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“My brother is very dear to me.”
Sherlock stilled from his position at the sink.
He'd taken up dish duty as the evening quieted down. Having not been able to help prepare, he figured this was the least he could do.
William had gone with Louis to make sure that their luggage had made it here all right. That their books and other sentimentalities made it undamaged from New York.
Sherlock dried his hands with a dishcloth and turned around as Albert stepped closer. The older man's expression was tight—serious—lips pressed thin and brow set.
“You brought him home. Alive,” Albert started. “Kept him safe when I could not.”
There was a pause. Sherlock didn't try to fill it, let the moment breathe.
“And for that… I will be forever grateful.”
Sherlock crossed his arms and sighed, eyes turning up to the ceiling. “Liam kept himself safe. He put in the hard work.” Sherlock shrugged, mock casual. “I just wanted to stay by his side.”
Albert huffed a breathy laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards.
“And yet, I'm certain if I asked, he would say he's only here because of you.”
The silence returned, not uncomfortable, but loaded.
A breeze snaked through the window, cracked open just slightly, making the thin, lacy curtains dance. Evening sun slipped past, crepuscular rays washing the kitchen in golden sun.
Sherlock watched as light played across the tile. He'd received plenty of gratitude in his life, but this was different. Soul deep. Aching.
“He talked a lot about you and Louis—when he could bear to think about you.” His voice was even, though his face had softened. “It was hard on him, not knowing if we would ever be able to come back. But we made it. He made it.”
Albert gave him a smile, gentle and warm, even as his eyes went glassy. “You are good for him. You see him in a way that we—his brothers—do not.”
“Liam is…” Sherlock trailed off, searching for a word to describe an impossible person. “... extraordinary .”
His fingers twisted into the dishcloth he hadn't put down, eyes cast down.
“But he is human.”
“You love him.”
Sherlock didn't bother denying it, a smitten smile playing on his lips. “I'd be a fool not to.”
He wasn’t afraid. Not of William’s brothers. They loved him unconditionally—no matter what society said was right or proper.
“Keep loving him,” Albert said, voice low, eyes steady. “Don’t let him go. Not like I did.”
“Never,” Sherlock vowed.
Albert nodded once. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to explain to Mycroft what happened to his brother.” A beat. “And wouldn’t that be a shame, after you’ve only just returned to London?”
It was getting dark out, the sun dipping below the horizon. The cool evening breeze pulled browning leaves from their branches, scattering them across the estate grounds.
Sherlock stood on the balcony, wind tugging at his long, inky hair. A cigarette burned quietly between his fingers, though he hadn’t put it to his lips.
“Heavy thoughts?”
Sherlock turned to look back at the door.
William stood in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed loosely. One scarlet eye glowed in the light cast by the wall sconce, the other covered by the eyepatch he'd grown used to wearing.
“Everything make it over alright?” Sherlock asked, ash falling from his cigarette.
“Yes. But that wasn't an answer.” William’s eyebrows drew pinched. “Is everything alright?”
“Your brother loves you very much.”
“Oh, did you and Albert talk while I was gone?” William questioned as he stepped beside Sherlock, leaning over the balcony railing to breathe in the cool night air.
“He threatened to make me disappear if I ever stopped loving you,” he said with a theatrical shudder. “And here I thought Louis was the scary one.”
William laughed, the sound warm and gentle, as he leaned against Sherlock's side.
God, he’d missed that laugh.
William’s laughter softened into a sigh, the smile slipping from his face. “I missed you…”
Sherlock didn't answer with words. He wrapped an arm around William’s waist and pulled him ever closer, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.
William plucked the faintly smoldering cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers and stubbed it out against the wrought iron.
“Hey.”
“You weren't smoking it.”
William pulled away to drop the butt in the ashtray by the door.
“Still theft.”
“Do you intend to arrest me, sir?” William challenged, arms crossed and an eyebrow lifted.
“Don't exactly have my cuffs on me, but I'm sure I could make do,” Sherlock quipped.
“Catch me if you—”
Before he could finish, Sherlock tugged him in by the waist and kissed him, quick and unrepentant.
Another followed—a press of lips to his cheek that made William laugh softly, hands splayed across Sherlock’s chest to steady himself.
The sound faded into quiet between them.
“Stay with me tonight,” William murmured, soft and certain, his gaze fixed on Sherlock's lips. Fingers fiddled with the lapel of his jacket.
Sherlock’s hands gripped William’s waist a little tighter, taking in the barest hint of pink high on William’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.
He leaned in closer, voice low and husky as he replied, “Thought you'd never ask.”
Their lips met again—hotter this time, with intent—moving together in a dance only they knew the steps to.
William’s hands slid up, around his neck, twining into Sherlock’s long, wavy hair. His lips parted with a gasp as he leaned into the deepening kiss, Sherlock swallowing the sound with a quiet hum.
“Just what do you think you’re doing to my brother, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock could hear the venom in the youngest Moriarty's voice.
“Louis,” William breathed against Sherlock's lips before pulling back just enough to address his brother. “Would you believe me if I said we were discussing philosophy?”