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Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be easy. He had known, even before William had taken the jump, that there would be good days and bad days.
Yet he had chosen long before they arrived in Meiringen—long before that night on the bridge, long before that night at Milverton’s—to stay by William’s side until the very end. That meant helping him through his recovery, both mental and physical, no matter how hard it would be.
There are days when William barely eats. Barely sleeps. Barely moves. He resigns himself to sitting in bed all day, facing away from Sherlock and burying himself in blankets, refusing to be seen in such a vulnerable state. Still, that doesn’t deter the detective from his mission of looking after him. He will sit by his bedside and offer silent comfort however he can.
Today, however, he doesn’t have that luxury.
Today, he sits on his chair, William sitting up straight on the bed and facing him, eyes downcast as Sherlock slowly cuts the bandage around his torso.
This, too, is hard for the blonde.
The fall has rewarded them both with a multitude of scars, which William has claimed multiple times to disfigure him. William, kind, beautiful Liam who Sherlock loves dearly, from the whipping scars on his forearms left by Lady Moriarty, to the gnarl of scars on his left eye and his sin-ridden heart.
He peels the bandage away, revealing every purple bruise, deep gash and scattered scar that covers the blond’s body. Sherlock knows that, although William doesn't show it, he is most likely still bothered by the two broken ribs that have not yet fully healed.
William is quiet as Sherlock begins applying ointment to the worst of the wounds. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way William flinches when Sherlock first touches him, or the way he grips the bed sheets tight in his fist and shuts his eyes tightly.
He makes sure to apply a good amount of the concoction to every wound before reaching for William’s hand. This time, he doesn’t flinch, but he tenses when he feels the detective’s skin coming into contact with his own.
Sherlock begins smoothing his thumb over the back of William’s hand, over the three pinpricks of flesh where a fork had pierced the tender skin, and watches, as if in a trance, how the man in front of him releases a shuddering breath.
Outside, in the forest next to their little cabin where they have taken refuge, no chirping can be heard. The wind has picked up. Rain is bound to start soon.
“I’m sorry,” William eventually whispers.
“What for?” Sherlock asks, just as quietly, even though he is sure he knows the answer.
“For making you take care of me.”
“Liam. Look at me.” When William doesn’t, Sherlock gently cups his cheek with one hand and slowly coaxes him to lift his head. “I am here because I want to, and I will say it as many times as it takes for you to understand. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have saved you.”
“You keep saying that, but you have never explained why you saved me.”
Sherlock’s expression softens. “Because, Liam, you are very dear to me. So much so that even I struggled to understand, for a while.”
William goes silent, but he slightly tilts his head to the side in a confused gesture. His earlier mood seems to have changed after having his interest piqued.
“Don’t give me that look, my pride is already hurt from admitting that.” He smiles, despite his words, showing them to not be true at all. “You know I am not a capable man when it comes to matters of the heart. It was John who set me straight and presented the situation to me in such a straightforward and plain manner that, after he was done, it seemed so bloody obvious.”
William cocks an eyebrow, and the twitch of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock. Good, that’s good, he’s improving William’s mood. It doesn’t matter that it’s at his own expense.
“Everything I have done, everything I am doing and everything I will be doing in the future… is because I love you. You, who sacrificed himself for the sake of a country that has never treated him with kindness. The mathematics professor. My equal. My Liam.”
Just as quickly, William’s countenance falls, and Sherlock realises that perhaps he has made a mistake. He uttered the words that have been tormenting him since that day at Durham University without thinking how it might affect William’s fragile emotional state.
As if to prove his point, tears gather in William’s eyes and panic rises in Sherlock’s throat. He hurries to wipe the stray tear that falls down the blond’s cheek and softly places a kiss on his forehead before whispering, “I don’t need to hear it back. It’s alright. I know you feel the same.”
That letter says far more than enough, after all.
They stare at each other for a couple of moments, before William nods and knocks his forehead against Sherlock’s, closing his eyes.
They sit like that in silence, listening to the rain that has picked up outside, just softly pittering against the window.
He should probably move. He needs to close the window so the rain doesn’t get inside. But he is so, so comfortable and content, and William doesn’t look like he wants to move away either.
So he remains where he is, caressing William’s cheek and relishing in the way the blond leans into his touch, seeking for more.
What harm could a few minutes really do?