Work Text:
Sherlock was busy searching through a corner of a secondhand bookstore in Lower Manhattan. The shop had no clear name. Its wooden sign was faded, the white paint peeling, and the old letters on the front window were barely legible from the sidewalk. Most people would pass by without realizing it was a bookstore. There was no eye-catching display, no promotional posters, and no stacks of bestsellers by the entrance. Only a small bell jingled when the door opened, releasing the unmistakable scent of old paper into the air.
It was tucked between two busy restaurant buildings in a narrow alley. Not exactly hidden, but not easily found either. As if the place would only reveal itself to those who truly sought it, or to the curious few who turned down the wrong path on a whim.
Sherlock had stumbled upon it a few weeks after they moved to New York. He had been tailing someone on a minor case when he noticed a pile of books, almost toppling over, through the dusty window.
The shop didn't sell new books. Everything was pre-owned, many of them rare or long out of print. There were old textbooks from the early 20th century, collections of scientific papers, mathematical journals, classic novels in multiple languages, even anonymous diaries that somehow found their way onto the shelves. The prices varied, some were dirt cheap while others cost a small fortune depending on rarity.
Sherlock had noticed the shop before but only today did he decide to step inside. There was no pressing case, no call from Billy, and William was still asleep when he left that morning. Lately, William had seemed more tired than usual. Perhaps the sudden change of environment had disrupted him mentally. And on top of that, he had been missing his family terribly.
Sherlock wanted to give him something. And since William loved mathematics, he thought a book might lift his spirits, even just a little.
He moved through the aisles slowly. He found books on economics, Russian literature, even a manual for repairing typewriters, but none felt quite right and his money was limited.
After nearly thirty minutes, he spotted a thin, worn-out paperback titled Mathematical Problems in Real Life Contexts. The spine was loose, but the content was full of problems based on real-world scenarios, distribution models, probability, tactical analysis. His eyes skimmed the pages, then paused. William would definitely enjoy this book.
Sherlock checked the price on the back cover, eight dollars. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out a thin wallet, and counted a few coins tucked into his pants. Altogether, he had only six dollars and ninety cents.
He exhaled quietly, more out of frustration at himself. He hadn't taken on a big case in a while, partly because William had asked him to rest for a bit. The professor was always worried about Sherlock's health, though he never considered his own. Sherlock agreed, partly because William hadn't fully recovered yet, and partly because he genuinely didn't mind spending quiet days wrapped up with him in their flat.
Sherlock knew William was still trying to balance something inside himself. Whether it was trauma, mental strain, or the need to keep thinking so he wouldn't fall apart, William pushed through it for their life together. And because of that, Sherlock wanted to give something back in his own way.
He stared at the book again. His brain began calculating. If he skipped coffee for two days and trimmed the grocery budget a little, he could cover the rest. But at the moment, he was short one dollar and ten cents.
He sighed in defeat, feeling both hopeless and slightly foolish. He had spent days looking for something to give William. Yet even for something so simple, he didn't have enough.
The old man at the front counter gave him a brief glance, likely because Sherlock had been standing too long. Avoiding eye contact, he tucked the money back into his pocket and reluctantly placed the book back on the shelf. His mind ran through other options. What if he came back tomorrow? Waited for payday? But what if someone else bought the book before then?
He stood still for a few seconds before finally taking the book to the counter.
The old man behind the counter called out gently, "Need help?"
"This," Sherlock replied shortly. "But I'm... a bit short. One dollar and ten cents. I was hoping to give it to my partner as a gift."
It felt pathetic to be that honest. But the old man didn't seem bothered. He offered a kind smile.
"Take it. I'll knock the price down," he said, placing the book into a brown paper bag. "Just make sure he likes it."
Sherlock wasn't sure what to say at first. He gave a single nod, retrieved the book, and emptied all the money from his pockets, even the smallest worn coins.
"Thank you. He'll definitely like it. He loves mathematics."
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The door to their flat closed softly behind him. Sherlock slowly removed his shoes and glanced at the clock, it was nearly two in the afternoon. William might already be awake. He wondered if he had eaten lunch or gone back to sleep.
