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It isn’t unusual to see Sherlock Holmes muttering to himself in the university hallways with hands clasped behind his back, lips moving as he dissects problems no one else can see. Most often, the reason is a chemical reaction gone awry or an experiment that keeps failing to align with his hypothesis no matter his best efforts. Being wrong unsettles him precisely because it is so rare.
This time, however, his distress has nothing to do with work.
His legs carry him along a familiar path of well-worn doors, towards a narrow corridor on the second floor. Students rush past him, eager to use every second of their break between lectures to the fullest. No one disturbs him on his way, but even if someone did, they shouldn’t expect him to even acknowledge their presence. His single-minded focus ignores everything else as it leads him to one particular office.
Once he reaches it, he freezes right before the door.
On any other day, he’d barge right in with no preamble. Never before has anything prevented him from doing so, yet he’s also never been preoccupied with a person instead of a chemical mystery quite this much. This is all uncharted territory, an experiment he’s never attempted before.
The nameplate on the door reads: William James Moriarty, Department of Mathematics.
What it doesn’t say is: a fellow university professor, an intellectual equal, and a persistent presence in Sherlock’s mind, haunting his thoughts unbidden at all hours.
William is sharp, perhaps even sharper than Sherlock himself. It would be naive to think he hasn’t already noticed that Sherlock’s interest in him has long since drifted beyond an academic fascination. If William truly minded, surely he wouldn’t entertain Sherlock’s company. It must be painfully obvious how Sherlock invents the flimsiest excuses to seek him out, despite the chemistry and mathematics departments sharing little beyond a building. And yet William has never turned him away, never once discouraged it. Sherlock would even dare to say that beneath his impeccable manners, William is just as eager to see him.
Which should, in theory, make this easy. It’s just a small, informal—and only technically against university rules—New Year’s Eve party. Inviting him shouldn’t be such an impossible task, but Sherlock’s infallible logic is far less reliable when it comes to William James Moriarty, or so it seems.
Just go in there and ask him. Seriously, what’s wrong with you?
He spends so much time fighting with himself, William beats him to opening the door.
William pauses, clearly taking him in, and Sherlock becomes acutely aware of his own posture: hand half-raised, coat slightly askew, expression caught somewhere between resolve and despair.
“Oh,” William says. “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes.”
William’s gaze moves from Sherlock’s suspended hand to his face, lingering there a fraction too long. The corner of his mouth curves, not quite a smile, and Sherlock hates how easily it makes his thoughts derail completely.
“Were you planning to knock,” William asks, mild as ever, “or does my door require a forensic investigation?”
“I was about to,” Sherlock says automatically.
“Mmh.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. It’s the same noise any professor makes while listening to a student explain countless impossible reasons why they failed to do their assignment.
William steps aside, opening the door fully. “You may as well come in. I need to deliver these to the dean’s office”—he lifts the file tucked under his arm—“but I’ll be back shortly. You’re welcome to wait, if you have the time.”
“Uh, sure,” Sherlock says, because saying anything else would require a functioning brain.
William’s office greets him with its usual order, the kind completely opposite to what can be found in Sherlock’s own space. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, every book placed with careful intention, spines aligned, grouped by topics. Papers lie stacked in tidy piles rather than scattered. A porcelain teacup adorned with a flower pattern sits on the side of the desk. The air smells faintly of ink and old paper, as if entering the room transported Sherlock from the 21st century back into the past. It’s comforting, familiar, and so unmistakably William.
Sherlock’s attention is caught, inevitably, by the chalkboard on the wall. It’s the only part of the room displaying any sort of chaos—symbols and equations are layered over one another, some partially erased, others written darker and more decisively. The chalk dust has settled into the grooves of the board, evidence of long weeks of work.
William’s research is far beyond Sherlock’s own mathematical expertise, but he studies the chalkboard anyway, tracing the looping symbols and sharp angles, trying to imagine the path William’s mind had to take to arrive at them. Nothing about it seems to have changed since the last time Sherlock was here.
