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January 6th
“Do you understand the plan?”
William asked the question calmly as he stood at the desk in the room he currently occupied within the MI6 headquarters. Across from him stood James Bond.
“Of course,” James replied easily, a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s a simple task, really.” With that, he turned on his heel. “Leave it to me.”
William watched him go, then returned to his preparations. He completed his Scott disguise by settling his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, briefly meeting his own reflection in the mirror.
A soft knock sounded at the door, pulling him away from his own thoughts, as it opened.
Louis stepped inside without waiting for an answer.
“Pardon the intrusion, brother,” he said, though his eyes were already searching William’s face. “But I couldn’t help overhearing you speaking with James.” His expression tightened with concern. “What exactly are you planning?”
“It’s Sherly’s birthday today,” William replied simply, the nickname falling from his lips naturally.
Louis visibly tensed. “So you’re going to Baker Street?”
“I have something planned for the occasion,” William continued. “I’ll be out for most of the day.”
He turned to face his younger brother fully. The worry in Louis’s expression was unmistakable. Since his return from New York, his brothers’ protectiveness had only deepened.
“Do not worry, Louis,” William said gently. “I will be careful.”
“I know you will…” The younger blonde sighed, finally relenting to his brother’s wishes. “Allow me to prepare a carriage.”
“There’s no need.” William reached for his hat and placed it neatly atop his head. “Moran and Fred will be assisting me today. I hope that’s alright.”
Louis blinked in surprise. “…I suppose it is,” he admitted after a moment. “We don’t have any other pressing matters today. Very well, then. I’ll drop by Baker Street later.”
A genuine smile found its way to William’s lips. “I’m sure Sherlock would appreciate that. I’ll see you there.”
He offered a small wave before turning away, heading out through the main entrance and into the cold air of London.
The objective was simple. Keep Sherlock out of 221B for as long as possible while William finalises the preparations inside, with the help of their allies and Miss Hudson.
Fortunately, William had devised a foolproof plan.
James would arrive at Baker Street early, presenting Sherlock with an official-looking MI6 case. The clues were intentionally contradictory, just enough to ignite the detective’s curiosity. It would send him on a journey around London, chasing false leads, before ultimately guiding him back home.
More than enough time.
As the carriage rolled to a stop outside 221B, a satisfied grin crossed William’s face. He stepped down and looked up at the familiar windows.
“He’s gone?” William asked.
“Left a little over twenty minutes ago,” Moran replied, climbing down from the carriage and unloading several boxes. “Bond confirmed it.”
“Excellent. Everything is proceeding exactly as planned.”
William approached the door, he tried the handle and just as he expected, it was already open.
Miss Hudson peeked out from the hallway. “Right on time! You do seem remarkably efficient.”
“We’re on a strict schedule,” William replied with a polite smile as he stepped inside.
“Every minute counts. Let’s begin.”
“This doesn’t make any sense…” Sherlock muttered, snatching the case file from John’s hands.
“Well, James did say it was a difficult one,” John replied, glancing around the park. “Louis must be worried if he’s asked for your help. Still… I don’t think you should be working today- it is your birthday.”
Sherlock barely looked up. “This,” he said flatly, already skimming the pages again, “is far more interesting than a birthday.”
He let out a small sigh and surveyed the park again.
“Let's review,” he began, pacing. “An MI6 informant, codename Bastion, failed to appear at a scheduled dead drop yesterday morning. He carried information regarding a foreign operative active in London.”
“Yes, but what led us to the park exactly?” John asked.
“The handwritten note attached to the case file,” Sherlock replied, holding it out. “Directly from Bastion regarding the rendezvous point. It reads. ‘Where two paths cross but do not touch, what remains stands beneath bare branches.’”
“Alright, but that could describe any park in London. Why Hyde Park?”
“You've read the file.” Sherlock flipped to the next page. “The informant included a map marking the meeting point.”
“So we have the exact location. Couldn't Mycroft have taken care of this?” John began walking down a tree-lined path, shivering in the bitter cold.
“After his birthday? I doubt he’s in a fit state,” Sherlock murmured, studying the map as he walked. “I was right- this still doesn’t make sense.”
“You can’t read the map?” John tilted his head, noticing Sherlock’s fingers had gone bright red where he was clutching the file.
“Sherlock, you’ll freeze.” He shifted through his coat pocket and produced a spare pair of gloves. “Here.”
Sherlock ignored him. “The directions are wrong. North is marked where East should be.” He adjusted the map, scanning the paths around him.
