Work Text:
Nine days.
“A brazen anvil falling from earth nine nights and days would reach Tartarus upon the tenth”
The fall was endless.
He remembered Sherly clutching onto him like his last quest on earth, and then the world twisted as they plummeted into the void, gravity cackling at the fall of 2 geniuses.
Nine days of silence broken only by the wind and the haunting echo of their shared promise to live on no matter what.
The air grew thinner. Cold and calculated, pricking their lungs like a feral porcupine. They didn’t scream—what would be the point? This was a punishment dealt for his heinous crimes. The biggest crime of all was dragging his innocent beloved along with him.
They had stopped measuring time. William’s grip on Sherlock’s shirt remained iron-clad, his face buried against Sherlock’s neck, counting each breath. Then he saw it. A silver thread coiled in an obsidian terrain, raging and merciless.
Thames?
The closer they got, the more it felt like drowning while still in the air.
If memory served right, the river below had not one resemblance to the river they had used as a stage for the final problem.
What on earth is happening?
Their impact on this mysterious river was nearly bone shattering. Water filled their mouths, their eyes, their minds. The river swallowed them whole. A scream lodged somewhere between their lungs and throats—but neither of them made a sound.
William thrashed against the current, but it was no use. The river dragged them, not just through water, but through every memory soaked in blood.
William remembered his first kill.
He remembered the face of the original brother whose place he usurped.
He remembered the look in Louis’ eyes when he realised that justice demanded sacrifice.
He remembered Albert’s silence—his heartbreak—hidden beneath polished smiles and wine glasses.
And then he saw nothing.
He emerged coughing, every bone in his body screaming. The shore—or what passed for one—was a slick mess of black stone and ash.
Sherlock seemed to have reached the shore but now lay motionless. Eyes wide open, but unseeing.
“Sherlock…?”
No response.
William crawled closer, brushing the wet strands of hair from his face with shaking hands.
“Sherly…?”
Sherlock’s lips parted. There was a pause. Then, quietly whispered the detective, almost childlike.
“I can’t see.”
His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. Time froze, his mind desperately trying to assimilate the new information as his breath slowly turned to ice. The world around them reeked of malice, with every action intended to harm those who fall prey to its ancient wrath. The air reeked of sulphur, sorrow and centuries of suffering.
Only then did William notice it—the unnatural chill in the marrow of his bones. The whispers that sounded like his own voice telling him to give up. The water lapping at his boots like a predator in wait. His gaze lifted to the inky surface of the river. It pulsed, alive, spewing malice at every chance.
It could not be.
He had read about it in one of the old bookstores he used to frequent with Louis as children. Studied it. Dismissed it as myth.
A river that carried oaths, vengeance, memories.
A river that tested gods and demigods—but crushed them.
The Styx.
And now it had robbed Sherly of his sight.
William’s hands trembled with fury he didn’t yet understand. Not at the river. Not at Tartarus.
But at himself.
He knelt beside Sherly, forehead pressing against his saviour’s shoulders.
“I’m so sorry” he wept, for what seemed like hours.
Sherlock stirred, weakly at first. The river had not just stripped him of sight—it had drained his heart of the fire it held within.
But his voice echoed loud and clear.
“Liam,” he said softly, fingers threading through his love’s golden locks, “you mustn’t apologize. You didn’t bring me here. We fell together.”
William froze, guilt still flooding every inch of him, but Sherlock’s grip tightened slightly.
“I may have lost my sight,” he continued, “but I haven’t lost you. And that means we still stand a chance.”
William's breath hitched. Even now—especially now—Sherlock was still the constant that kept his world from an imminent implosion.
“You’re not alone,” Sherlock said. “And neither am I. We can solve this mystery together.”
William nodded. He inhaled sharply and wiped his face, anchoring himself to that voice he had grown extremely fond of. “Alright,” he muttered. “Alright.”
They rose slowly, muscles groaning in protest, bones heavy with the weight of what had just been taken from them. William slipped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying him.
“We’re beside a river,” William began, scanning their surroundings. “The air stinks of sulphur and rot. Black rocks, jagged and steaming, stretch in every direction. The river glows faintly...like liquid shadow. There’s no sky. Just...darkness that hums.”
Sherlock gave a small nod. “The Tartarus, then.”
William swallowed. “Yes.”
