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Only when London's streets got fully enveloped in artificial light and the flow of people dwindled significantly did William allow himself to dress hurriedly and march through the city with confidence, glancing around only occasionally—just to be sure.
His pace never eased until he finally reached a small, uncrowded alley. Casting one last look at the snow-covered streets and convinced of his utter solitude, William sighed wearily and only then did he feel confident enough to set down on the ground the little creature from beneath his coat — the one that had been scratching him desperately, demanding freedom, the entire way.
It all started just a few weeks ago when the usual evening routine in the Moriarty household had changed dramatically.
William's usual evenings, once occupied by plotting and reading books before a blazing fireplace, had been replaced almost without him realising it. Now, he would stand on the threshold every evening without fail, head bowed in obedience,while Louise would lecture him on the proper behaviour during the evening walks, which he was no longer permitted to conduct in solitude. Only after William crossed his heart and hoped to die to be exceptionally careful and gentle, would Louis finally entrust to his care a Yorkshire Terrier puppy. The small dog’s fur was carefully styled with a little bow and it was always dressed in warm dog suits, the ones Albert knitted for it with enthusiasm in a hope that a dog, at least, would appreciate his jumpers.
William attached the lead to the dog’s collar and stepped out. He walked confidently, but only for the first few paces from the house. As soon as he was certain Louis was no longer watching, he scooped up the poor creature and tucked it inside his coat, hurrying toward the secluded alley. Little did he know that Louis cared far more than he assumed: every time William left, the younger brother would stand at the window, nearly collapsing with laughter, blessed with the sight of his usually composed brother in such a humiliating predicament.
The main problem was William’s unshakeable conviction that the breed existed only for mannered aristocratic ladies, and that he — a grown man, a noble gentleman, and the Lord of Crime himself — would only embarrass himself by being seen with a dog so undeniably cute, yet so utterly unfitting for his image. Even though dogs of such a breed quite rapidly started gaining prominence among the aristocracy, he still wasn’t sure it would look natural with him.
But to do the story justice, the animal had come into their family through rather unusual circumstances.
One snowy evening, Albert had arrived home carrying a puppy, which he then gracefully presented to Louis as a Christmas gift. He explained the unusual present by voicing his concern about his youngest brother always being all alone while the elders were occupied with serious affairs. Although it later emerged that the puppy had originally been gifted to Albert by Mycroft, and that Albert, sharing William’s opinion on the matter, had promptly passed it along to Louis, the youngest Moriarty had grown to adore the animal completely. He spoilt it in every way possible: buying it treats, washing and styling its coat daily, and playing with the puppy in every spare moment.
Yet, unfairly as it seemed, the duty of walking the dog each evening fell to William.
Those were the events leading William to shuffling uncomfortably in the cold now, waiting for the dog to finish its business so they could finally return home. Terribly worried about his freezing hands, he failed to notice the man approaching quietly. By the time he finally noticed some movement nearby, it was already too late — there was nowhere to run.
“Yo, Liam! What a surprise, why never say that you’ve gotta dog.”
Sherlock Holmes ran towards him with such unbelievable speed that William nearly got knocked off his feet while the dog, scared of an unfamiliar, much active person, whimpered plaintively and immediately hid behind William.
Quickly realising his mistake, Sherlock hurried to get down in order to comfort the scared animal. He let the puppy sniff his red hands that were, as expected, without gloves. And after pacing warily around Sherlock for some time, the dog finally calmed down and was now licking his hands, its little tail wagging in jolly. The sight was so strangely comforting to William that he couldn’t prevent his lips from forming a little smile.
“Mr. Holmes, are you…”
Remembering the presence of a man to whom he ran with such enthusiasm, Sherlock looked up at him and was going to stand up to greet William properly. However, unfortunately to both of them, the day was not only snowy but also incredibly slippery, so while William tried to resume his composure, Sherlock fell down just at the man’s feet.
