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“Get back here, you filthy little guttersnipes!”
He held Louis’s hand tighter, pulling him along as they ran.
“I’m so sorry, Brother! I was just so hungry!” Louis wheezed. There were tears in his eyes as they ran, ducking under the elbows of passersby.
They kept running. The sound of their worn shoes slapping against the cobblestone echoed in his ears. The frigid air felt like needles in his lungs as he breathed. His shoulder caught on the arm of a sharply dressed man. He stumbled and kept going. No time to express polite apologies. They had to keep moving.
He didn't blame Louis. How could he? If this was anybody’s fault, it was his own. He’s supposed to take care of his little brother. For Louis to be so hungry as to steal a bread roll? No, Louis isn't to blame.
They weren't supposed to be stealing anymore. They’d been doing well, offering advice in exchange for little bits of food or coin. But they’d hit a rough patch. Christmas was right around the corner, and nobody had the time or the wherewithal to humor a raggedy little kid.
“Hey!” a call, young, around their age, came from a nearby alleyway. “This way! Hurry!”
He switched direction, tugged Louis behind him. Maybe a bit too harshly, considering the yelp he heard.
They raced into the alleyway, following the kid, rounding corner after corner, jumping over debris, and ducking under fallen beams.
Finally they came to a stop, trying to get air back in their lungs.
Louis fell to his knees, grasping his chest as deep, painful coughs wracked his body.
“Louis!” He kneeled next to him, a hand gently patting his back.
The boy that helped, no older than he himself was, dropped next to them. “Hey, is he okay? Can I do anythin’ to help?”
“Do you have anything to drink?” He asked him, meeting the boy’s sharp blue eyes.
The boy fished in a satchel slung across his shoulder—one he hadn’t noticed until now—and pulled out a flask.
“Here, it's just tea. Not warm anymore, but better than nothin’.”
He took it gratefully with a nod of thanks before turning to Louis, whose coughs were finally subsiding. He unscrewed the top and held it to Louis’s lips.
“Here, Louis. Small sips.”
Louis slowly drank from the flask, his breathing evening out, setting it down when he was done.
Then his tears, which had already filled his eyes from his coughing fit, started falling down his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Brother—” Louis hiccupped, “If—if I hadn't taken that roll…”
He wrapped his arms tight around him. “No, I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
An apple appeared in his line of sight. He looked up at the boy, his inky dark hair curling slightly as the strands were swept up by the chilly breeze.
“You guys are hungry, aren’t you? Here,” the apple was waved in front of his face. “Take it. You need it more than I do.”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking from the apple to the boy’s bright blue eyes.
“Why are you helping us?” he asked, suspicion taking over now that the danger had passed.
“Because I—” The light from the falling sun caught the boy’s eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Blast! I gotta go. I wasn't supposed to stay out this late.”
The boy jammed the apple into his hand, jostling Louis, before picking up the forgotten flask and starting to jog away.
“Wait!” He called after him, “What’s your name?”
The boy turned around briefly, a large grin on his face. “My name is —!”
Then he turned a corner and was gone.
He sat there, on his knees, an apple in his hand, his brother in his arms.
“Thank you, —,” he whispered, and pulled his little brother closer.
Louis looked up at him, eyes still red. He hugged tighter, and together they sat in silence, the apple resting between them.
William blinked open his eyes, squinting against the morning light that spilled through their gauzy curtains.
It had been a dream.
Or—no. A memory. Vivid and hazy all at once.
That boy with the inky hair and brilliant blue eyes…
He shifted onto his side, careful not to disturb the arm slung around his waist.
Same face shape. No more baby fat. Hair the same impossible shade, longer now, the waves softer.
William ran his fingers through those familiar strands, brushing them back before dropping a kiss on the tip of his nose.
Sherlock’s face scrunched, blinking awake.
“‘Ello…” he murmured, his voice scratchy and warm with sleep. His eyes fluttered shut again.
William smiled, pressing a peck to Sherlock’s slightly chapped lips.
“Good morning,” he whispered.
Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer. He forced his eyes open again.
“It is, isn’t it? What’s got you in such a good mood?” he asked, pressing his lips to William’s temple.
“I had a dream.”
“You gonna tell me about it?”
“Hmm…” William hummed as he pretended to think about it. “No.”
William captured Sherlock’s lips, swallowing his protests.
That child. The one Sherlock met so long ago. The one he’d shown kindness to when the rest of the world only knew cruelty.
That boy died in a fire of his own making. Best leave his soul to rest in peace.
That boy was gone. But his memory would forever remain.