“Sherlock,” John said firmly, snatching the file from him. “Hands.”
“I was getting somewhere with that!” Sherlock called, but accepted the gloves, apparently oblivious to his frozen fingers.
“I swear, you’re a hazard to yourself.” John handed the file back with a small huff. “So… the map is wrong?”
“No,” Sherlock explained, “The map itself is perfectly accurate- the paths, the landmarks… all correct. The directions are the only issue. It’s as if the informant rotated it ninety degrees when marking the meeting point.”
John chuckled. “By that logic, only someone with your intellect could make sense of it.”
“Exactly.” Sherlock straightened and pointed down a path. “Let’s redirect. This way.”
221B Baker Street
“Moran, it’s crooked.” William tilted his head, eyeing the handmade birthday banner.
Moran stepped down from the chair, arms crossed. “It’s fine.”
“It’s crooked.”
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you do it?” Moran shot back.
“You’re taller,” William muttered, but the protest died on his lips as Miss Hudson returned to the room.
“I have the cake!” she announced, setting it gently on the table beside Sherlock’s armchair.
William’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile as he stepped closer. “It’s beautiful.”
The cake was simple, a round Victoria sponge, elegantly iced in white, with fresh strawberries on top.
“Thank you,” Miss Hudson said warmly. “And thank you for trusting me with this. Sherlock means a great deal to me… and I’m glad he’s back. I’m glad you’re back, too, William.”
William faltered, a brief shadow crossing his mind. There were still moments when he felt he didn’t belong here, moments when such open warmth surprised him. But her smile, so bright and genuine, made him feel nothing but welcome.
“Sherlock speaks very highly of you, Miss Hudson,” he began.
Her eyebrow quirked. “Does he now?”
“In New York,” William continued, a small smile tugging at his lips from the memory, “He spoke about you and Doctor Watson at great length. He cares for you both deeply, and he often wondered how you were faring without him… sometimes he would joke that maybe, finally, you had peace and quiet.”
Miss Hudson laughed, a few tears glinting in her eyes. “Of course he did! Honestly, we missed him terribly… Thank you for sharing that.”
“You’re welcome.” William’s smile widened.
“How’s it looking now?” Moran asked from atop the chair, adjusting the banner.
William turned to inspect it. “Even worse.”
“I give up,” Moran muttered. “It doesn’t need to be perfect.”
“I sent him on a fake mission to ensure we had time to make this perfect. The last thing we want is for him to return to mediocre decor and a crooked banner.” William’s tone was firm, but there was a hint of amusement.
“I’ll fix it,” Moran sighed, climbing down and squinting at the wall. “Wait… are those bullet holes?”
“It’s a pastime of his,” Miss Hudson explained with a shrug. “I couldn’t bring myself to plaster them over, so now they’re just decoration.”
“I’ve decided not to question this further,” Moran muttered, shaking his head and returning to the banner.
“Fred should be back soon,” William mumbled, mainly to himself as he watched Moran carefully. “I asked him to plant one final clue, and if I know Sherlock, then by now he is already suspicious that this ‘mission’ is a ruse.”
“Did you account for the fact that he’ll solve it quickly?” Miss Hudson asked, arranging a few more decorations.
“Of course,” William replied instantly. “It’s a scheme designed to capture his attention. With the inconsistencies I planted, it’ll frustrate him, but keep him occupied. I suspect he’s already cursing the missing informant as we speak.”
Hyde Park
“The blasted fool couldn’t even hold the map straight!” Sherlock groaned, flipping it back and forth. “It has to be here.”
John repeated the clue, trying to keep pace. “‘Where two paths cross but do not touch, what remains stands beneath bare branches.’ So the bench?”
“Yes, the bench.” Sherlock exhaled sharply, stepping forward. “And yet… Nothing suggests a struggle. No signs of tampering, no evidence… nothing at all.” He crouched, inspecting the underside of the bench and froze.
Another note.
He carefully detached it, unfolding it to read.
‘If the drop is missed, return to the point of first contact.’
Sherlock’s eyes lingered not on the words, but on the handwriting. A small smile touched his lips. He knew it instantly. The familiar curves he’d memorised from personal letters or the tiny notes once slipped into his lunch bag in New York. It was different from the original clue, yet unmistakably his.
“That genius…” he murmured, throwing his head back in laughter.
John blinked. “Sorry… didn’t you just call him a fool a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. And I take it back,” Sherlock said, slipping the note into his pocket. “We’re the idiots here, John.”
