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Chapter Text

Sherlock tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come.

Yesterday’s practice had been a disaster. His fingers itched for a cigarette, but if he smoked, John would smell it on him in an instant and give him a lecture, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime. In hindsight, inviting the team physician to become his flatmate wasn’t one of Sherlock’s wisest decisions, and he certainly regretted it now. “You’re the captain now. Lead by example,” John kept saying, and it only made Sherlock want to have a smoke more. Damn him and his sensitive nose.

After fifteen more minutes of staring at the ceiling, Sherlock gave up on getting any sleep that night. He swung his legs out of bed, grabbed yesterday’s clothes off the floor and pulled them on, but he was missing one sock. Cursing, he turned on his phone flashlight and searched. He found it a while later, somehow wedged under the bed.

As he laced up his shoes by the door, he glanced toward John’s room. “I’m not going for a smoke,” he murmured into the darkness as if John could hear him. “I promise.”

The wind outside was biting, but Sherlock hardly noticed it. Spending his every free moment on ice ever since he could walk made him immune to cold; plus, he’d always run hot, as if his body was built for hockey’s harsh conditions. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, not caring to put on gloves, and walked, his pace quick, purposeful. There was only one place that could settle the restlessness in his bones, aside from nicotine.

The ice rink came into view not long after.

Sherlock fished out his key—a perk of being the team captain. It made an angry, metallic whine when he pushed it into the lock, but as soon as the door gave way, he could already breathe more easily. Nothing had ever felt more like home to him than ice. He didn’t belong to the clean and proper world where his parents and his brother thrived. He’d always been too loud, too much. Always an outsider, always an imposter. He’d tried to pretend to fit in, but he’d never been a good liar. His mother made sure he knew that.

It was fine. As long as he had hockey, he didn’t need anything else.

The ceiling lights flickered on with a buzzing sound. Although he was still relatively new to both the team and this rink, his legs instinctively guided him towards the locker room. A bit of time on the ice should tire him out enough to allow him to pass out for at least a few hours. As much as he hated to admit it, he was no longer young enough to show up to practice without any sleep and keep up with the rest of the team. Those days were long gone.

He was about to sit down on the bench and put on his skates when he froze.

Something was off. He paused for a moment, listening. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just when he convinced himself it must’ve been a mouse or simply the whistle of a draft, he heard it again.

A faint but unmistakable sound of skates on ice.

Can’t be a burglar, was his first thought. Who would break in just to skate?

Then came the second: If it’s one of the guys from the team, I’ll kick their ass.

He moved deeper inside, but what he saw was neither a thief nor a teammate.

A lone figure skated across the ice, moving in sweeping arcs, body fluid as water, impossibly graceful. Sherlock had never paid much attention to other winter sports since hockey alone consumed enough of his mind, but this… this was something else.

This was art.

Sherlock took a step closer, careful not to make a sound. He felt entranced as the skater picked up speed, faster and faster, then launched into the air. One rotation, two, three—then a fall. Sherlock winced, but the skater was up again in an instant, brushing off the mistake, pushing forward. Another wide circle, another spin. A few moments later, he came to a stop in the center of the rink, arms lifted skyward, chest heaving.

The performance was over. Sherlock started to clap before he even realized what he was doing.

The skater spun toward him, startled. They stared at each other across the ice, both bewildered to meet someone else at the rink in the dead of night.

Who was this guy? Sherlock had never seen him around. He’d remember someone like that. He was sure of it.

The skater glided to the edge of the rink.

Up close, he was even more breathtaking. His face had a classic, almost aristocratic beauty—high cheekbones, sharp features, like a Victorian noble brought to life. His blond hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, but it only added to his charm.

He offered a sheepish smile. “I didn’t expect anyone here at this hour.”

His voice was surprisingly deep. Sherlock found himself leaning closer.

“Neither did I.”

The skater’s gaze was sharp, assessing. He swiped it up and down Sherlock before he said, “Checking the ice before the game?”

Huh. So he knows who I am.

“Something like that.” Sherlock studied him in return. “How’d you get in?”

“I may have… borrowed the key.”

Sherlock grinned. “So, besides the figure skating, you’re also into breaking and entering? I like that.”

The skater chuckled, light but knowing. With a graceful push off the sideboards, he glided toward the exit in a few effortless strides. Sherlock tracked his movements, catching every detail as the man stepped off the ice and made his way to the benches.

He didn’t miss the slight wince when the skater sat down, nor the tension in his shoulders as he leaned forward to untie his skates.

A tell. A crack in the poised facade.

“You good?” Sherlock asked. “That fall—”

“I’m fine.” The curt tone left no room for arguments.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Training something he’s not supposed to?

“If you say so,” he said lightly. “What would your coach think, though?”

The skater’s eyes sharpened. “Aren’t you a little too observant?”

Sherlock shrugged. “One of my many talents.”

Putting his skates to the side, the skater stood up and stepped in close—too close. Sherlock noted how they were almost the same height. He smelled of sweat and something flowery. It was strangely intoxicating.

“Let’s make a deal,” the skater said smoothly. “You won’t tell anyone I was here. In exchange, I won’t tell your team physician about the emotional support pack of cigarettes in your pocket that you refuse to throw away. What do you say?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. Oh, he’s good. Definitely more than just a pretty face. He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re incredible. Now I really like you.”

He stepped forward, closing the last bit of space between them, their faces mere inches apart.

The skater didn’t back down.

“Will you come here again?”

The skater’s lips curved into something between amusement and intrigue. “That depends.”

Sherlock arched a brow. “On?”

“Whether you’ll be here to let me in.”

The air between them was charged and the crisp chill of the rink was doing nothing to cool it down. Sherlock had been in countless face-offs before, but this was different—no sticks, no puck, just two people locked in a silent challenge neither was willing to lose.

“I’m here most nights,” Sherlock admitted. “When I can’t sleep.”

The skater hummed in understanding. “I know something about that.”

That answer sent a ripple of curiosity through Sherlock, but he did enough pushing already, at least for now. Instead, he tilted his head, studying the other man like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

“I still don’t know your name.”

The skater’s lips quirked, as if he found that amusing. “And yet, you say you already like me.”

“What can I say, I have excellent instincts. I’m never wrong.”

The skater sighed in mock defeat. “William.”

Sherlock extended a hand. “Sherlock.”

William grasped it, his grip firm but elegant, fingers still cold from the ice. “I know.”

Of course he did.

Sherlock held onto the handshake a second longer than necessary, testing, watching for a reaction. William didn’t pull away. If anything, his gaze deepened, and something unspoken passed between them like a silent dare.

Sherlock was the first to break it, pulling his hand back. “So, Liam. What’s with that jump giving you trouble?”

William exhaled sharply and stepped away, heading back to the bench to sit on it. “You are relentless.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

William gave him a long look, then ran a hand through his still damp hair. “Grand Prix is coming up.”

“Ah.” That explained the reckless after-hours training, the need to push past limits, even at the cost of injury. Sherlock understood that all too well.

William leaned back, tipping his head against the wall, but his eyes didn’t leave Sherlock. “And you? It’s not just the next game keeping you up at night.”

“No, just...” Sherlock sighed. “Team troubles.”

Or more like team captain troubles. 

William hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t comment.

Silence settled between them, yet not an uncomfortable one. The entire city was asleep, leaving the rink only to them, the world outside forgotten.

William shifted, rolling his shoulders as if weighing a decision. When he looked at Sherlock again, something playful flickered in his expression.

He reached for his skates and started putting them back on.

“Ever tried figure skating?”

Sherlock scoffed. “You know I play hockey.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t dance on ice, if that’s what you’re asking.”