"I'm home, Liam."
He walked into the living room, and there was William, sitting at the end of the long couch. He was leaning back against a soft pillow, wrapped in a blue-gray knitted blanket around his shoulders.
"Welcome home."
William made an effort to stand and greet him, but Sherlock stopped him and wrapped his arms around William where he sat.
"What time did you wake up?" he whispered into William's ear after kissing him.
"Maybe sixteen minutes ago," William replied shyly, his ears tinged pink from the kiss and the sound of Sherlock's baritone voice so close.
Sherlock simply nodded and handed him the paper bag holding the book.
"This is for you."
Before William could ask what it was, Sherlock headed to the kitchen to prepare some snacks. He opened the cupboard, retrieved a small ceramic plate, and arranged a few cookies on it, ginger biscuits and oat bread they had bought last week from a small shop near the park. Crisp on the outside, soft inside, with a sweet warmth of cinnamon. William had taken a liking to snacks like these, so Sherlock often bought them with whatever money he had left. At least it encouraged William to eat something.
Sherlock brought the plate over and placed it on the table near the couch, then sat on the opposite side.
"Have you eaten?"
He glanced at the half-finished cup of tea. The answer was obvious, but he asked anyway.
"Not yet, but I had some tea."
Sherlock nudged the plate slightly toward William. "Try eating a little. You look even paler than usual."
William nodded but didn't reach for the plate. His hands were still holding the brown paper bag, resting on his lap.
"Don't act like I just handed you a bomb. Just open it."
William chuckled softly, catching on to Sherlock's attempt to lighten the mood.
"I'm just wondering what you brought me. I think I already know."
The knitted blanket slid slightly off his shoulder as he leaned forward, revealing the soft curve of his collarbone through the slightly unbuttoned shirt. But he didn't seem to notice, focused instead on unwrapping the paper.
Once the book was visible, he said nothing. His fingers ran over the faded cover, eyes reading the title slowly.
Mathematical Problems in Real Life Contexts.
"You bought me a math book?"
There were no flashy illustrations, just plain text on a dull gray background with worn edges. It was clearly an old, secondhand copy. William immediately understood Sherlock must have bought it with what little money he had.
"It's still usable even if it looks old. I hope you don't mind. I could read most of the pages in the shop."
"I don't mind at all. Thank you, Sherly. I love it."
William flipped through it gently, opening to the first page. Rows of problems appeared before him, forming patterns in his mind. He closed the book slowly and rested it against his chest, as if he had just received a love letter. Across from him, Sherlock watched quietly, hoping for a positive response.
Then William grinned mischievously.
"So, when are we studying math together, Sherly?"
It was not the question Sherlock expected.
"What? Absolutely not. I don't even understand what's in that book."
"Isn't that why you gave it to me?"
William teased him about math, no doubt remembering the time at Durham University when Sherlock had secretly posed as one of his students, taken a math test, and scored a perfect zero.
"My goal was to give you a gift, not torture myself with algebra."
"Come on, Sherly. Isn't it a bit much to call math torture?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He knew he was being played. William was too skilled at this game, and despite being a world-class detective, Sherlock never quite won when William James Moriarty was involved.
"Tsk... you—"
Before the sarcasm could leave his lips, William shrugged off his blanket and slowly stood. The knitted throw slid off his shoulders, pooling on the couch. Sherlock almost rose instinctively to help, but froze when William leaned closer.
Without another word, William kissed him.
His lips were warm, still carrying the faint taste of black tea. Sherlock stilled for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden affection between casual conversation.
William pulled away slightly, still smiling. "This is your return gift, Sherly."
Sherlock was still processing the moment, his cheeks slightly warm. But instead of replying, he stood and slipped his arms around William's waist, pulling him in and kissing him again, deeper this time. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads remained pressed together. William closed his eyes, while Sherlock's fingers gently brushed his cheek.
Sherlock smiled at the softness of his lover's expression. He never expected to fall this deeply, or to want to make someone this happy.
"I love you, Liam."
"I love you too."
That night, in a quiet apartment in New York, two lovers shared something beautiful.