“My, you are so clumsy,” William slowly got down to be on the same level with him, fighting hard to keep his face solemn. “I don’t think you should spend much time seated on ice if you don’t want to catch a cold.” He wanted to give him a hand but restrained himself in time, realising how inappropriate the gesture would be.
“That’s nothing, Liam, you’re as gallant as always,” Sherlock quickly sprang to his feet, now looking at William with that bright smile of his. “I’m so glad to see ya!”
“Oh, please, don’t say such words, or I will be forced to believe that you are spying on me,” William stood up almost synchronously with him and caught himself still staring at his eyes — inappropriate behaviour but when it concerned Sherlock, even the easiest thing such as turning his eyes away seemed to be a torture.
“Spying on such a man as you are would be a privilege rather than a forced measure,” Sherlock walked past William, still smiling joyfully, too pleased with an accidental meeting. “Wanna take a walk?”
“I won’t resist. But only on the condition that you quit that strange habit of falling down on your knees before me,” William teased him, not being able to resist the urge. But Sherlock was already pacing carelessly a few feet away from him.
“Promise.”
William sighed and hurried to catch up with him, looking back nervously, scared to accidentally leave the puppy behind.
He kept smiling when Sherlock was by his side, pacing beside him carelessly, his bare hands hidden in the pockets of the coat. None of them was yet ready to break the silence: William obviously taken by surprise by his companion’s extravagant entrance, and Sherlock assumedly uneasy in the company of their four-legged friend.
The weather, despite being slippery enough to bring even the most sure-footed detectives to their knees, was perfectly suited for a short stroll. The snow that day fell in a pleasant, unhurried manner, without the rain that so often followed it in London. William relished the chance to wander these quiet, sparsely populated streets, dusted with a thin layer of snow. The yellow glow of the lanterns beautifully caught the falling snowflakes and the white-capped tree branches, and between the stolen glances he threw at Sherlock, William couldn’t help but gaze around in quiet appreciation.
“Are you alright, Mr. Holmes? You seem to be unusually taciturn today,” William began, catching Sherlock’s eyes unintentionally while glancing at him for no less than a fifth time already. “Did your rigorous work on catching Lord of Crime come to a standstill?”
“Not quite,” Sherlock smiled, keeping his eyes on him firm. “But he does seem to get quieter these days.”
“Even the Lord of Crime can’t miss the Christmas holidays, it appears.”
"Don't strike me as a religious man, that fella,” forced laughter left Sherlock’s mouth, but upon noticing how William’s smile froze unnaturally, he hurried to make a joke of it. ”But, apparently, these days it comes more from tradition than from religious ground.”
William nodded in agreement, not bothering to start a discussion with him. The statement, so bold and being declared with such confidence, caused an ache in his heart area, but he was never going to give Sherlock any hints about his involvement. At some point, the detective wasn’t that wrong either.
William sincerely hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t notice these small shifts in his expression. He could only pray that as they walked side by side, Sherlock was indeed just contemplating the surrounding sceneries, not observing him instead with the same fierce affection. William hoped that Sherlock wasn’t stealing glances like he himself did, secretly tracing every smallest change in his appearance, seeking, desperate and craving, those flickers of light in his eyes that appeared only when Sherlock was unaware of another man’s attention.
He knew he was trespassing into forbidden territory. But even though every conversation with Sherlock inevitably entailed the details about Lord of Crime, which made William’s heart sink, he couldn’t help but absorb his every word, seeking comfort in his promises to catch and bring him to justice.
William couldn’t be honest with him. Yet in those moments he, at the very least, could allow himself to talk to him the way one person would talk to another, briefly forgetting that the man Sherlock despised was still, in fact, himself. William would be greedy, he would keep Sherlock Holmes as a friend, and not as a detective, for as long as the circumstances permitted.
After a while that they spoke of nothing other than just some trivial matters, William started noticing how Sherlock’s occasional glances, which were usually dedicated to himself only, began to fall on the little dog running beside its owner’s feet.