William’s eyes gleamed. “Then you’ve never really skated.”

Sherlock’s competitive streak flared instantly. “Is that a challenge?”

William stood, stretching his arms over his head before shaking out his legs. “It is if you’re brave enough.”

Sherlock let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You do realize I spend most of my life on skates just like you?”

“Yes.” William stepped onto the ice effortlessly, pushing off with a powerful glide. “And yet, I bet you’d trip over your own feet if I asked you to do a spin.”

Sherlock’s grin was all teeth. Oh, now it’s personal.

He strode back inside the locker room and grabbed his skates. When he was back, William was already circling the rink with easy grace.

He slowed as Sherlock stepped onto the ice and their eyes met.

“Show me,” Sherlock said.

William’s smile was pure brilliance.

*

“Sherlock, I’m begging you.”

Sherlock cracked one eye open. John hovered over him, attempting a scowl, but his face was too inherently kind to pull it off.

“What,” Sherlock grunted.

“Get your ass up. It’s ten in the morning already!”

Reaching for his phone, Sherlock patted around his bedside table until his fingers found it, then unlocked the device. He squinted against the harsh glow of the screen.

Huh. John was right.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting up,” he muttered.

He really wanted to avoid causing John more trouble than necessary. It was just that throughout his life, trouble seemed to follow him no matter what he did, and eventually, he gave up fighting it. He couldn't understand why some people found him reliable; it was utterly baffling, but whatever. It wasn’t his call to make.

John sighed but seemed satisfied enough to leave, giving Sherlock space to go through the motions of his morning routine.

With a groan, Sherlock dragged himself to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, then grabbed his toothbrush, staring at his reflection as he brushed.

He felt… well-rested. Which was odd. He hadn’t slept this well in forever. Was it the extra exercise? Or was it—

“I’m leaving!” John called from the front door. The jingle of keys and the scuff of shoes reached Sherlock’s ears. “I left some eggs on the pan for you.”

Sherlock spat toothpaste into the sink. “Thanks!” he called back.

The door shut and silence settled over the flat.

John really deserved a better flatmate than the disaster that Sherlock was.

He half-heartedly ran his fingers through his hair and tied it back, making himself somewhat presentable before wandering into the kitchenette. True to John’s words, scrambled eggs sat waiting in the pan. He tossed two slices of bread into the toaster and leaned against the counter, eyes unfocused as his thoughts drifted to last night again.

William.

He still didn’t know what to make of that guy. There was something more behind those sharp eyes, some struggle he kept hidden from the world. But who was Sherlock to judge?

And then there was the way those eyes had glowed crimson under the rink lights as they stared into Sherlock’s in a challenge. The cool press of William’s hands as he adjusted Sherlock’s arms, positioning him into a proper pose for a spin—

Yeah, Sherlock did fall on his ass, just like William had said he would. But that was beside the point.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. 10:45.

Fuck. It was really late.

He shoved the rest of his toast into his mouth, washed it down with the last of his coffee, and abandoned the dishes in the sink. He had bigger things to worry about.

*

Sherlock barely made it to the rink on time. He shoved open the locker room door, still shaking off the lingering thoughts of last night. The rest of the team was already getting ready, lacing up skates and cracking jokes. The usual pre-practice chatter filled the air, but Sherlock tuned it out. 

Or rather, he would tune it out had it not been for Gregson, one of the defensemen, who for reasons unknown to Sherlock was set on being a thorn in his side.

“Finally decided to grace us with your presence, Captain?”

Sherlock barely managed to suppress a wince. He ignored Gregson, dropping onto the bench and pulling on his gear. He refused to give that idiot the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

“Holmes,” a voice cut through the room.

Sherlock glanced up. Coach Lestrade stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and expression unreadable. “My office. Now.”

A few teammates whistled under their breath. Sherlock rolled his eyes but got up, shoving his hands into his pockets as he followed Lestrade down the hall.

The coach’s office was small and cluttered. The whiteboard by the wall was scrawled with lines and arrows from the last strategy meeting while the desk was buried under scouting reports and a half-empty coffee cup. Lestrade leaned against the edge of it, arms still crossed as he watched Sherlock close the door.

“You look like hell,” Lestrade said.

And here Sherlock was, thinking the dark circles under his eyes for once looked lighter.

“Charming as always, Coach.”

Lestrade exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Look, I’m not here to waste time. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Sherlock bristled, but Lestrade didn’t let up. “You’re late. You’re distracted. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you check out mid-game sometimes.” His voice was calm, but edged with frustration. “That’s not what this team needs from its captain.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. 

He wasn’t stupid. He knew he wasn’t the captain everyone wanted. He was never what everyone wanted. He didn’t do locker room speeches, didn’t care for bonding exercises, and certainly didn’t coddle egos. But he delivered results. Wasn’t that enough?

Apparently not.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade’s expression didn’t change. “I know.”

That surprised Sherlock.

“But you have it,” Lestrade continued. “And now you have two options. You can sulk about it, or you can figure out how to be the kind of captain this team needs, without depending only on your individual plays.”

Sherlock huffed. “And what if I don’t care?”

“Why would you still be here if you didn’t?”

Suddenly the whiteboard became the most interesting thing in the room. That was why Lestrade drove Sherlock insane sometimes—he pretended not to know anything and then dropped a bomb like this without warning, leaving Sherlock feeling naked.

He couldn’t meet Lestrade’s eyes.

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. “Look, you don’t have to be their best friend. You just have to show them you give a damn.” He pushed off the desk and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Start by showing up.”

Sherlock didn’t have a response to that.

Lestrade nodded toward the door. “Now get your ass on the ice.”

Sherlock left without another word, but as he stepped onto the rink, the weight of Lestrade’s words settled into his chest.

His mind went to William’s words from last night.

“Is that a challenge?” he had asked William then.

And his reply was, “It is if you’re brave enough.”

Chapter Text

“Brother.”

William blinked back to attention. Across the breakfast table, Louis was watching him with quiet concern, his brows knitted in a way so familiar. Sometimes William thought he was born with that frown.

“I’m sorry,” William said, reaching for his tea as if that could steady him. “I didn’t sleep well. What were you saying?”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth, either.

Because the whole truth was absurd.

Daydreaming about a hockey player, of all things. A reckless, sharp-tongued, loud hockey player. If Louis knew, he’d have a fit.

William mentally shook himself. This wasn’t like him. He had spent years perfecting his control, refining his focus until nothing—no distraction, no indulgence—could shake his resolve. It was this discipline, this ruthless pursuit of perfection, that had allowed him to reach the top of the figure skating world. He, his family, and the rest of his team made many sacrifices for this.

He wouldn’t let a pair of broad shoulders and a smug grin undo it all now.

But even as he thought it, a ghost of Sherlock’s laughter echoed in his mind, unbidden.

A shift in the air made him glance right. Albert was watching him, unreadable as ever. Unlike Louis, he didn’t wear his concern openly, but William could sense it. He held his brother’s gaze, forcing his expression into careful neutrality. Whatever Albert suspected, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of confirming it.

Louis cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Master Jack will meet you at the rink at nine.”

William nodded and took a measured bite of his porridge. “Thank you.”

Albert set down his cup, rising from the table with practiced ease. “I have an early meeting at the ministry,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. His gaze flicked between them, but it lingered on William for a touch longer.

He knows something’s off.

“Have a good day.”

William didn’t look away. “You as well, brother.”

Albert gave the faintest hint of a knowing, patient smile before turning and leaving the room.

William let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched half of his breakfast.

Distraction was dangerous.