They scavenged what little they had—William’s cane was lost in the currents; they were left with nothing but their own clothes. William tore fabric from his own shirt and tied it around Sherlock’s wrist so they wouldn't lose each other. With one last glance at the river, they began to walk—slowly, carefully—along its cursed edge.
One step. Then another. Bound by threadbare hope and the memory of light.
They walked for what felt like hours—maybe it had been longer. Time in Tartarus didn’t pass. It demanded retribution. Every step along the Styx was penance, a trip between sanity and survival.
William kept describing what he could see: ghostly vapours emanating from the ground like a giant’s breath, skeletal trees that clawed the inky skies, and the path that lay ahead waiting to absorb their human essence.
Sherlock listened in silence, his hand never leaving William’s. He didn’t flinch at the detailed commentary or the unforgiving earth. Only at the silences between.
Then, somewhere ahead, the wind shifted, sending a chill down their spines. A sound pierced through the eerie atmosphere—not quite a breath, not quite a cry.
Rustling.
Feathers.
Sharp, deliberate, circling.
William stopped, heart lurching. “Sherly… we’re not alone.”
They came in threes. Then sixes. Then too many to count. Swarmed them like a pack of lions closing in on an unsuspecting antelope.
Harpies.
Feathers pointed like honed blades, eyes clouded with hunger for vengeance, wings rotting from millennia of decay. Their talons clicked as they closed in, circling them like eager hyenas that just spotted a carcass.
“William…” Sherlock’s voice was calm, but alert. “Describe them.”
“Harpies. Vultures. With human faces. They're surrounding us.”
William backed, shielding Sherlock with his own body.
The first one plunged for a taste—he slashed upward with a broken branch he’d sharpened along the walk, slicing its wing. It shrieked. Blood—if that was still what it was—spattered across the rocks. Another one grabbed his arm. Talons sank into his flesh. William gritted his teeth, swung hard, and it collapsed with a sickening crunch.
He didn’t notice the third until it landed on Sherlock.
Sherlock cried out, swiping blindly. William’s stomach dropped. The harpy raked his beloved’s face which had already been bruised from the fall.
“Get away from him!” William screamed, lunging forward and slamming into the creature with all his weight. They toppled. He managed to crush its neck with his bare hands immediately sending the harpy to an early afterlife. Or whatever place that welcomed such creatures after they die.
The air turned frantic; shadows broke from the sky—harpies, dozens of them now, all shrieking with glee. William’s fingers tightened around his makeshift weapon, knuckles white, soul burning.
“Sherly—Sherly stay with me—Do you hear me!”
The harpies descended with no mercy. One clawed at his ankle. Another scraped across his side. He tried his utmost to drive these creatures of madness away—but it was like drowning in feathers and misery. In the chaos, Sherlock was wrenched from him. They pulled them apart. Talons dug into William’s chest, dragging him backward. He twisted violently, but another slammed into his ribs, tackling him. He couldn’t see Sherlock anymore. Just the very crimson he once saw on his hands.
“Sherlock!” William shouted, slashing, kicking, dragging himself through the blood.
He caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—of Sherlock crumpled near the rocks, desperate to ward them off, helpless in the dark. Harpies clawed at his coat, pecked at his skin, shrieking in delight as their talons drew red streaks over Sherly’s tan skin.
And then—blood.
Sherlock’s mouth parted in a soundless scream.
It shattered William.
And still, he tried to fight them off.
William’s vision blurred. His body moved on instinct. Rage, guilt, love all melded into something indescribable.
“No—no, no, no—Sherly!” His own voice cracked, strangled by the inevitable. He fought harder, clawing through their ranks with nothing but a branch and a prayer. But there were too many. Too fast. Too cruel.
His hands bled. His knees gave out. He reached, crawled, cried—and failed.
"Stop it—please—stop it!" His voice broke into something barely human.
He begged anyone listening to end this cruelty. He pleaded over and over for mercy that shan’t be dispensed.
“Please… take me. He’s not meant for this. I am. Let him go. I’ll rot here, gladly—I’ll kneel at the gates of hell for eternity if it means he walks away.”
William trembled and collapsed to his knees.
“You want a soul? Take mine. Just—please—just let him go.”
His arms shook. His voice grew smaller. “Please… please… I’ll do anything. Just let him go.”
He bowed his head. “I’ll give up everything. Just don’t take him from me.”
Silence.
And then—
He jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. The echo of his own scream still rang in his ears as two concerned figures approached him.