John groaned. “You’re doing that thing again, explaining everything and nothing at the same time. Where exactly is the ‘first point of contact’?”
“Baker Street.” Sherlock straightened, triumphant.
“What?”
“The drop was missed. So we return to the first point of contact, 221B Baker Street. In other words, there was never a missing informant. This…,” he waved a hand vaguely, “was entirely to keep me occupied.” Sherlock shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. “Liam, you devil…”
“So this was William’s doing?” John groaned. “I thought he’d retired from scheming.”
“I hope he never does,” Sherlock replied with an affectionate smile. “It keeps life interesting.”
“Can you… Maybe ask him not to involve me next time?” John muttered, rubbing his temples and shivering from the cold.
“Noted,” Sherlock said, “but I suspect this mission wasn’t intended for you. It’s merely unfortunate that you tagged along.”
John feigned a smile, patted Sherlock on the shoulder, and turned. “You’re very lucky that it’s your birthday... Let’s get a cab back.”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow but shrugged, falling in step beside him as they left the park.
When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock’s suspicion immediately spiked. From the street, he could see that the curtains of 221B were drawn closed. That was unusual.
He hadn’t expected any kind of celebration. Birthdays were never grand affairs for him. He preferred them quietly, with perhaps a case or two to keep his mind occupied. And yet he should have known William might orchestrate something.
As he and John stepped through the doorway, the apartment was shrouded in darkness. Then, as if on cue, the curtains were flung wide, and a chorus of voices rang out.
“Surprise!”
Confetti rained down, clinging to Sherlock’s coat and hair.
He blinked, taking in the room, slowly acknowledging every face. Members from MI6, Miss Hudson, Mycroft and even Lestrade. Every single one of them had become dear to him, and now they were here to celebrate his birthday.
And then his gaze found William, leaning casually against the back of the sofa, a self-satisfied grin tugging at his lips.
“You,” Sherlock said, his voice low with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Happy birthday, Sherly,” William replied, the nickname rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I suppose the mission was a failure?”
Sherlock shook confetti from his hair, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The mission was never meant to succeed.”
“Was it?” William countered, sweeping a hand across the room. “Because on my side, it went exactly as I planned.”
Sherlock’s eyes followed the gesture, finally taking in the decorations. The banners, carefully arranged candles, and a beautiful hand-baked cake.
“You did all of this?”
“With help,” William admitted, nodding toward friends and family scattered around the room.
“Thank you… All of you,” Sherlock mumbled.
“To Holmes!” Lestrade suddenly called, hoisting a bottle of wine with a grin that suggested he had already been indulging.
The room erupted into cheers, voices mingling, laughter bouncing off the walls. Sherlock winced at the noise, and he quickly moved forward, intercepting the bottle before it could disappear entirely.
“How much have you had?”
“One glass,” Lestrade laughed, clearly unsteady, reaching again for the bottle.
“He’s had precisely three,” William corrected, shooting an apologetic glance in Sherlock’s direction.
“Hey! Holmes, have you met Stephen?” Lestrade slurred slightly, draping an arm over William’s shoulder.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, lips quirking in amusement. “Stephen?”
“Yes,” Lestrade hiccuped, grinning proudly. “He planned all of this- it’s incredible.”
William stiffened, shifting uncomfortably. “I invited him because I know he’s important to you, but-”
Before he could finish, Zack appeared beside William, gently guiding Lestrade away. “Here, I’ve got him.”
“Thank you,” William murmured, brushing his hair back and offering a sheepish smile. “Anyway, yes. I thought a little alcohol might help him... loosen his comprehension? It seems to have worked a little too well. He thinks I’m someone called Stephen.”
Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. “It could have been worse.”
William handed him a glass, their fingers brushing lightly. “Cheers?”
“Cheers,” Sherlock replied, a grin spreading across his face as he took a sip.
“You’re not angry about the fake mission?” William asked, hesitation in his tone.
Sherlock gestured around the room, at the laughter, the decorations, the faces that had come for him. “How could I be angry when this is the outcome?” He brushed their shoulders together, almost tenderly. “Your mind… it never ceases to surprise me.”
“I wanted to do something special,” William admitted softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You deserve that.”
“It’s perfect, Liam,” Sherlock said, meeting his gaze. For a fleeting moment, the noise of the room faded, leaving just the two of them in suspended time.
Then Mycroft interrupted.