Surely enough, Sherlock couldn’t anticipate the opportunity of encountering a well-acquainted professor in such a company all alone in the park, finally invested in something other than scribbling haphazard formulas and getting ready for the first mid-term exams.
“It has big problems with this slippery weather, doesn’t it?” Sherlock bowed his head, pointing to the puppy. “I think it tries to catch up with ya, but the task innit that easy when your just a short-legged puppy.”
William murmured something incoherent in agreement and glanced down. The gentle smile he wasn’t quick enough to hide appeared on his face as he watched the animal running by his feet, its head turning around between the two men constantly. The slippery road, just as Sherlock mentioned, indeed was quite a menace to a dog whose legs were spreading apart whenever it tried to run faster.
Sherlock laughed briefly as the animal fell down to its belly, losing the battle to gravity. “I think you bette’ pick it up.”
The suggestion made William stumble on his own answer, and he just followed Sherlock’s advice with the same smile on his face. He got down to hold the puppy and his eyes widened as he noticed how, even dressed in a dog suit, the animal was shaking from the cold.
William was grateful Louis wasn’t there to scold him for such neglect, yet his own conscience still pricked him, and in response, he calmly drew the dog closer to his chest in a feeble attempt to warm them both.
The puppy, however, didn’t seem the least bit offended by its owner’s absentmindedness and kept wagging its tail, settling comfortably into his arms. It clearly wanted to lick William, but he, being a proper gentleman, was dressed and covered from head to toe and the only skin available for such canine affection was his face. Yet the puppy, not being a selective one, began squirming upward toward his cheeks without a second thought. William gracefully turned his head aside, not permitting such intimacies in public. After all, he had an impeccable reputation as a nobleman to maintain, if not for his own sake, then for the sake of his grand design.
Sherlock remained silent. He watched their gentle battle of wills with an approving smile, his inner self probably laughing at the man’s prejudices about being a father to this unfitting to his longtime-built image animal.
William too caught his occasional glances.
Once. Twice. Again. And again.
The feeling of that gaze on him — firm yet gentle with the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly whenever their eyes met, made William miss a couple of breaths. He locked eyes with Sherlock and froze for a second, analysing his companion’s expression, while the dog seized the opportunity to jump up and lick him on the nose.
William wasn’t the stubborn one, luckily. He admitted his defeat to the animal with grace and, following the strange temptation, he timidly passed a puppy along to Sherlock instead of finally letting it go.
Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t share William’s prejudice and the moment the puppy was in his hands, he began patting its head passionately without any concern. “What’s its name?”
“Bitsy.”
“A female?”
“Your deductive skills are as sharp as ever.”
“And so are yours since you gave it to me without even my asking.”
“Spare the words, Mr. Holmes, it was written on your face.”
Sherlock winked at him, turning his eyes off the animal merely for a second before turning his attention back to the puppy. He scratched its head, ears and every spot he could reach beneath the warm suit, while the animal, happy with an unexpected wave of affection, licked his hands and kept wagging its tail at an incredible speed.
“Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I never took you for a dog lover, especially of such a small breed.” William felt a sharp pang of jealousy as he watched Sherlock hold the happy creature with both his hands on the eye level, studying it carefully. But surprised by his own pettiness, he quickly dismissed the thought. “You always struck me as a man who would consider a dog worthwhile only if it were a massive bloodhound.”
Sherlock, as if sensing that peculiar tension in the air, finally looked up from the animal. Still holding it aloft, he smiled at William knowingly. “Ain’t everything is ‘bout my work, Liam!” He laughed and William felt how his stern expression softened, the corners of his lips led upwards by the melodic sound of his lively laugh. “I’d rather not have a hound as a house pet even despite all its usefulness in the crime solving process. Y’know, I once had an encounter with a demonic hound in Dartmoor. And I’ll tell you this — never again, those bloody bloodhounds!”