And yet, as he traced the rim of his teacup with his finger, he couldn’t quite push the thought of Sherlock away.

*

Warm up. Lacing up his skates. Bright lights glaring down from above. Master Jack’s voice cutting through the steady rhythm of blades carving into the ice. This routine was familiar, reassuring, something that had been William’s life for as long as he could remember. 

Out on the ice, everything was simpler—just him and the wide expanse of the rink. The ice was merciless; one wrong move could ruin an entire program, one wrong fall could end his entire career, but at least those mistakes were his fault alone. It had always been the one place he could clear his head.

So why wasn’t it working anymore?

“Get your arms in faster!”

William landed the jump with a wince.

He was off today. It was only a matter of time before Jack noticed, although most probably he already had. He’d been training William since childhood, long before his debut. Hiding anything before him was even more difficult than hiding it before Louis.

But as William pushed through the elements of his new choreography, the only thought circling in his head was Will this be enough?

He wasn’t young anymore. Twenty-five wasn’t old, at least not in real life. But in figure skating, retirement would soon be inevitable. The new generation was faster, stronger, more fearless. Even with a masterful program, it was getting more and more difficult to stay ahead.

The quad was his chance. If he landed it, it would secure his place in history. A technical feat no one else had accomplished.

If he could land the damn thing.

“More speed into the spin!”

He exhaled sharply, forcing the doubt away as he entered the spin. It would be easier with his team’s support—with proper harness training, video analysis, and sports science behind him. But they had already ruled it out as too dangerous, too reckless.

He knew what they would say if they found out he was training it in secret.

You’re taking on too much. You’re pushing yourself too hard.

Maybe they were right.

But playing it safe wasn’t how he did things. It was all or nothing. His life had taught him that the hard way.

“Good!” Jack’s voice boomed across the rink. “Take a break.”

Jack, though kind, was a merciless coach. William skated to the boards, chest heaving, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin despite the cold. He pressed his forearms against the barrier, trying to catch his breath.

“You’re distracted today.”

There it was. William was right—Jack had known him for too long not to notice.

Jack’s sharp eyes assessed him, unreadable. “Is everything alright? Louis said you barely slept. You can take the afternoon off. We’ll pick this up tomorrow. We have time.”

William wiped his forehead, his muscles still thrumming with adrenaline. “I’m fine.”

Jack let out a sigh. The harsh lines on his face softened slightly. “Rest is part of the training, Young Will.”

“I know.”

Jack didn’t look convinced. William could feel the weight of his gaze, pressing, searching. Even if told the truth, he didn’t know how to explain the entangled thoughts that had wrapped around his mind. He had to deal with it on his own.

“Alright,” Jack finally said. “Get some water. Five minutes.”

William nodded but didn’t move, only turned and gazed back at the empty, silent expanse of ice instead.

How many times had he stood here, just like this? How many years had he given to this sport, to this pursuit of perfection?

He could still remember the beginning as if it were yesterday. The warmth of Louis’ hand tightly gripping his and they tried to keep their balance on the skates. The endless laughter as they kept falling. The thrill of his first jump. Dreams whispered between brothers in the quiet of the night.

Then, the diagnosis that had ended Louis’ competitive skating career before it could even begin.

William had carried both their dreams ever since. But the joy of skating he’d felt then was now a faint echo, a distant memory.

Competitions weren’t about joy. They were a duty—to his team, to his family, to the audience. He carried their expectations on his back. To push the limits. To win.

But last night had felt different.

He smiled so much he didn’t feel like himself. Not the forced, polite smiles reserved for press conferences. A real one. The kind that felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. Sherlock had pulled it out of him so effortlessly.

Just for one night, he wasn’t a skating genius, the Prince of Ice—perfect, distant, unreachable.

He had just been Liam.

A name that shouldn’t mean anything. But somehow, when Sherlock said it, it did.

William huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. How ridiculous—giving a nickname to someone he had just met.

And yet, it felt right.

*

William didn’t know what he was doing. 

Sneaking out of the house at night to practice in secret was one thing, but this? This was insanity. They hadn’t even agreed to meet, at least not in words. But when William approached the rink, Sherlock was already there, leaning against the wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, exactly at the same time as yesterday.

The chilly night air did nothing to hide the way Sherlock’s face lit up the moment he spotted him.

“Liam!” he called, his voice carrying across the empty lot as he waved cheerfully.

God. William had the sudden, irrational urge to put a hand over his mouth and tell him to shut up. The situation was ridiculous enough without additional reminders.

Instead, he settled for a curt nod. “Sherlock.”

If Sherlock noticed the stark contrast between their greetings, he didn’t seem to care. He pushed off the wall and pulled the rink door open as if he had been waiting for William all along.

William was used to having eyes on him, of his coach, his team, the audience. People staring in admiration, his fellow skaters burning with jealousy. Everyone waiting, scrutinizing, searching for flaws, imperfections. Judges always looking for reasons to deduct points. That was the nature of figure skating—to constantly be the center of attention.

Sherlock’s gaze felt different.

There was a bit of awe, yes, but underneath it was something else entirely—sharp, probing, fascinated. As if he was trying to piece William apart, to crack him open and see what made him tick. That gaze burned, uncomfortable in a way William couldn’t quite name.

And at the same time, he didn’t want it to ever leave him.

“So, what’s that jump you’re doing over and over?”

William glanced up from unlacing his skates. Sherlock was leaning against the boards now, fiddling with that cigarette pack William called him out about before.

For a fraction of a second, William hesitated.

It wasn’t as if Sherlock would even understand what it meant. And he didn’t strike William as the type to sell information to the press.

“It’s called a quadruple axel.”

Sherlock let out a low whistle. “Isn’t that the impossible one?”

Hm. Not as ignorant as William expected. Had he looked him up after their first meeting?

William huffed, amused despite himself. “Nothing’s impossible.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up, and for a fleeting moment, William wondered if he had just handed the hockey player a perfect excuse to challenge him.

“And yet,” Sherlock said, rocking back on his heels, “you keep falling on your ass.”

William shot him a glare. Sherlock only grinned wider, clearly unbothered by the silent warning in William’s eyes.

“I’ll land it,” William said simply, as if stating a fact. “It wouldn’t be worth the challenge if I could do it on the first try.”

Sherlock hummed, studying him in that way of his—too perceptive, too sharp. William felt the weight of that look press against his skin as the unspoken words lingered between them.

That he was practicing this in secret.

That this couldn’t work, logically.

The tension coiled between them, taut, expectant. Then, with a sharp inhale, Sherlock broke it. He shoved the cigarette pack back into his pocket and straightened.

“You should come to our game tomorrow.”

William raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that. I bet you’ve never seen a real hockey game before.”

“That much is true,” William admitted.

“Exactly. Besides, I’ve seen you skate. It’s only fair you watch me play.” Sherlock’s grin turned lopsided, teasing. “What do you say?”

William had no reason to say yes. Or, what was even more important, no time for ridiculous impulses like this. He was running out of time to master the quad. He wouldn’t be able to do it without an absolute focus.

And yet, Sherlock was looking at him like he already knew the answer. Satisfaction was written all over his face and he stepped forward, slipping something into the pocket of William’s jacket before he could react. His fingers barely brushed against the fabric—just a whisper of warmth against William’s chilled skin.

“It would be a pity to let it go to waste.” Sherlock winked and mischief flashed in his eyes. “See ya!”

He turned, raising a hand in a careless wave as he strode toward the exit, leaving William standing there, completely baffled.

William exhaled slowly, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness, and as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded ticket, he already knew he would use it. 

Sherlock, it appeared, was truly never wrong.

