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How is it that Sherlock and William are able to forge a bond so deep that it goes beyond the very ways we communicate?
That thought has crossed Billy's mind more often than he'd admit. Even to this day, he finds his own words often escape him.
The first time Billy saw the duo talking was the day William woke up from his long-awaited slumber.
He had just finished up a mission up North, returning to a house that shivered in silence. He stood for a second in the doorway, lost in a daydream too far gone, but that was besides the point.
It was early evening by now, just about before the sun started to dip. Billy figured he'd visit William while the day was still bright, and the Doc since he's at it.
William was absent from the bed he'd been sleeping on for months, and a smile creeped up on Billy's face. He looked around the hospital and couldn't find a hair of the man, so he headed toward the rooftop.
Just as Billy opened the door, a soft, indistinct voice whispered in his ear, and he paused. Another voice, this time much stronger and huskier, soon followed, though the exact contents of their conversation flew to the wind.
From the small crack of the door, he could see the positions of the pair of geniuses.
The Doc was proposing to William. On one knee, he gingerly held his hand, and they quietly murmured sentiments once thought to be locked away.
Ever the wise, Billy left them to it. After all, time is invaluable to those who've lost it before, and he wasn't one to take that from them.
Their figures glowed as the sun smiled kindly on them with an indescribable warmth, shyly hiding behind the skyline.
Despite what it seemed, no, it was not, in fact, a proposal. And there was no confession scene either. Much of it was rather Billy's idea of the scene.
But he wasn't completely wrong on that front. The truly important things were instead left unsaid, a tacit agreement between the silent, intense gazes of the two greatest minds of the century.
It must be an intimacy privy to this pair of geniuses, Billy believes. And the longer he watches them, the more he feels that a simple word can't describe their feelings.
No, “love” is a word that doesn't even begin to encapsulate their relationship.
It is an unspoken understanding of two very perceptive men. It is a devotion of only those who find pleasure in a gentleman's mystery. It is an affection of two who truly know the other to the very depths of their hearts. It is a respect of the highest degree.
Billy is a man who lived in a world of an organized mess—hell, he thrived in chaos, finding the noise that disturbed most others a sort-of lullaby to him.
So while it's a comfort to return to a house of people, the very company that's meant to bring some joy in his life is often quiet, but he notes that it's not silent.
Silence is a fear that's pierced its way into the very souls of Sherlock and William. It's the absence of sound that can only mean time has come to a standstill. A not-so-distant memory is thrown to the fore-front; the world holds its breath as two heartbeats, synced in adrenaline, slows until it's just about to—. When the air in their lungs leaves them breathless, and the dim light in their eyes is all but faded and blurred, it's silent.
So, no; they aren't silent, but an air of domesticity can be found everywhere. It shows in the small sigh of content William releases as he takes a sip of his coffee. It's seen in the soft rustling of pages turned, humming lightly, as they bask in the other's presence. It's the knowing glances they give when they're reminded of a past memory.
They're like an old married couple, Billy wants to say.
But their fleeting touches are anything but aged, experienced, or even quietly comfortable. A light brush of the shoulder, a gentle grasp on the hand, a tickle on the waist.
It's almost as if they're—yes, they must be dancing. The two of them alone in their own world, steps flowing like the music chases the beat; it's structured but never restricting. One takes charge with a youthful vigor, the other follows calmly. Yet at some unknown point, their roles have reversed; one stretches out a hand, the other reaches to twirl. And it begs the question: who's truly the one leading?
And while they're close, there seems to be some unstable line that's almost never crossed.
Deep blue eyes meet scarlet, and Billy subconsciously holds his breath.
Something is in the air because a wide grin forms on Sherlock's face; his eyes dilate, and he breaks out in a chill. He knows it's that feeling of being acknowledged, recognized. William watches in amusement, unaware his pupils are blown wide as well.
The tension between them is hard to break, not that he wanted to, Billy muses. He doesn't know what kind of relationship they have; in fact, he felt that no one could tell him about it, not even the people involved.
But love is a strange thing, and they lived in a strange world, so he figured the ambiguous relationship between this pair of geniuses could hardly be called anything strange.