“I still can’t quite get it right,” William’s voice comes from behind him.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Sherlock replies. “I’m sure of it.”
William comes to stand beside him and lets out a quiet sigh. “That’s kind of you. But I’m afraid I’m stuck. I haven’t made any progress in weeks.”
The frustration in his voice is hidden beneath a layer of politeness, but it’s still unmistakable to Sherlock’s ears. He can understand quite well the need to chase something just out of reach, to take a peek beyond the horizon where no one else has been before.
Sherlock turns towards him. “Maybe you need a break. To rest your mind and come back with fresh eyes.”
“Maybe.”
The word hangs there, uncertain.
Sherlock swallows. He couldn’t ask for a more perfect lead-in to the question he came here with, but his palms are stupidly sweaty and his pulse drums loudly in his ears. Worst of all, the words sit stubbornly in his throat, refusing to cooperate.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why is this so difficult?
“I have just an idea.”
William tilts his head. “For my theorem?”
“No.” Sherlock exhales, then forces the words out before he can overthink them. “Come with me to the New Year’s Eve party.”
There. It’s done. He said it. There’s no going back now.
William blinks, clearly thrown. “We have a New Year’s Eve party?”
“Well, chem department’s got one. Not exactly official, as you can imagine, but—” Sherlock gestures vaguely as words tumble out of him a bit too fast for comfort. “If you’re free. Which you may not be, obviously. It could be a way to do something different. Get your mind off work.”
Silence falls in the room. Sherlock clamps his mouth shut, resisting the urge to fill it with more frantic clarifications, even though the next few seconds feel like an eternity.
“Well,” William begins, slowly. His eyes flick briefly back to the chalkboard, then to Sherlock. “I usually spend New Year’s Eve with my brothers…”
Of course. Sherlock had expected it. He nods faintly, already preparing himself to accept it. It will be a challenge to do it gracefully, but oh well. At least he shot his shot. Perhaps now his mind will be able to settle—
“—But I could make an exception this year.”
Sherlock’s rushing thoughts come to a sudden halt. “Wait. Does that mean…?”
That earns him a soft chuckle.
“It means yes. I’ll go with you to the party.”
“Oh. Oh! Brilliant! I mean, uh—” Sherlock clears his throat. “That’s great.”
William visibly suppresses a laugh, lips twitching as he looks away. If he weren’t as kind as he is, Sherlock suspects he’d be enjoying this far more at Sherlock’s expense.
“I have a lecture in five,” William says, glancing at his watch. “Let me know the time and exact location later. And if I should bring something along.”
“Yeah,” Sherlock manages, still a little dazed. “Sure thing.”
William smiles as he passes him, and Sherlock is left standing in the office, heart racing, wondering if his suspicion has just proven true.
*
The party could’ve been the perfect distraction William needed, if only the invitation hadn’t come from the very person who was the reason he needed it in the first place.
The truth is somewhat inconvenient. It’s not the complexity of William’s research that’s been keeping him from making progress the past few weeks. His equations are sound, the logic intact. What disrupted his focus was simply his thoughts wandering, again and again, to a certain fellow professor with a tendency to invite himself into William’s office at all times.
When William started to catch himself listening for footsteps in the corridor instead of grading papers or revising his proofs, he knew he was already in too deep.
Sherlock, infuriatingly, seems completely unaware of the effect he has. If William wants to actually push his work forward, he needs to resolve this situation, one way or another. He arrives at the party with that exact resolution—and a bottle of champagne because it felt wrong to come empty-handed, despite Sherlock’s assurances that he didn’t need to worry about it.
Now, this would be easier if Sherlock wasn’t avoiding him.
William notices at once that something is amiss. Sherlock magically disappears whenever William drifts too close. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t particularly clever and busies himself with refilling glasses that don’t need it. He behaves like a man attempting to occupy every available space in the room except the one William stands in.