Chapter Text

Something about Coach Lestrade made the thought of disappointing him leave a bitter taste in Sherlock’s mouth.

Maybe it was that stupid heart of gold buried beneath his gruff exterior. Or the fact that, when every other team had written Sherlock off as a liability, Lestrade had given him a shot—despite the media circus that followed his less-than-amicable departure from his previous team. Whatever the reason, Sherlock didn’t appreciate the feeling. He’d long stopped caring what his own father thought of his life choices, yet here he was, shifting under the weight of Lestrade’s gaze like some scolded rookie.

What a pain.

Sherlock exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he stood in the locker room. The air was thick with the usual pre-game tension and the sharp scent of sweat of too many men in a too-small space. Around him, the team went through their rituals: finishing up their gear adjustments, lacing skates, flexing gloved hands. Some were murmuring last-minute strategies to each other, others cracking jokes to shake off the nerves. A rhythmic pulse of a crowd filtered in through the door, a deep hum that resonated with the steady beat of Sherlock’s own heart.

And then there was Gregson.

He was leaned back against his stall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Sherlock with that ever-present, skeptical smirk that made Sherlock’s skin itch. He didn’t even have to open his mouth for Sherlock to feel annoyed. Or for the urge to put a fist in his face to rise in him.

Douchebag. 

Sherlock ignored him. If Gregson wanted a reaction, he’d have to work harder for it.

Lestrade clapped his hands together. “Alright. You know what to do. We’ve had a solid run so far, but that doesn’t mean we can allow ourselves to lose focus. Stick to what we practiced, keep your heads in the game, and bring that win home.”

A chorus of cheers followed, along with the clatter of hockey sticks against each other.

Then Lestrade’s gaze shifted to Sherlock, and the rest of the room followed suit.

That bastard.

Sherlock let out a slow breath, his eyes sweeping over his teammates. A full season together and they were still strangers. Not friends. Barely acquaintances. But he knew Patterson’s shot could break ribs, even if he didn’t look like he had that kind of power in him. He knew Wiggins had a knack for slipping through defenses like a ghost. That was enough. That had always been enough.

“Well,” Sherlock said, voice even, “you heard the coach. Let’s get out there and crush them.”

The locker room erupted in cheers again. 

Lestrade gave him a small smile.

Sherlock looked away before he did something stupid like blush under the attention.

There was a game to play.

*

It was a close win.

Sherlock had the entire rival team dissected before the first whistle, their weaknesses mapped out like an equation waiting to be solved, but they didn’t want to go down easy. They adapted, pushed back harder than expected. If not for Wiggins and his last-second pass right to Sherlock’s stick, the outcome might have been different. The kid had sharp instincts, somehow reading Sherlock’s movements without a word, unlike Gregson and his idiotic interference that nearly botched the whole play.

And if Sherlock was being honest, a certain pair of ruby-red eyes watching from the stands didn’t hurt either.

He had spotted William the moment he stepped onto the ice. His gaze swept the crowd, and as if drawn by an unseen force, it landed on him.

William was unmistakable, even among the crowd. Magnetic even in the most mundane of situations.

The game itself was a blur. The roar of the crowd, the crunch of skates cutting ice, the sharp sting of cold air in his lungs—it was all background noise to the pulse of competition. When they tied 2-2 after an insane, long-distance shot from Patterson, Sherlock felt a fire under him ignite. 

They had to win.

Not for Sherlock to show off for William. Not to prove Lestrade right.

Just because the moment demanded it.

He met Wiggins’ eyes and the rest was history.

Sherlock’s heartbeat still thundered in his ears as he tore through the locker room like a man possessed, barely sparing time to toss his gear in the corner before bolting for the door, ignoring the curious glances from his teammates and the stadium staff. Corner after corner, he sprinted down the corridors, breath sharp, pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the game. He made it just in time to catch William just as he was about to leave the building. 

“Fancy seeing you here.”

It was ridiculous how giddy Sherlock felt when William turned and his eyes flicked to Sherlock’s. The adrenaline from the game mixed with the sheer thrill of William actually being here sent his heart into overdrive. If John was there, he’d probably have a lecture ready about cardiac health.

William smiled that small, knowing smile that made Sherlock feel as if he saw more than he let on. “You invited me. You were there, remember?”

Sherlock was acutely aware of the enormous, stupid grin on his own face, but he couldn’t care less.

“Hah. I knew you’d come, but it’s always nice to be proved right.”

William didn’t immediately respond. He only tilted his head slightly, studying Sherlock in a way that made him suddenly conscious of himself—sweaty, disheveled, still riding the high of competition. He should’ve showered first, but the thought of William leaving before he got here had been unbearable.

He finally had him without having to sneak around in the middle of the night.

“What did you think of the game?” Sherlock asked.

William arched an eyebrow. “You want my amateur opinion?”

“Yeah. Shoot.”

William didn’t hesitate. “It’s an awful sport. Terribly brutal.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Ah, but that’s the beauty of it.”

William hummed in response, unconvinced. But there, just barely, Sherlock caught the corners of his lips quirk up. That was somehow more satisfying than an applause from a full stadium.

He’d get a proper reply out of William later. He had a feeling William had no trouble following the strategies playing out on the ice with that infuriatingly inquisitive eyes of his.

He leaned in slightly. “Wait for me outside, will you?”

William didn’t lean back. “Why should I?”

It was never a straight answer with him, but Sherlock did love a challenge.

“I wanted to talk,” he said. “If you’re free, that is.”

William took a beat, considering. Sherlock held his breath.

“I happen to have a free evening, yes.”

“Fantastic.” Sherlock’s grin widened. “It’s a date.”

Two wins in a day. Seemed like it was his lucky day.

*

“Isn’t it a little late for coffee?” William asked as Sherlock held the café door open for him.

Sherlock winced. “Take pity on me, Liam. I can’t take you anywhere fancier without a proper shower first.”

William hummed in amusement and stepped inside. His coat brushed against Sherlock’s arm as he passed, and the faintest trace of scent lingered in the air between them, the same Sherlock had smelled the first night they met.

Floral, delicate, familiar. Roses?

They found a quiet table tucked in the corner.

William studied the cappuccino Sherlock had ordered for him, raising an eyebrow, but his shoulders relaxed with a sigh as he took the first sip, confirming Sherlock’s deduction of his drink of choice. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s own cup of black coffee sat untouched, steam curling between them like an unspoken challenge.

“So?” William prompted, his voice smooth.

“So,” Sherlock said and chuckled. He took a sip of his coffee, but it did nothing to help steady the swirl of his thoughts. “I actually wanted to pick your brain about something.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Why do you skate?”

William froze. His fingers tightened around the coffee cup, almost imperceptible, but to Sherlock, the reaction was glaring. His jaw tightened, and the easy, flirty camaraderie of their conversation shattered in an instant, slipping through Sherlock’s fingers like ice melting on warm skin.

When William finally spoke, his voice was cool. “Why do you think you’re not fit to be captain?”

Sherlock nearly choked on his coffee. 

William’s gaze flickered downward. “I apologize. That was…” He exhaled slowly, fingers easing their grip on the cup.

“A touchy subject,” Sherlock finished for him. He rubbed the back of his neck, lips pressing together. “Sorry for bringing it up. I wasn’t intending for it to be a jab.”

William shook his head. “It’s fine.” A pause. Then, quieter, “What brought the question on?”

Sherlock exhaled. “I suppose I’ve been questioning my role in… all this.” 

William set his cup down with deliberate care and leveled his gaze at Sherlock.