“Dartmoor, you say?”
“Yeh, ever heard of the Baskerville family?”
“No,” William shook his head, “do tell me.”
He noticed how Sherlock’s eyes gleamed as if the fire had been lit behind them, the way it had always been with him when his professional interest was sparked. Settling a puppy more comfortably in his hands, he began to talk.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
“It appears the missing boots were the first indication,” spoke William after a while, turning his whole attention to the story.
“A boot. That would be singular.”
“Of course.”
They kept strolling through the snowy alleys, both of them too invested into the conversation of the peculiar occasion master detective once found himself in.
William allowed himself to watch Sherlock in silence whenever he thought he wouldn't be noticed. He simply couldn't resist the powerful urge that arose inside him every time Sherlock spoke of his favourite cases, for that beautiful spark in his dedicated eyes left William no choice but to admire him.
He wondered how Sherlock, so absorbed and animated, could still remember the puppy he held close to his chest, gently stroking its head. William wasn’t sure if the small animal had a soothing effect on him, or if he had simply forgotten it was there, yet he didn’t dare interrupt Sherlock to ask. Perhaps it wasn't calming for Sherlock himself, but for William James Moriarty, ever occupied with grand criminal designs and self-reproach, watching the man stroll beside him, snow settling peacefully on his ever uncovered dark hair, was indeed a profound relief.
William had long been seeing those dreams in his sleepless nights: Sherlock by his side, smiling in that familiar way, talking of trivial things and the events of his day. In these imaginings, they were never on opposite sides, they were free from speaking of their much beloved country, and the Lord of Crime, of course, did not exist. William had never thought his mind could conjure a more idealised version of Sherlock. But seeing how tender and affectionate the man was with a small creature, he knew the image would be etched behind his eyelids from now on, resurfacing in his darkest nightmares like a gentle, taunting breeze.
William had mistakenly assumed the awkward puppy that always looked up at him with such devotion in its small eyes would only embarrass him. Yet now the vision haunted him, and he found himself dreaming of acquiring a whole pack of these Yorkshire Terriers, just to bring them all to Sherlock. He would gladly abandon every prejudice about house pets, if it meant sharing one with Sherlock. Flying with him to the far ends of the earth, leaving the past behind, and spending evenings in quiet contentment, watching the detective play with them. And yet a thought was so childishly naive that William physically felt his ears burn with unspoken longing.
“That’s how the events were so far.” Sherlock’s lively voice pulled him back to reality just in time, before William fell too deep into those selfish dreams. “But you must’ve already figured who was an evil mastermind behind this case, ain’t ya, Liam?”
“Clearly, that man Stapleton was weaving some schemes.”
“Obviously.”
Sherlock suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, his hand stilling on the puppy’s head. “But how did’ya know it was him simply from my short retelling of the events?” His eyes gleamed with suspicion, but a detective was never a fool, so he swiftly buried that blaze deep within his gaze. “Even for me, it took weeks to put all the clues together.”
“Please, don’t take it personally, Mr. Holmes. Of course, I’m not trying to diminish your abilities. Back then it surely seemed like a very tricky scheme, but now from my point of view, it is not so.” William leisurely continued walking forward and an eager detective, interested in hearing his deductions, followed him enthusiastically. “You see, at the time, you didn’t have all the clues in hand and were forced to hunt them down. Naturally, you couldn’t step back and see the whole picture. However, when the case is already closed, you don’t see it as a puzzle with missing elements anymore. Instead, it becomes one of the many mysteries you have solved, and the motive behind every action becomes clear too, leading directly to the solution. When you recount the story, you unconsciously include all the small yet necessary details that were crucial for identifying the culprit. By emphasising them, you give your listener all the necessary details, without even realising it. It is as if the story was written in a book — keeping the intrigue but putting in there all the details to spark the reader’s interest and let them try to figure everything out by themselves. Besides…” William slowed down, noticing how he accidentally walked ahead, and smiled at him slyly, “you chose this exact way of telling the story purposefully because you expected me to arrive at this conclusion, isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened in pure admiration, and he laughed loudly, forcing the scared, forgotten by them both, puppy to bark loudly in order to remind of its existence. “Once again, you didn’t let me down, Liam!” He closed the remaining distance between them hurriedly, and that little spark of enthusiasm in his eyes turned into the burning fire. “Go on, tell me what details you find most important.”