“Happy birthday, little brother.” The elder Holmes held out a neatly wrapped gift.
Sherlock eyed it with open suspicion but set his glass aside and accepted it. “Thanks…”
“Come now,” Mycroft said dryly, frowning. “It’s not a bomb.”
“Are you sure?” Sherlock countered as he peeled back the paper. Inside was a small box. He opened it to reveal a brand-new magnifying glass. His brow lifted slightly. “This looks expensive.”
“Because it was,” Mycroft replied without apology. “I’m aware you were in need of a replacement. Your previous one broke, if I’m not mistaken. It seemed fitting.”
Sherlock studied the glass for a moment before carefully closing the box. “I appreciate it.” He set it aside, clearly meaning to return to it later.
Mycroft inclined his head. “And William, thank you for organising all of this for my brother.”
“It was no trouble at all,” William said with a gentle smile.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With a brief bow, the older Holmes brushed past them, heading toward Albert.
William watched him go before turning back to Sherlock. “I have a gift for you as well,” he added. “I’ll give it to you later.”
Sherlock’s gaze softened. “This is already more than enough. You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to,” William replied. “I owe you more than I could ever repay, Sherly- but that aside, this is simply because I care.” His hand brushed against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock smiled, threading their fingers together. “Then I know I’ll love it.”
The evening unfolded perfectly, just as William had planned. Louis, true to his word, joined the celebration, arriving with a gift for Sherlock in hand.
A small finger buffet, prepared jointly by William and Miss Hudson, was laid out, and the night soon filled with laughter, joy, and endless conversation.
At some point, Lestrade, who had somehow managed to get his hands on the wine again, unearthed a few of Sherlock’s old case files. To call him insufferable would have been an understatement, but his loudly incorrect deductions proved to be excellent entertainment for everyone else.
Lestrade squinted at the first file, swaying slightly as he cleared his throat.
“Right then. The Speckled Band. A tragic story… Dead woman, locked room, strange whistling in the night.” He nodded decisively. “The snake escaped on its own. Slithered in by accident.”
“Incorrect.” Sherlock didn’t look up from where he sat on the sofa beside William, drink in hand.
The Inspector frowned. “Well, it was a snake…”
“A deliberately trained swamp adder,” Sherlock added calmly. “Conditioned to return to its master at the sound of a whistle. The woman was murdered by her stepfather.”
“Oh,” Lestrade said, deflating slightly. “Right.”
William hid his laugh behind his drink.
Lestrade flipped to the next file with new determination. “Fine. The Red-Headed League. Now this one I remember. It was a strange job offer and a conspiracy to… uh…” He snapped his fingers. “Steal something.”
“Gold,” Sherlock supplied.
“Yes! Gold. And the criminals dug a tunnel from the cellar.”
“Correct,”
Lestrade straightened. “Ha! Finally.”
“You also spent an afternoon interrogating every red-haired man within a two-mile radius,” Sherlock continued. “Despite the league being public knowledge.”
Miss Hudson could barely contain her laughter.
Lestrade groaned and turned the final page. “Alright then. Silver Blaze. A famous racehorse vanishes, and the trainer is found dead. The obvious culprit is the stable boy.”
“The stable boy was innocent,” Sherlock replied.
“Because there was a dog," Lestrade provided.
“Indeed,” Sherlock nodded. “The dog didn’t bark because there was no stranger.”
Lestrade paused. “So… the trainer killed himself?”
“No. The horse kicked him.”
Silence fell.
“You ruled out the horse immediately. Because it ‘couldn’t possibly be the murderer.’”
The room erupted into laughter.
Lestrade lowered the papers slowly. “I don’t like this game.”
Sherlock finally looked at him, lips curling into a rare, satisfied smile. “Then stop volunteering.”
William leaned closer, amusement softening his expression. “You’re enjoying this far too much, dear.”
Sherlock lifted his glass. “He started it.”
When the evening finally came to a close, Sherlock saw everyone out one by one. Miss Hudson had already retired to her flat downstairs, and John was the last to go.
Sherlock watched him disappear down the steps, and just as he was about to close the door, he felt that familiar prickle at the back of his neck.
He didn’t turn right away.
“Still here, Liam?”
A quiet chuckle answered him. “You know perfectly well that I am.”
William descended the staircase, stopping just behind Sherlock. “Everyone’s gone now?”
“Mhm.” Sherlock shut the door fully and leaned back against it. “I’m surprised your brothers didn’t insist on escorting you home.”
