Work Text:
Sherlock had initially thought they would keep the place modest, unlike 221B Baker Street, which would only be in order if John took it upon himself to tidy away the chaos. This apartment in Brooklyn was merely a temporary lodging, a comfortable enough disguise to conceal William's identity whilst serving as a small headquarters for their work under the Pinkerton Agency. There was no reason to acquire unnecessary possessions. At least, that was Sherlock's conviction in those first days they spent here.
Yet, some months later, that modesty was but a faint recollection. The parlour had transformed into a storeroom cluttered with objects of uncertain origin. The bookcase in the corner sagged under the weight of shapeless and inexplicable items gathered from their undertakings. There lay a rusted pocketknife, assorted glass vessels for experiments, crumpled fragments of maps, and glass phials containing curious powders. Sherlock called them articles that might prove useful one day, while to William they were nothing more than refuse awaiting disposal.
At first, they had allowed it to be, thinking the accumulation would diminish of its own accord. That supposition proved gravely mistaken. Instead of decreasing, the collection grew with an alarming regularity.
"Sherly, do you not think it is time we set this place to rights?"
William's voice came from the parlour, calm yet edged with a patience wearing thin. The fair-haired man stood at the centre of the room, his eyes moving deliberately from corner to corner, as though deciding whether to commence the work alone or compel Sherlock to assist.
The apartment had grown so crowded with Sherlock's spoils from various missions that it had begun to trouble William.
Sherlock, seated languidly at his writing desk with legs crossed, lifted his eyes from the papers before him. "Huh, what is there to be removed?" he asked, with the genuine tone of one who perceived no disorder at all.
William turned slowly, exhaling as his gaze swept over the room.
"You cannot be serious," he thought, though he did not utter it aloud. How could anyone regard this as ordinary? It felt as though they were living inside a chamber that was slowly devouring its occupants.
"Sherly."
This time, the utterance of his sobriquet was enough to rouse Sherlock's sense of danger.
"If you will not help me set this place in order, I shall move to Billy's lodgings."
Sherlock rose at once from his desk, his nonchalance abandoned for a touch of alarm.
"Wait, Liam—" He hastened from his work as though William were already halfway gone. The notion of William removing himself unsettled him greatly.
William stood at the threshold with arms folded, his gaze steady like that of a magistrate delivering judgement. The threat to depart was no jest, and Sherlock knew well he did not wish to return to an empty lodging. Without further protest, he consented to assist.
"Very well. We shall clean. But do not touch the important things."
"What is important to you is not necessarily important to me," William replied, already rolling up his sleeves.
They began with the parlour. William fetched a cloth and a basin of soapy water, while Sherlock brought a wooden crate and a coarse sack in which to place items for disposal or keeping. They commenced sorting. Yet each time William indicated an object, a small quarrel arose.
"This is to be thrown out," William said, pointing to a pile of papers so faded their writing could scarcely be discerned.
Sherlock looked at him as if he had suggested burning the British Museum.
"No. Those contain notes from a case."
"A case that is already concluded."
"It might connect to something in the future."
"You have not touched it in three months, Sherly." William lifted the top sheet, showing a coffee stain long since yellowed. "Even the stain has more years upon it than your urgency."
Sherlock exhaled sharply but relented when William cast it into the sack. The same pattern repeated itself. Even a cracked tumbler Sherlock claimed aided his concentration was deemed fit for the rubbish heap.
The disputes invariably ended in William's favour. His cutting remarks that these were nothing but rubbish, paired with a cold look, were enough to make Sherlock raise his hands in surrender.
"And this… what is it?" William held up a faded, battered hat.
"That belonged to a suspect in a theft at Albany. I thought—"
"—that it might serve some day as evidence in another case? Very well, discard it."
Sherlock opened his mouth to object, then merely shrugged. "Fine, discard it."
And so it went on. A broken clock he had once dismantled to examine its mechanism was consigned to be thrown away. Torn scraps of paper, their scrawled notes now meaningless even to Sherlock, were cast aside without pity. William was severe, yet allowed certain personal possessions like the violin and the antique tobacco case to remain untouched.
After two hours they had three categories: To Be Discarded, To Be Kept, and To Be Sold. The first far outweighed the others, the second consisting of a few small antiques and serviceable implements, and the third reserved for Sherlock's necessities.
"You cannot sell that spear," Sherlock protested as William began placing it into a wooden chest.
"If you wish to murder someone with it, I shall be glad to let you keep it."
Sherlock was silent, finding no safe retort. William allowed himself a small smile of triumph. Books William had finished reading went into the To Be Sold pile, destined for a second-hand shop on the morrow.
Once the sorting was done, it was time to attend to the floors. William took the broom, while Sherlock, reluctant at first but he took the mop and pail. The true hue of the boards emerged as the dust and grime were lifted. After William had swept the entirety, Sherlock set about mopping with more diligence than expected, though he occasionally missed the difficult corners on purpose, glancing now and then toward William's watchful eyes.
"Mind the corners, Sherly," William said softly, a reminder that his vigilance was constant.
"That corner troubles no one."
"It troubles me."
Sherlock sighed, but obeyed. When at last the parlour was in order, William stood at the doorway, surveying the result. He looked somewhat weary, yet satisfied. Sherlock set aside the mop and came to embrace him from behind.
"All clean now, is it not, Liam?" he murmured into William's shoulder, inhaling his scent like a languid cat.
William smiled faintly at the display of affection. He usually indulged Sherly when he was like this, but today would be an exception.
"Let us see to the kitchen and our chamber."
"Liam~!!"
And thus the rest of the day was given over to setting their Apartment in order.