“There were some, indeed. Such as, for instance, his so-called sister’s suspicious behaviour, or strange desire to always keep Sir Henry by his side. But the most telling was a psychological profile. Only a man of science could come up and successfully execute such a cunning scheme, transforming a local myth into a lethal weapon. There are barely a dozen people in all of Britain with necessary knowledge and means, let alone a small remote village.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement, his eyes squinted thoughtfully. “Looking back on it now, it does seem just as obvious as you say.”
“It was his own fault, after all. Scaring a poor newly arrived man with horrendous stories and yet living too carelessly and comfortably among the danger he claimed to fear.”
They spent another quarter of an hour absorbed in heated discussion concerning the case. And William would be a terrible, atrocious liar should he claim now that he didn’t feel the warmth spreading across his body while talking to Sherlock this way, as if they were both just friends-detectives.
The feeling of nostalgia didn’t let go of him until the topic of the Baskerville family, their demonic hounds, and much cunning neighbours-scientists died down by itself, when both of them spoke out all the conclusions that no one except them two even knew could be arrived at in such a short talk.
William remembered how some time ago, back on the train when they were barely acquainted, they found themselves equally invested in the murder case that mysteriously happened to occur just in front of them. He would have claimed that he didn’t believe in such convenient circumstances, yet whenever it concerned Sherlock, William found his sceptical self gradually but surely inclining towards believing in soulmates and the signs of the universe.
Of course, he would never let anyone from his family find out about these thoughts that he himself deemed his weakness. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find any other explanation for events and circumstances which as if accidentally kept bringing them together. After all, how could two of them with the same mind be born in the same country at the same time? The man that walked right now by his side, interested in his mind the way no one before him was, and accepted his way of thinking like no one ever could, in William’s eyes, would forever stay the only mystery he wasn’t able to solve.
“Y’see, somehow winter is most boring time of the year for a detective,” Sherlock sniffled, now talking to him about whatever was coming to his mind, “all the cases are either so damn obvious that even these slow-witted blokes of Scotland Yard can manage without my help or just blunt and not at all connected to anything greater.”
Sherlock’s eyes sparked as he finished the last sentence and William’s ones, taking the hint, averted from his, knowing too well what that “greater” was supposed to mean. He almost felt jealous of the Lord of Crime — that part of himself which could have Sherlock in its will in whatever way it liked.
“Seems like the criminals are all too afraid of the cold weather. Witless! My mind rebels at stagnation while they are tryin warm themselves up!” His loud complaints were interrupted by a sneeze, one of the numerous in the course of the last half an hour.
This time, instead of ignoring it like he did all the previous times, William just stopped mid-step, contemplating the detective’s posture with concern.
The snow was falling gracefully on his head and shoulders, looking hilariously in the contrast with the red nose that Sherlock kept scratching. One single proper look at him was enough for William to get genuinely scared by the man’s negligence towards himself — coat unbuttoned, letting the snow fall onto his chest, gloves, scarf, hat and other small items absent at all, as if the detective went out for a walk during the early autumn, not bothering himself with dressing up properly even when the rough wind was blowing right to his face.
All the way from the moment they met, William waited patiently for Sherlock to finally get cold and cover himself up at least a bit. However now, as the night was drawing close and the wind getting harsher, William couldn’t resist the urge anymore.