It would be almost impressive if it weren’t so obvious.
After a few failed attempts, William lingers near the common table, watching Sherlock from afar. He has to admit the chemistry department has outdone itself—the party is pleasant, even if slightly chaotic, but that was to be expected, knowing the department staff. The gathered group is surprisingly large for a party meant to be kept a secret; William notices a few familiar faces from even the least related departments like psychology or English. Someone in the corner is mixing colorful drinks in a lab flask, but William isn’t quite brave enough to take a closer look.
He busies himself with observing the crowd, waiting patiently for the chance to catch Sherlock’s eye.
When he finally does, the reaction is immediate. Sherlock freezes for half a second, like a man caught mid-experiment, then hastily looks away. Even from the distance, William can see his cheeks coloring faintly as he pretends to be deeply invested in a conversation happening next to him.
Ah.
William chuckles, prompting the person nearby to turn and look at him.
At least William’s affliction appears to be mutual. That narrows the possible courses of action to some more pleasant options.
No time to waste then. He retrieves two glasses and the champagne bottle he brought. He waits for the right moment to step into Sherlock’s periphery without getting noticed and speaks quietly so that only he can hear.
“You are being very obvious.”
Sherlock startles, turning far too quickly. “I—what?”
William holds out a glass. “Avoiding me,” he clarifies gently. “It’s hardly subtle.”
For a moment, Sherlock looks as though he might deny it. Then he deflates, slumping a bit. “I wasn’t—well. Maybe a little.”
“Any particular reason?” William can’t help the tease.
Sherlock stares at the champagne as though it has personally betrayed him. “I invited you,” he says, which explains nothing and everything all at once.
William smiles. “Yes. You did.”
Their fingers brush as Sherlock takes the glass. The contact is brief, yet it settles William’s resolve into something firmer.
He tips his glass toward Sherlock and holds his gaze until Sherlock clinks his own glass against it.
“You promised to take my mind off work,” William says, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, “and I expect you to be true to your word.”
Sherlock swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs in a way that makes William’s attention linger far longer than is proper.
“Right,” he says, a little hoarse. “Yes. Of course. I did say that.”
William hums softly and takes a measured sip of his champagne, watching Sherlock over the rim of the glass. The bubbles are sharp and dry but pleasantly grounding. It was the right bottle to steal from Albert’s collection.
“So,” William says lightly, lowering the glass, “any further proposals?”
Sherlock scans the room, frowning at the sight of the people dancing off-beat on the improvised dance floor, then outright grimacing when he sees a trail of smoke where William last saw the suspicious mixology enthusiast.
“Right. No,” he mutters. “Absolutely not.”
He takes a moment to think and when he looks back at William, something conspiratorial is sparking in his eyes. “Ever been to the rooftop?”
William blinks. “As far as I’m aware, there isn’t a way up.”
“Only if you don’t know where to look.”
Before William can ask for clarification, Sherlock downs his glass and sets it aside to exchange it for their open champagne bottle. With the other hand, he catches William’s wrist—firm, warm, but gentle at the same time—and tugs him forward.
William follows.
They slip through a series of unmarked doors and narrow corridors William has never had a reason to explore. The party’s noise fades with every turn they take until the music and laughter dissolve into a distant hum. He has no idea how long they walk. The world narrows to the sound of their footsteps and the press of Sherlock’s fingers against William’s pulse, but at last Sherlock stops.
True to his word, a ladder appears before them, disappearing into shadow above. Sherlock releases William’s wrist and bows with a flourish.
“After you, sir.”
William glances between Sherlock and the mysterious way up. If he intended to murder me, he thinks, this would be unnecessarily elaborate.
“Very well.”
The ladder ends in a narrow hatch with no lock on it, and a firm press of William’s shoulder is enough to push it open. William climbs outside with Sherlock following close behind, champagne bottle still in his hand.