Sherlock felt it immediately—that familiar pulse of excitement tightening in his chest. Every look, every word from William was a dare, a challenge. Sherlock couldn’t get enough of it.

“Well,” William said, voice smooth as a freshly sharpened blade, “if you don’t want to do it, you could resign. But something tells me you don’t like to lose.”

Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup. “Astute as ever.”

William tilted his head, considering him. “It’s not a difficult deduction.”

“Maybe not, but it’s correct.” Sherlock exhaled through his nose, staring down at the dark surface of his coffee. “I’ve never cared about being liked. I’ve never cared to be a leader. And yet—” His fingers curled slightly. “Lestrade insists. And I suppose, if I’m being honest, I might not entirely hate it as much as I thought I would.”

William’s lips twitched. “That’s practically an admission of enjoyment. How shocking.”

Sherlock shot him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

William took another sip of his cappuccino, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to dissect Sherlock’s thoughts. “So, you find yourself caught in something you didn’t ask for, yet now you hesitate to walk away.”

“Something like that.”

William hummed, tracing the rim of his cup with a finger. “Perhaps the real question isn’t whether you should be captain, but why the idea of actually enjoying this role unsettles you so much.”

Sherlock stilled. The words slipped under his skin, burrowing deep in a way that was both irritating and exhilarating.

“You do that on purpose,” he muttered.

William’s expression was perfectly innocent. “Do what?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Pick me apart.”

“Don’t you do the same to everyone else?”

Sherlock couldn’t argue with that.

He leaned back in his chair, studying William in return. The café lights cast a soft glow over his features, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the unshakable composure in his posture. But Sherlock had seen the flicker of tension before, the barely-there crack when he asked about skating. The countless failed jumps he had observed William attempt came to his mind.

Two could play this game.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked, tone light. “Why do you want to land that jump so badly?”

William paused mid-motion, setting his cup down a little too carefully this time. “Touché.”

Sherlock grinned. He let the silence stretch between them and watched William’s gaze drift to the window and linger on something Sherlock couldn’t see.

“I suppose,” he started, voice quieter than Sherlock had ever heard it. “I also don’t like to lose.”

There was something fragile about him at this moment, something that almost made Sherlock reach out to put his hand over William’s to offer comfort and make that crease between his eyebrows go away.

“Is it really all there is to it?” he found himself asking just as quietly.

William chuckled and his eyes met Sherlock’s again.

“Tell me if you figure it out.”

Chapter Text

The hockey game lingered in William’s mind.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much. He had gone out of curiosity, because Sherlock had invited him, and—he would admit, if only to himself—because something about Sherlock’s voice when he asked had made it impossible to refuse.

But now, putting on his skates in the silent, empty locker room, he found himself replaying moments of the match—the sharp turns, the brutal speed, the sheer physicality of it all. 

On the surface, it was chaos. Bodies collided, skates cut into the ice, the crowd roared. And yet, within that mess, there was something controlled, something precise.

And Sherlock thrived in it.

An unbridled joy shone through his every movement, as if he was made of pure, unrestrained energy. In every calculated feint, every near-impossible maneuver, he had been alive in a way William wasn’t sure he’d ever felt himself.

William turned, catching his reflection in a nearby glass panel. His own face stared back, blank as ever, the same careful mask he had worn for as long as he could remember.

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling slowly.

He had never once regretted choosing his path. Figure skating was his whole life, what defined him. It was pointless to doubt it all now.

With a quiet exhale, he pushed himself up from the bench and stepped through the doors leading back to the rink. The ice stretched out before him, smooth and gleaming under the bright arena lights. Quiet and lonely, unlike that of the hockey game.

William squared his shoulders. His eyes found the sharp gaze of his coach.

There was no time to waste.

*

Everything hurt.

Moran’s hands were precise like a sharpshooter’s, ruthless in the way they found every knotted muscle, every point of tension. But today they were more careful than usual. He had seen William through the highs and lows of his career, through injuries and exhaustion. William had always appreciated that he never went easy on him, never handled him like glass.

Seemed like the purple and green bruises blooming on William’s skin were impossible to ignore, even for him.

“William,” Moran said, his voice low, edged with warning. “What the hell are you doing?”

His fingers paused briefly over a particularly sore spot before pressing down, slow and deliberate. William grunted, then breathed a sigh of relief as the pressure lifted and the pain ebbed away.

“Training.”

He knew Moran wouldn’t buy this kind of bullshit. It was one of the reasons why he liked him.

His fingers dug in again, merciless. William didn’t flinch.

“There’s no way Master Jack is pushing you this hard,” Moran muttered.

William didn’t reply. The silence between them stretched, thick with all the things they didn’t say. Moran didn’t push, but his hands didn’t let up either. It was his way of saying I see you.

William would rather hide the bruises from any eyes, but he couldn’t stop seeing Moran without raising suspicion. And if anything, Moran knew how to keep a secret, even if he wouldn’t be happy about it.

When the massage was over, Moran wiped his hands clean, shaking his head.

“You’re not stupid. Whatever you’re trying to prove, you know it’s too much. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

William pulled his shirt back on, movements smooth despite the lingering ache. He met Moran’s gaze.

“You know me,” he said lightly. “When have I ever not known what I was doing?”

Moran huffed a quiet laugh, unimpressed. “Sure, Mr. Know-it-all. Get out of here. Good luck hiding it all from Louis.” He leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “And don’t expect me to patch you up when you finally push yourself too far.”

What a silly lie. They both knew he would be there, no matter what.

“Thanks.” William smiled before slipping out the door, feeling Moran’s eyes watching after him.

*

He was so close to getting the quad axel right. He could feel it in the way his body adjusted, in the way the takeoff felt just a fraction smoother every time. His muscle memory was sharpening, every piece falling into place. Just a little more and he would get there. And if all it took a few more falls, it was a small price to pay.

Pain had always been a part of the deal.

He thought at least here, with the rest of the world sound asleep, he’d be safe from questions and the weight of concerned stares. He should’ve known by now that Sherlock was too observant for his own good and always had to stick his nose where he shouldn’t.

The moment William went down for the umpteenth time, Sherlock was suddenly there, dragging him off the ice with a grip that was firm but not forceful. There was no snarky remark, no immediate argument, but William could feel the frustration radiating off him, taut and restrained like a bowstring ready to snap.

Fine. If Sherlock wanted to question William’s choices alongside everyone else, so be it. Let him delude himself that anything could sway William once his mind was set on a goal.

But Sherlock still wasn’t saying anything as William busied himself with unlacing his skates. He only sat beside William on the bench in his quiet fury until William couldn’t take it anymore.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

With one skate off, William shifted his attention to the other. His fingers were steady despite the aching in his arms.

“You know well what I want to say,” came Sherlock’s grumbled reply.

The second skate joined the other on the floor. William wiggled his toes, the muscles still tight from the long day, and shot a bored glance at Sherlock.

“Then you should also know that I don’t want to hear it. This is my job. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Sherlock scoffed. “Because from where I’m standing, this can’t be called training anymore.”

William let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Spare me the lecture, Sherlock. You’re not my keeper.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but then his gaze flickered downward, just for a second.

William followed Sherlock’s eyes to his own sleeve. The edge had slipped up just enough to reveal a sliver of a bruise.

Damn it.

Before William could react, Sherlock reached out, brushing his fingers over the darkened skin.

“I never said I was.” His voice had lost its bite, quieter now, but no less intense. His fingers lingered, warm against the sensitive skin. “I just—” He exhaled sharply. His frustration wavered into something more uncertain, something raw. “Bloody hell, Liam. I can’t stand by while you’re hurting yourself.”