He stepped closer and sighed tiredly, a scarcely hidden reproach gleaming in his eyes. “And surely the detectives, unlike criminals, do not bother to keep themselves warm and healthy.” Realising that any action would be better than just silent contemplation, William gently took a puppy from Sherlock’s hands and put it to the ground. “Mr. Holmes, at such a rate, I’m afraid these witless criminals will survive the winter, but when the spring comes, there won’t be any worthy detectives to hunt them down.”
“What?” Sherlock looked at him, noticeably irritated by the warm animal being taken from him. “Whatever you mean, Liam, I—” gloved hands interrupted him mid-word, and he looked down, surprised to observe how another man, now standing dangerously close to him, began buttoning his coat by himself.
William couldn’t tolerate the sight of Sherlock deliberately freezing himself to death and even though he didn’t dare reproach him, he approached him with the same unreadable and calm expression on his face, making Sherlock’s dishevelled look his own problem.
He had never been so glad to have the gloves covering his hands, for he would never bear the slightest possibility of accidentally touching him somewhere, feeling Sherlock’s cold skin against his own, uncovered and undeniably hot one. William tried to keep his distance even now, while crossing all the boundaries he himself established and breaking his own unspoken rule of never touching Sherlock, no matter how unbearable the desire would be.
He didn’t want to get attached even more.
He believed that even Sherlock’s freezing cold touch would become a burning and fatal one for him. Yet he reassured himself that by that inappropriate gesture he didn’t mean anything intimate, and saving Sherlock Holmes from the flu was just a gallant gesture, the one he believed was not personal but rather a patriotic act of protecting the detective his nation desperately needed.
Upon finishing with his coat, William’s gaze fell into the detective's hands, which had already looked dangerously red. He looked up at him and reached to the pocket of his coat, ready to give him the spare pair of the gloves Louis always insisted he take.
Sod’s law, that exact day he found them mysteriously missing. It was either from his own forgetfulness or he once again just lost the gloves — the exact reason why Louis kept giving William more than one pair whenever he stepped out. But now, as they already weren’t there and Sherlock’s nearly frozen hands remained the problem, he didn’t have the time to take the case of the mysteriously missing gloves. Instead, he simply put off one of the gloves that were already covering his hands, and confidently passed it to Sherlock. The action probably too indecent and intimate for such a gentleman as himself, but definitely worth saving the detective’s hands from the frostbite. He hoped only that Sherlock wouldn’t interpret the gesture incorrectly and would, instead, succeed in sensing his true intentions the way he always did before.
“You better take it, Mr. Holmes, or I’m afraid you will arrive home with dysfunctional hands.”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He looked at him suspiciously, most probably dumbfounded by that caring and selfless part of the professor he didn’t know was in there. And William, left with no other choice, just put it on his hand himself.
“Just one of ‘em?” Sherlock asked jokingly, lifting up his by now covered hand.
“How can a man be so greedy…” William shook his head in pretentious reproach, hiding his slightly fastened heartbeat behind the words, “you are simply unbelievable. Put the other hand into your pocket. You should warm it up.”
“What for, then, do I need yer other glove? I can warm both my hands this way, y’know.”
“Because…” William slowly got down to pick up the animal and give it back to Sherlock, “you may need at least one hand to carry it. You were the one worrying about the dog just a couple of minutes ago. I’m not sure a small puppy can handle your long saunters like I can, Mr. Holmes. Dogs of this breed get tired and cold easily.”
He stepped back, granting himself short seconds to contemplate the sight of utterly confused Sherlock holding a dog that got excited and immensely happy the second it was returned back to his hands. Luckily, Sherlock didn’t ask him why he himself couldn’t take the animal, and William was saved from having to explain that it stemmed both from his own prejudices towards being seen holding the affectionate puppy in public and his forbidden desire to throw glances at Sherlock with a dog — the sight so domestic and beautiful he never dreamt of seeing it even in his imaginings.
William turned away, not able to hide that small yet very telling smile he couldn’t allow Sherlock to notice. Being robbed of his second glove, he was halfway to putting a hand in the pocket, just the way he advised Sherlock to do, but was interrupted by another, contrastingly cold hand, firmly gripping his warmed-up one.