William reached out and lightly swatted his shoulder affectionately. “Oh, they tried. Suggested it would be safer if I left with them.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “But the night is not over yet, is it?”
Sherlock finally turned to face him, an eyebrow lifting. “No. In fact, I distinctly remember you mentioning a gift.”
“I did.” William stepped closer, lifting a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb brushing softly along his jaw. “But first… there’s something I’ve been trying to steal all evening.”
His voice was barely a whisper as he leaned in. Their lips met in a slow, tender kiss. Sherlock’s breath caught for just a moment before his arms came up around William’s waist, pulling him closer as he returned the kiss with quiet eagerness. The world seemed to narrow to the gentle press of lips and the warmth between them.
Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled back first, resting his forehead against William’s. “You’re staying the night?”
William smiled, fingers lacing with his. “I had no intention of leaving.”
Hand in hand, he led Sherlock back up the stairs to 221B.
Once inside the flat, William released Sherlock’s hand and retrieved a carefully concealed gift.
“Please, take a seat, Sherly.” He held the gift behind his back.
Sherlock settled onto the sofa.
“Close your eyes.”
“Seriously?”
“I insist,” William replied, a soft smile touching his lips.
Sherlock sighed but complied, and the gift was placed gently onto his lap.
When Sherlock opened his eyes, his fingers brushed the cover. “This is American…”
“It is my journal,” William explained. “The one I purchased in New York. You advised me that committing my thoughts to paper might assist in understanding them. I attempted to write in it daily, until it was complete.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened as he flipped through the pages, each filled with different dates and William’s handwriting.
“And you wanted me to have this?”
“I am aware it may seem somewhat self-indulgent,” William said softly, “but there is much within these pages I have never shared with another… emotions I kept to myself. You are mentioned frequently.”
Sherlock paused on a page resembling a scrapbook, scattered with receipts and tickets. “Is this… the coffee we drank each morning?” he asked, a faint smile gracing his lips as he touched the familiar label.
“Indeed,” William said with a soft chuckle. “I deemed it important to recall the brand you liked.”
“Liam… this is the best gift.” He closed it and clutched it close to his chest.
“You should read the first page.” William insisted and sat next to him.
Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, and he opened the book again, this time opening just the first page. The date marked only a few days after William had awoken from his coma.
‘Dear Sherly,
You told me to write my thoughts down. I find it difficult to look inward at present. My mind recoils from itself.
Addressing these words to you makes the task somewhat easier, even if they were never meant to be read.
There is much weighing on me, far more than I am able to articulate. Among these thoughts is a simple, unsettling fact that I did not expect to still be alive. I did not expect intervention. I had prepared myself to shoulder the consequences of what I am, and I believed that burden was mine alone to bear.
You proved me wrong.
I understand now that you meant every word you said. Your resolve was not conditional, nor was it empty reassurance. Still, I cannot make peace with that understanding, knowing that I placed you in danger. That is a guilt I struggle to accept, and for it, I am sorry.
Waking in an unfamiliar country has been disorienting, daunting.
Everything feels unfamiliar, as though I have stepped into a life that was not intended for me. Yet your presence eases that fear. I find myself steadied by it, despite believing I have no right to such comfort.
I remain uncertain of what lies ahead. I know you are concerned about the state of my mind, and I cannot fault you for that. There is a selfishness, perhaps, in my desire to remain by your side. And yet, when I look at you, that desire eclipses all others.
I am exhausted, and my mind races and falters at once. I should rest, just as you keep insisting.
But before I do…
I hope I am allowed to remain at your side.
- Liam.’
Sherlock finished reading, and when his eyes met William’s, the world came to a halt, everything else fell away, leaving only the two of them suspended in that moment.
“You’re still here…” His voice was soft, almost fragile, and it tugged at William in a way nothing else could.
“I know.” William set the journal down beside them, then straddled Sherlock’s lap, letting his hands rest lightly on his shoulders. “Like I said… I have no intention of leaving. Not if you’ll still have me.”
Sherlock’s chest pressed against him, arms wrapping around William’s waist as their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss. Tender at first, then deeper, carrying all the unspoken words, the shared memories, and the quiet ache of longing finally fulfilled.
“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured, his fingers tangling in William’s hair, holding him as if letting go were impossible.
“Happy Birthday, Sherly,” William whispered against his lips, pulling him into another kiss, this time soft and urgent.
The world outside ceases to exist. Tonight belonged to them, and it truly was far from over.