A shiver went down William’s spine, but not from the cold.

Sherlock’s touch was light, hesitant even, and yet it burned more than any fall on the ice ever could. His thumb traced over the bruise in a slow, absentminded motion, as if trying to commit its shape to memory.

William swallowed, his throat tight. “Why do you care?”

The words didn’t come out as detached as he wanted. They felt thin, threadbare.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “Why do I—” He let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. His fingers curled slightly against William’s wrist, refusing to let go. “God, Liam. I know you feel this too. You can’t tell me I’m the only one losing my mind here.”

It would be easy to lie now, to deflect with one sharp remark that would sting just enough to push Sherlock away. William was as skilled at that as he was at skating.

But with each passing moment of Sherlock’s grip on his wrist, his strength to resist ebbed away. It was a long day, another one in what felt like an endless string of them. He was too tired to fight it anymore.

“No, you’re not,” he admitted.

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock leaned in, resting his forehead against William’s. “Thank god,” he breathed out.

William went still.

Sherlock’s breath was warm where it brushed against William’s cheek. The nearness of him was intoxicating, overwhelming in a way that made William’s pulse stutter. It felt inevitable, like gravity pulling them together, a natural phenomenon neither of them had the power to stop.

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to his mouth.

William wasn’t sure who moved first, only that the space between them was disappearing too fast, and he didn’t want to pull away. His lips parted—

A crashing sound echoed like a gunshot in the empty arena.

William tensed. Sherlock jerked his head toward the entrance, his body suddenly alert.

They both turned, eyes locked on the dimly lit corridor leading into the rink.

“Someone’s here,” Sherlock whispered.

The silence that followed was thick, humming with tension. Neither of them moved at first, listening intently until they heard footsteps, faint but drawing closer.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to William’s. Without a word, he grabbed William’s wrist and tugged him up, careful to keep their movements silent. With their skates and bags clutched close, they slipped along the edge of the rink, moving toward the side exit.

William didn’t protest. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from something else entirely. He couldn’t care less about being found out. The only thing he could feel was Sherlock’s grip and the heat of his fingers searing through the thin barrier of his sleeve.

Sherlock pushed open the door just enough for them to slip through. The cold night air rushed in, sharp against William’s flushed skin. Outside, the world was still—just the distant hum of the city, the occasional rustle of wind against the pavement.

They moved away from the entrance, down a side alley where the light didn’t reach. Only when they were sure they hadn’t been followed did Sherlock stop, finally letting go of William’s hand.

“That was close,” he muttered.

William didn’t reply.

He could still feel the ghost of what almost happened back there, lingering in the charged space between them. The way Sherlock’s breath had warmed his lips. Their foreheads pressed against each together, the inevitability of it.

When he turned, Sherlock was already looking at him.

In another life, William wouldn’t hesitate to take the jump. He’d push Sherlock against the brick wall right here and now and let himself fall, recklessly, unapologetically. He’d let himself chase the fire in Sherlock’s eyes, let himself want.

But this wasn’t something he could afford, not now. Not when everything was hanging on his ability to keep a clear head.

He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. “I should go.”

The words tasted bitter. He wasn’t running away, even if it felt like he was.

Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together. His eyes bore into William, heavy, searching.

He took a step forward. “Liam—”

William cut him off. “I’ll see you again. Same place, right?”

A peace offering. Because, despite William’s decision to keep his distance, he was too weak to cut it off completely.

Sherlock hesitated, then gave a single, reluctant nod. “Yeah, it’s late.” When he smiled, there was a touch of sadness to it. “Good night, Liam.”

William forced a smile in reply. “Good night, Sherlock.”

He turned, walking away before he could do something reckless. Only when he rounded the corner and was out of Sherlock’s eyesight, he touched his wrist where Sherlock’s warmth still lingered.

Chapter Text

If John had been a little more observant, he might’ve noticed Sherlock had been trying—and failing—to start a conversation ever since they left the rink.

Instead, John was caught up in his own rant over the team’s perpetual refusal to take care of themselves, which in turn left him to stitch, patch, and scold them back into playing condition. His complaints were entirely justified, of course. Sherlock had been the subject of them often enough (hence the ongoing effort to quit smoking), but he couldn’t say he was following John’s ramble now. He nodded along where it seemed appropriate, offering the occasional grunt of agreement, all while his mind was elsewhere.

More specifically, on someone who had wedged himself so firmly into Sherlock’s consciousness he seemed to already occupy a space of his own there.

Sherlock wasn’t sure when casual curiosity had become something more, when simply watching William shifted into worrying. He was used to analyzing—observing weakness, calculating outcomes. But this wasn’t hockey. This wasn’t a game, and he wasn’t dissecting rival’s moves or calculating strategies. It wasn’t even about skating at all.

It was about the way William’s shoulders never relaxed, even for a moment. It was about the way he pushed too hard, past any point of reason. He skated like he was trying to outrun something, like every fall onto the ice was a punishment he deserved.

This kind of discipline looked like dedication until you recognized it for what it really was.

And Sherlock knew the signs. He was watching William slowly self-destruct before his eyes—and had no idea how to stop it.

Oh, to hell with it.

“John,” Sherlock said abruptly, cutting through John’s monologue.

John blinked, startled mid-sentence. “What?”

“Do you remember when we first met?”

John snorted. “As if I could ever forget. I truly thought you were dead when I showed up and saw you sprawled out on the ice. Nearly gave me a heart attack on my first day on the job.”

Sherlock didn’t smile. He just kept walking, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. One curled tight around the familiar shape of the cigarette pack.

It was already half-crushed. He should really throw it away already.

John frowned. “Okay, what’s going on?”

Sherlock hesitated. He wasn’t good at this part, at putting his emotions into words. He felt his throat tighten before he even said anything yet, but keeping it all bottled up inside threatened to drive him mad.

“I have… a friend,” he managed.

God, he couldn’t sound more awkward if he tried. And it didn’t even feel like the right description for what he and William were, but it was the closest word he had.

John raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t one of those situations where you ask advice for a ‘friend,’ but it’s really about you, is it?”

Sherlock sent him a glare.

“Alright, alright.” John held up both hands in faux surrender. “Go on.”

They walked in silence for a moment as Sherlock tried again to untangle his thoughts into something he could actually say aloud without sounding like an idiot.

“What would you do,” he asked finally, voice quieter now, “if someone was hurting themselves. And didn’t seem to care?”

That stopped John in his tracks. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared ahead, then back at Sherlock with a new weight in his gaze. His eyebrows lifted in quiet surprise, and for a moment, Sherlock regretted asking.

“Physically?” John asked. “Or…?”

“Both,” Sherlock said, too quickly. “But not the way you think, just… pushing themselves too hard.”

He rubbed a thumb along the edge of the cigarette pack in his pocket, wishing he had something smarter to say. Something that didn’t sound so lost.

“There’s only so much you can do,” John said slowly. “Unless they actually want help. But you can make sure they know you’re there. That when they’re ready, they can come to you.”

Sherlock absorbed the words, turning them over in his head like a puzzle with no satisfying solution.

Be there. That didn’t sound like enough, only like letting William spiral until it could be too late.

But he knew William wouldn’t listen to reason. He was too stubborn for that.

John glanced sideways at him. “It worked with you, didn’t it?”

Sherlock gave a tiny twitch of the mouth. Not quite a smile, not quite not one either, but it diffused the tension nonetheless.

They kept walking. The late evening air was cold enough to bite, but Sherlock hardly noticed.

“Is this someone from the team?” John asked.

“Not exactly.”

John hesitated again. “Then… don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly have many friends.”