“Warm.”
Maybe too warm, since Sherlock’s hand didn’t let go of him and William felt how his cold touch nearly burnt him.
Sherlock pulled him to the opposite direction and continued his walk leisurely with the dog in one hand and, unbelievably, William’s hand in another.
Sherlock neither commented on his unexpected action nor was going to overthink about it. To him, it seemed to be just an insignificant and natural gesture, a more convenient way to warm his frozen hand. Horrible, cunning man, if only he touched him like that in any other circumstances! William would, without doubt, take away his hand and give him one of his reproaching looks, silently judging the man’s rude, inappropriate behaviour. But Sherlock successfully found a plea in his cold hands, making the gesture less inappropriate and William’s heart less cold and inaccessible.
William just followed a pace behind. Despite his own oaths he swore to oblige, despite all the rules of not touching and keeping the distance, when it was Sherlock he each time found himself silently obeying him. Being deprived of the opportunity to escape him, William had to accept that in the terms of Sherlock’s heart he was the greedy one too.
Lost in his thoughts and the feeling of Sherlock's burning touch spreading from his hand up to the rest of the body, William failed to notice how another half an hour passed by the same trivial conversations of nothing of importance. Late evening changed to night and the lamps slowly began to fade, immersing the city into the darkness. The snow kept falling in the same unhurried manner and the puppy, lullabied by the rocking, had already fallen asleep in Sherlock’s arms. William knew he was going to be home illegally, terribly late, causing his brothers some unnecessary worries. But Sherlock kept talking to him and William was unable to stop him as long as it was something Sherlock wanted with him.
“By the way, Liam, where are we going?” Asked Sherlock as he laughed over something absolutely not funny William said.
“I suppose that I’m going home,” he seized the opportunity. “and you, Mr. Holmes, seem to follow me for some reason.” William demonstratively glanced down at their entwined hands that were both already too cold to seek warmth in that touch. Yet Sherlock was stubborn to not let him go.
“Then, I spose I can find a spare couple of minutes to see ya off.” Even in the almost pitch darkness, William could catch sight of Sherlock winking at him.
“I won’t go back on my word. It does feel like you are trying to spy on me.”
“Com’n, Liam, ya know it’s not ‘bout that!” Sherlock laughed again and William felt grateful it was too dark for Sherlock to notice the gentle spark in his eyes as he watched him.
Thanks to Sherlock’s persistence, fate granted them another fifteen minutes together until they reached the Moriarty manor. However, as greedy as William was, he kept prolonging the time by leading Sherlock in circles near his house, not ready to tell him that it was time they departed.
Sherlock had far too many stories to tell and William couldn’t make himself interrupt him. With Sherlock, it was always like that. He kept those little secrets from him all the time, concealing the truth sometimes to keep him safe and sometimes to satisfy his selfish desire to hold Sherlock by his side a bit longer.
He wouldn’t tell him how they were already making the fourth circle around his house, just the way he hadn’t told him how he got to that train back then not by accident, but merely to see him. He hadn’t told him just an hour ago how well-acquainted he was with that Baskervilles’ story which Sherlock was so eager to tell either. And how could he anyway? Wasn’t it obvious to the great detective that the story so widespread and written in all the newspapers, of course, had no chance of passing by William, who was equally interested in crime, unnoticed?
Perhaps, to Sherlock it was. Yet he ignored the obvious just to satisfy both of their needs — William’s to listen and his own to speak.
“No,” he shook his head, “do tell me.”
The bittersweet spark in William’s eyes was left completely ignored by Sherlock. He couldn’t answer him in any other way. Not when it meant making Sherlock happy and letting him tell the story he finds outstanding in his career, not when he himself wanted to hear his mind and discuss the matter anew to impress him.
Ah, Sherlock can be so blind at times.
