and the way you talk,” Sherlock begins, his gaze meeting William’s evenly. “That’s only corroborated by the bits of red pen still on your hand—made during corrections, I’m sure.” William’s eyes dip to his hand, where there are, in fact, smudges of red he hadn’t had the chance to wash away yet. “Plus, before I came over, you were mindlessly tracing your fingers on the countertop.” Sherlock mimics the motion himself. “Mindless, yet all your spirals held the same shape and structure—that of the golden ratio.”
“Who’s fishing for compliments now?” is William’s wry response. He smiles into his glass. “Your logic is a trifle forced, but your final conclusion rings correct.” Sherlock preens a bit at the compliment, but before he can say anything more, William continues. “Shall I return the favor, then?”
Sherlock blinks. “Huh?”
“A violinist, although not a professional one, with just a hint of a chemical dependency—you evidently have an Oxbridge education, yet your choice of speech heavily emulates a Cockney accent. A manifestation of your pride in your origins, it must be—I’d guess your mother’s side.” William tilts his head to the side. “Am I right?”
Sherlock’s eyebrows raise higher. “How’d you guess all that?”
“Not a guess,” William corrects, “merely observations.”
Sherlock breaks out into a laugh. “Well, Liam! You’re even more interesting than I thought you’d be!”
And William can only watch as laughter paints its way across his expression, how it curves at his eyes and softens the corner of his face. He has never met Sherlock before, this he knows for a fact, and yet all of this—this exchange, Sherlock’s mannerisms, William’s very own responses—comes so naturally to William, more than it ever has before. It feels comfortable, familiar, in the same way a warm blanket would, and that William cannot understand the reason for it is unbearably curious.
“You’re sure we haven’t met before?” William asks again when Sherlock’s laughter dies down.
Sherlock taps the side of his forehead. “I never forget a pretty face,” he says in mock solemnity before breaking out into a grin again. “Or someone who can match my intellect,” he adds honestly. “How on earth would I be able to forget meeting you?”
William hums, hiding his amusement by taking another sip. “You certainly do have a way with words.” He glances at his watch, his eyes widening when he catches the time. “Ah—it’s gotten late. I should be leaving.” He turns to smile at Sherlock. “Thank you for the drink, and the conversation.”
“You’re leaving already?” Sherlock asks, eyes wide. “Wait, wait.” He grabs a nearby tissue, rummages in his pocket for a pen, then scribbles something on the tissue before presenting it to William. “My number,” he offers, “if you were interested.”
William hesitates, staring at the paper for one moment, then another, then another, before taking it into his own hands. It’s just a simple tissue, yet it holds a sort of weight in his hands that shouldn’t be physically possible. William stares at the paper for a moment longer before tucking it into his own pocket. Normally, he’d dispose of it without a second thought, but this interaction feels important—Sherlock feels important, and William is curious enough to follow down this path and see where it might lead.
“I’ll see you around, then, Sherlock.”
Sherlock grins. It’s brilliant, it’s blinding, but most importantly, it feels like home.
“I’ll see you around, Liam!”