Sherlock finally laughed at that. “Thank you, John. What a comfort you are.”

John joined in the laughter and bumped their shoulders together. “You’ve been changing lately, you know. In a good way. I don’t know who’s got such an influence on you, but it’s good to see.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, but there was no bite behind it.

John was right. The truth was, ever since William barreled into his life—guarded, brilliant, even if self-destructing—something inside Sherlock had shifted.

And maybe it wasn’t a bad thing.

*

Sherlock had always been good at noticing things—things others overlooked, things that didn’t quite fit. Patterns, habits, inconsistencies. It was second nature to him, as automatic as breathing, ingrained into his very being.

And lately, something about Gregson was off. Even more than usual.

It wasn’t anything obvious at first. A missed pass here, a delayed reaction there. These things happened to everyone sometimes, so it wasn’t enough to raise any alarms.

But then he started snapping at his teammates over nothing, like every word was a personal offense. His hits became harder than necessary, more reckless. His jaw seemed permanently clenched, a rigid line against his cheekbones.

Sherlock had filed it all away under observations of interest but hadn’t said anything. Bad days were bound to happen to anyone. He hoped the issue would resolve itself and he wouldn’t have to have a talk with Gregson—that sounded like his worst nightmare.

But that wishful thinking proved to be worth shit when Gregson lost it during practice.

It happened so fast nobody had any time to react. Wiggins had just gotten the puck when Gregson slammed into him, sending them both crashing into the boards. The hit was unnecessary and excessive, which would already earn him a proper scolding from the coach, but no, that wasn’t enough for him. To make matters even worse, the second Wiggins tried to get up, Gregson had to go and shove him down again.

“Are you blind? What the hell was that?” Wiggins growled, gripping Gregson’s jersey as he stood. He might’ve been one of the smaller guys on the team, but no one could ever accuse him of being timid.

Gregson shoved him back. “Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn slow, you wouldn’t get in my way.”

That was all it took.

Gloves hit the ice. Fists flew.

Sherlock skated forward at once as the scuffle broke out, but before he could intervene, Lestrade was already there, yanking them apart.

“Enough!” he barked. “Gregson, locker room. Now.”

Gregson looked like he might argue, but after a beat of silent fury, he yanked his arm free and stormed off. His skates carved angry lines on the ice behind him. 

Wiggins wiped a bit of blood from his lip, muttering curses that would put sailors to shame.

Sherlock stared after Gregson. This wasn’t just about bad temper or a rough day. This was a fuse burning fast toward something bigger, something that was going to make a big mess when it exploded.

A mess Sherlock would have to clean up as a captain.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

He really didn’t want to be dealing with this. Gregson had been a thorn in his side since day one, always undermining Sherlock as if it was part of his job description. Who knew what that guy had going on in his head? Probably got hit on the rink one too many times—that would explain some things.

“Holmes!”

Lestrade’s voice cut through the rink like a slap.

“Take Wiggins to see Watson. I want him cleared. We need him in the next game.”

“Got it.” Sherlock turned toward Wiggins, throwing a steadying arm around his shoulders. “Alright, come on, kid. Off the ice.”

Wiggins bristled. “Who you callin’ a kid?”

Sherlock let out a breath of a laugh. “You, obviously. If you’re gonna pick fights, at least learn how to dodge a punch.”

“Whatever, Cap.” Wiggins rolled his eyes, but his grin betrayed his feigned annoyance.

*

A harsh, stinging smell of antiseptic filled the air in the infirmary room. Wiggins sat on the exam table, idly kicking his legs against the metal frame while John ran through the concussion protocol.

“Look at me,” John said, snapping his fingers lightly near Wiggins’ temple.

Wiggins sighed and followed John’s fingertip as it moved back and forth across his field of vision.

“Any dizziness? Nausea?” John asked.

“Nope.”

“Headache?”

“Only a sore jaw,” Wiggins muttered.

John hummed, then held up two fingers. “How many?”

“Two.”

“Good. No obvious signs of a concussion, so let’s get that split lip patched up.”

Sherlock leaned against the counter, watching. Wiggins winced slightly as John cleaned the blood, but otherwise didn’t complain.

“Alright, you’re clear,” John said, peeling off his gloves. “But do me a favor and try not to get punched in the face next time, alright?”

“No promises, doc,” Wiggins replied, grinning.

John didn’t dignify it with more than a tired sigh. Instead, he turned to Sherlock. “Take care of him. Nothing intense for a few days. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock nodded. “Understood. Thanks, John.”

John gave him a brief look, something between concern and trust, and slipped out, leaving the door creaking faintly behind him.

Silence settled. Wiggins slid off the table with a groan and stretched, rolling his shoulders. Sherlock watched as ran a hand through his hair, then reached for his jacket, fuming in frustration when the sleeves didn’t want to cooperate.

There was something about Wiggins that struck a chord in Sherlock. The kid had grit. He came from nothing, practically scraped his way up from the street with nothing but stubbornness and skates, working at a local rink to be able to practice, if what the papers said was true. If things had turned out differently, he might’ve become some street thug rather than a hockey player.

Shame on Gregson for trying to trample all over that.

“You were holding your own,” Sherlock said, voice low.

Wiggins paused, glanced at him, then snorted. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Gregson was out of line. That wasn’t about you.”

Wiggins gave a noncommittal shrug. “S’fine. I probably deserved it.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t like Wiggins. Not the kid who barked back at referees and laughed off bruises.

“You must be kidding.”

Wiggins raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that level of fire from Sherlock. “What?”

“You’re a very talented player,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Fast, instinctive. I depend on you on the ice.”

Wiggins blinked. Silence stretched, heavier than Sherlock expected. Wiggins looked at Sherlock like he'd just grown horns and started dancing polka in the middle of the room.

Bloody hell.

“Uh… sorry I never…” Sherlock searched for the right phrasing, grimacing, “…said that properly out loud before.”

Wiggins let out a short breath, shaking his head with a small smile. “S’fine, Cap. Still nice to hear it, though.”

There was something disarming about his grin — all teeth and warmth, like he was still a kid despite the bruises.

He turned at the door.

“Cap?”

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

“I’m glad you’re the one leading us. Thought I should say that, too.” He smiled, genuine. “Maybe I don’t say that kind of thing enough, either.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock frozen, alone with the echo of those words still ringing in the air.

He exhaled, almost laughed. Was this what John meant about him changing?

Too much talking about emotions in one day. Enough for an entire year.

He needed to sit down. Or punch something. Maybe even both.

Chapter Text

It felt like ages until William finally started to land the jump.

It was unstable at first. Shaky. But doable, like he always knew it was. He’d rotated fully, his skate sliced the ice clean on the landing, and even if his knee buckled slightly, he hadn’t fallen. He’d held it.

A breathless sort of triumph bubbled in his chest, almost like when he was a child and landed his first jump. He turned—

The rink was empty.

Silence pressed in around him. There was no applause, no witnesses, no one to see. Just the echo of his own breath and the faint hum of the lights overhead.

He shook his head. Who was he even expecting to see there?

Focus. He needed to focus. Landing it once meant nothing. All he had to do now was repeat it again and again until it wasn’t luck anymore. Until it was second nature and no one could question it. There wasn’t much time left before the competition, but enough to polish the jump into something he could use, a secret weapon.

His chest still burned from exertion, his legs trembled beneath him, but he ignored it. There was always more he could wring out of himself. One more spin, one more jump.

He checked his watch. He had an hour left, maybe a little more, before he had to leave if he wanted to make it home for dinner without Louis noticing how late he was.

William set his jaw, pushed himself across the ice, and hurled his body into the air yet again.