The man who could see the truth behind every trickiest scheme was never able to figure out what all the touching and fleeting smiles, all the hints and hidden sparks in William’s eyes meant.
William was grateful he couldn’t.
And still he grieved alone at nights in his room, crying over all the missing opportunities, mourning the life he knew they were never going to have. Even all the time they were left, that fleeting “friendship” they tried to develop broke into pieces because of Sherlock’s deliberate inattention.
And even though it hurt him terribly, every day William gave his everything to keep it this way. Not letting him know. Not allowing him to have a deeper look. How humiliating it would be, if the great detective ever grieved over the Lord of Crime — the lowly criminal, not worthy of his single teardrop.
William knew how inappropriate was his way of calling him “Mr. Holmes”. After talking to him for hours, letting his dog sleep into his arms and feeling his hand on his own skin, Sherlock deserved better than this. And William would have gladly given it to him, if it hadn’t meant admitting his attachment. As they were now, at last, approaching his house, William more than anything wanted to call him “Sherlock” one more time and yet the only thing he could grant him was blunt:
“We have arrived, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock, as if enchanted, stopped and gazed up at the big manor which was now poorly illuminated by the lamps. Even in the darkness, it was impossible not to notice housemasters’ investment in keeping the manor well-groomed and luxuriantly adorned for Christmas night. “You seem to take the holidays seriously.”
William, turning his eyes away from Sherlock, proudly cast a glance at his house. Thanks to Fred, their front yard was indeed beautifully maintained even in frosty weather. On Christmas Eve, all the fair summer plants were replaced by the winter, but not less beautiful ivies, spruces, pines and other evergreen trees that they decorated every year carefully.
“We rather love Christmas, that’s right.”
They didn’t have much to say on the matter anymore. Sherlock kept staring at the rich belonging in front of him, patting the puppy on the head and pretending that there was still something he had to observe. William just patiently waited beside him, leaving the duty of saying first goodbye to Sherlock.
“Thanks for taking a walk with me, Liam. I must’ve really taken yer time, your brothers ‘ave probably been waiting long for ya.” He returned the dog, that slept soundly in his arms, to William.
“Indeed, the evening walk was long enough for Louis to start scolding me the moment I would step into the house.”
Sherlock laughed briefly and stretched out his bare hand. William hesitated a second before gripping it in a firm handshake with his own gloveless hand, reminding himself of the feeling of his hand in his own one for the last time.
“Oh, bugger me, nearly forgot.” Sherlock harshly took his hand from William’s grip and, with a guilty look on his face, started putting off the glove William gallantly offered to him.
“Keep it,” William’s imperative tone made Sherlock stop mid action. “You still have to get back home so your hands remain at risk, especially considering their owner’s attitude. And, for god’s sake, consider beginning dressing up properly at this time of the year.”
Sherlock stared at him with the glove hanging half put on his hand while William fought to restrain himself from giving him the second one too. It would indeed be a wise decision, considering that he had already stood on the threshold of his own house and therefore didn’t need it anymore while Sherlock still had a path through the winds to take to get home. Yet something inside him didn’t allow: was it shyness or irresistible desire to share something with Sherlock, even if in such an unserious way — William didn’t know.
“Liam, you’re —“
“Consider it a Christmas gift, all you like.” William interrupted him, surprised by his own rudeness, while Sherlock suddenly stepped back, admitting his defeat.
“Then, see ya later, Liam!”
He waved at him and William allowed himself to smile when he was certain Sherlock had finally departed.
He knew the feeling wasn’t lasting. He knew their time was ending hurriedly and every evening conversation and accidental encounter could be their last. Every minute with Sherlock was most precious to him, his every “Liam”, every “see ya” said with those gentle flames dancing inside his eyes were something William would never be able to let go until the time, at last, came.
He didn’t care about Louis scolding him for losing gloves again either. Next time he would be confident enough to give Sherlock the second one too. Another present. This time, the birthday one.