A sharp wind cutting across the roof makes William shiver despite himself. In their haste, neither of them thought to take a coat along with them, but before he can remark on it, Sherlock’s jacket is draped over his shoulders.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’ll live,” Sherlock says, taking an unapologetic swig from the bottle.
“You might live but still catch a cold.”
Sherlock shrugs. “Suppose I’ll have to stay close for warmth, then. How tragic.”
Now he finds his courage for such cheeky replies. William huffs a quiet laugh and pulls the jacket tighter around himself. It smells faintly of that atrocious brand of cigarettes Sherlock insists on smoking, but to his own surprise, William finds he doesn’t mind it at all.
The rooftop is edged with low fencing, and William steps closer, drawn instinctively to the view. The city stretches out below them, rooftops and streets bathed in Christmas lights, thrumming with the energy of New Year’s Eve celebrations.
Sherlock comes to stand beside him. “Not too bad, eh?”
He holds the bottle towards William.
William raises an eyebrow but accepts it, taking a swig too. Albert would have a heart attack if he knew what they were doing to his champagne.
“Not too bad. Perhaps I should trust you more often, Mr. Holmes.”
“Sherlock.”
The word cuts in gently but sure.
William turns, puzzled. Sherlock is watching him with an expression that is oddly intent.
“That’s my name,” Sherlock explains. “You call me out for avoiding you, yet you insist on keeping me at arm’s length at the same time.”
Ah. That.
William exhales, conceding the point. “Very well,” he says, letting the formality fall away. “Sherlock.”
The effect is immediate. Sherlock’s face lights up with a grin so open and boyish it almost hurts to look at. It sparks a profoundly inconvenient thought in William’s mind—how easy it would be to close the distance between them and kiss that ridiculous smile away.
William clears his throat and looks back towards the skyline before temptation wins.
“Are you certain you’re not cold?” he asks, nodding toward the jacket hanging off his own shoulders.
Sherlock tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “What—are you offering?”
William huffs a laugh. “Hardly. I’m merely expressing concern for your continued survival.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock steps a little closer anyway, taking the bottle away from William only to put it away. “That sounds suspiciously like affection.”
The wind sweeps past them again, tugging at William’s borrowed jacket and carrying the distant murmur of the party below. William is acutely aware of how close Sherlock is now—close enough to feel the heat of him, to catch the sharper scent of smoke beneath the cold air.
“You’re mistaken,” William says, though his tone lacks any real bite. “It would simply be a tragedy for the world to lose such a talented scientist.”
“No need for worry,” Sherlock replies easily. He gestures vaguely between them. “See? I’m plenty warm here.”
William risks a glance at his face. Sherlock’s hair is more unruly than usual, stirred by the wind, his eyes focused entirely on William, as if the city, the party, the world itself didn’t matter.
It’s exhilarating.
William steps closer, closing the last inch between them. “There’s one hypothesis I’ve always wanted to test. Are you willing to be the subject of an experiment?”
Sherlock’s gaze drops, unmistakably, to William’s mouth before returning to his eyes. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Always,” he replies. “You know me.”
“Tell me then, how long until midnight?”
“That I have no idea.” Sherlock tips his head back to glance at the dark sky. “Does it matter?”
“A kiss at midnight is said to bring good luck for the coming year,” William murmurs. “I find myself wondering if it’s true.”
He lets the words linger between them, watching the play of light in Sherlock’s eyes as the city lights flicker below.
“Curious indeed,” Sherlock says at last. “It would be irresponsible not to test it. One could argue it’s even our professional obligation.”
As if summoned by the declaration, a single firework cracks in the distance. Someone, somewhere, has grown impatient with waiting.
“And if we miss midnight by a second?” William asks.
Sherlock’s smile softens. “Then we repeat the experiment next year. Increase the sample size.”
One more firework whistles through the sky, then another. William reaches out and draws Sherlock close until their foreheads touch, no space left between them.
“I like the sound of that.”
Above them the sky erupts in colorful lights.