By the time he got home, every muscle screamed. His shoulders ached, his knees buzzed with dull pain, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. He slipped inside quietly, out of habit by now, as if admitting how late he’d been out was some sort of crime.

Well, in Louis’ eyes it would be.

The smell of tea and something faintly sweet drifted from the kitchen. Louis stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, humming softly to himself as he measured out loose leaves with precise care. His movements were calm, steady—always so careful.

William lingered in the doorway, watching him.

This was all he had ever wanted. During the years of uncertainty in their childhood, spent between orphanages, and the long nights filled with worrying about Louis’ health, this kind of future had seemed impossible. Albert’s family had given William a career, a chance to be something. But even more than that, they had given them a roof over their heads, even if it came with certain expectations.

Where would they even be without that?

“William?”

Louis’s voice cut into the silence. He’d turned, spoon paused midair, eyes fixed on him.

“You’re late,” Louis said softly, but there was no accusation in it, only worry.

William straightened, as if that could erase how he must look—tired, wrung out, sweat still drying in his hair. He summoned a faint smile, the kind meant to reassure but never quite reached his eyes.

“Got caught up,” he said simply, with a casual shrug. “You know how it is right before a competition.”

Louis studied him a moment longer, searching, weighing. The unspoken question hung in the air, but William didn’t give him the chance to voice it.

“Smells good,” he added quickly, nodding toward the teapot. “Let me wash up before dinner.”

And before Louis could say anything else, William moved past him, his footsteps light, practiced, carrying him toward the stairs and away from the conversation he didn’t want to have.

*

There was a soft knock on William’s bedroom door later that evening.

“Come in,” he called, expecting Louis, carrying tea as an excuse to check on William. He was prepared for it.

But it wasn’t him. The person who stepped inside the room was Albert, and that, somehow, was much worse.

Louis’ worry, William could deflect. He knew its patterns, understood it inside out. But Albert? Albert was a little more unpredictable. Too perceptive, too much like William himself—a keen observer by nature, someone who saw more than he let on.

“Is this a good time?” Albert asked, already reading the pause in William’s shoulders.

William hesitated just a fraction too long. “I always have time for you, brother.”

Albert smiled faintly, not quite buying it, but letting it go. He walked in without ceremony and sank into a chair by the window, not bothering with any excuses for his intrusion. They both knew what this was about, so there was no reason to beat around the bush.

“You’re worrying us,” he said simply. “Louis especially.”

William gave a small, tired shrug. “He always worries too much.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t feel unfounded this time.”

William pressed his lips together, fixing his gaze on some meaningless spot on the carpet.

Silence stretched. Albert leaned back in the chair, hands folded loosely in his lap, calm in that maddening way of his. He didn’t push, not directly. He never had to. His presence alone was enough to force William to feel too seen.

“You’re tired,” Albert said at last, voice even, as though stating a fact instead of an accusation. “Not the normal kind. You look… worn thin.”

“I’m training,” William replied, sharper than he meant. He softened his tone. “It’s always been exhausting.”

Albert’s brow lifted, subtle but unmistakable. “Exhaustion I understand. But this—” he gestured vaguely toward him, the hollow in William’s eyes, the stiffness in his frame “—this is different. You’ve been distant. Silent. We barely see you. It’s never been this way before.”

William didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. The silence gave him away.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said finally. “I’ve handled myself for a long time.”

Albert let out a quiet breath, more resigned than frustrated. “Yes. You have. But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“You know, when my parents… when the accident happened. I thought I’d have to carry everything alone. That their expectations, their legacy—it all fell on me.” His gaze held William’s, steady and unflinching. “But you and Louis were still there. You were my family. I didn’t have to carry it all alone.”

William’s throat tightened. He wanted to look away, but Albert’s words pinned him in place.

“You don’t have to prove anything anymore, Will. Not to me. Not to anyone. I’m not my parents, and you don’t need to destroy yourself to earn your place here.”

The words hit deeper than William expected, deeper than he wanted, right into the insecurities he hid as deep as he could. He forced a small, brittle smile, hoping it would be enough to make Albert drop the subject. “You always did like to sound wiser than your years.”

Albert huffed a quiet laugh, though the weight in his eyes didn’t fade. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know you better than you want me to.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, marking the seconds William wished would move faster.

“Al… Excuse me. I need to wake up early tomorrow for training.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to rest.“ Albert stood, heading for the door, but before leaving, he paused. “Just… remember that I’d rather have you whole than perfect. Good night.”

And then he was gone, leaving William in the quiet, staring at the closed door, his chest aching with the truth he didn’t want to face.

*

Days passed in a blur, filled with long hours at the rink. The scrape of blades on ice haunted William even when he lay in bed at night, echoing in his ears. Every morning he forced himself up despite the ache in his body. He evaded Louis, rushing through breakfast before his brother could ask any questions. He evaded Albert, who had gotten far too close to the truth.

But Sherlock, he could not evade.

William didn’t need him at the nightly practices. He could have easily found another rink, one more private, one without a pair of burning blue eyes fixed on him. And yet, Sherlock showed up every night, without fail. Always waiting, always watching.

William had expected questions, nagging, perhaps even an interrogation. But Sherlock never mentioned his exhaustion, or the endless practice, or the way William sometimes pressed his palm against his ribs when he thought no one was looking. He only trailed him across the ice, gaze following every movement as if William would disappear when he looked away.

Meanwhile, William’s jump had became more consistent. Still unstable, still imperfect, but the landings came more often now, enough to fuel his determination and make him believe he could actually pull it off in competition too.

“So when’s the big day?” Sherlock asked casually one evening, leaning against the boards as William unlaced his skates.

William paused, bent over his laces. “Next week.” He hesitated before adding, “In the States.”

Sherlock made a thoughtful sound, something between a hum and a scoff. William didn’t linger; he stuffed his skates away and reached for his phone in his bag. It was late—later than usual. He’d have to grab a cab if he wanted to catch a bit more sleep—

The phone was snatched out of his grip.

“What the—?!” William shot to his feet. “Give that back!”

Sherlock was already striding a few paces away, thumbs moving with infuriating speed across the screen. His grin was positively criminal.

“Relax. I’ll return it in a moment.”

William lunged after him, but Sherlock twisted smoothly out of reach, holding the phone like stolen treasure.

“Sherlock—”

“Done.” With a theatrical flourish, Sherlock tossed the phone back.

William caught it and stared. A message thread shone on the screen with a freshly added contact.

The message read: “Sherlock Holmes is the greatest hockey player of all time.”

William looked up, utterly incredulous. “Did you just… text yourself from my phone?”

“What?” Sherlock said innocently, shrugging. “It was long overdue. How else am I supposed to wish you luck across an ocean? Not that you need it.”

William’s fingers hovered over the screen, caught between disbelief and the faintest flicker of amusement. After all these nights, and they hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers. It was absurd in retrospect, he had to admit.

“Well, you can always delete it if you don’t want it. Or block it. I’m not trying to pressure you here, I just…” Sherlock trailed off, sounding unusually hesitant.

“No.”

A flicker of surprise flashed across Sherlock’s face.

William let out a small laugh. He shouldn’t be amused; he was exhausted, tense, still feeling the pressure of the competition looming in the near future. And yet, somehow, this little moment made him feel lighter, as if someone had momentarily lifted the weight from his shoulders.

He tapped out a quick reply, fingers hovering for just a heartbeat before pressing send.

"Careful. Don’t let that ego trip you over your own skates.”

Something buzzed. Sherlock pulled his own phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. His eyebrows rose as he read the text.

Then his grin returned, wider than ever.