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The doorknob turned with a steady, slow click.
Sherlock was completely sunk into the sofa, his head resting against the back, fingers interlaced, and legs casually stretched out.
The one who had entered walked with light footsteps and an unchanging rhythm.He kept his eyes closed until he felt the sofa dip beside him and the air around grow warm, only then did he speak.
"Louis."
"...You knew it was me?" Louis recalled the past few minutes—he hadn't made a sound, Sherlock hadn't turned around, nor had he ever opened his eyes.
A faint, muffled grunt escaped Sherlock's throat. He remained in his original position and said nothing more.
Suddenly, a hand pressed against his brow, gently massaging it. The restlessness caused by the chaotic clues faded slightly. He tried to relax, but his voice was heavy with fatigue.
"Headache."
Soon, the hand withdrew, and the presence beside him vanished, reappearing behind him. Then, two hands covered his temples, the pads of the fingers massaging in rhythmic circles before combing backward through his hair. From time to time, his fingers would press and knead specific spots, moving upward from the roots.
Sherlock felt the dark mass pressing on his mind begin to soften—and then dissolve, beneath Louis’s actions. The previously elusive pain faded significantly, and gradually, his mind grew drowsy, the outside world becoming hazy and seemingly unimportant.
"How does it feel?... I learned this specifically for my brothers years ago." Louis suddenly spoke up.
After a few minutes, Sherlock still didn’t respond.
But the familiar surroundings and people enveloped Louis like a gentle light, making him unconsciously relax and begin to murmur to himself.
"Many years ago, being able to do something like this made me feel useful, like I could be of help to my brothers."
"Louis, you don’t need to do this.Liam and Albert won’t leave you." Sherlock interrupted abruptly, opening his eyes to meet the red ones above him.
"I know."Momentarily stunned by those suddenly serene blue eyes, Louis replied.
"...Do you believe that?" Sherlock’s voice was low.
"Mhm." A faint smile began to curl at the corners of Louis’s lips. He knew what Sherlock was worried about.
Those were memories and thoughts from many years ago, long buried. They were like faded pages of an old book, no longer able to stir ripples in his heart.
Now, he was capable of protecting those he loved in his own way. It had nothing to do with "usefulness" anymore, and it was simply what he wanted to do.
By the time Louis emerged from those old memories, Sherlock had closed his eyes again, his breathing steady and deep.
"Sherlock?"
Louis called the name of the man beneath him a few times but received no response. It seemed he had fallen asleep. Louis leaned down and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.
When Sherlock woke up, his mind felt much clearer. He glanced around, but Louis’s presence had vanished along with the headache. He pouted a little chagrin.He had finally managed to see him, and Louis was gone before he got to kiss him.
His eyes fell on the desk. Several exquisitely packaged pastries now sat there. He immediately rose from the sofa and walked over, forking a small cake and taking a bite.
As he chewed, Sherlock noticed that the cigarettes in his ashtray had been cleared away. Suddenly remembering something, he yanked open a drawer.
The drawer, once crammed full of cigarette packs, now held less than half its original amount! Inside lay a note, the black ink stark against the white paper, boldly stating:
"Payment for the homemade pastries."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, let out a soft "Hah," and then shook his head. The force of chewing the cake inexplicably intensified, seemingly carrying a hint of gritted teeth.