Chapter Text

How Long Till You Say Yes?

CHAPTER ONE: Day 1, Chance 1

The assignment in Vermissa was done, though if it weren’t for William, Sherlock, and Billy would’ve been dead. This didn’t stop Sherlock from constantly questioning William, asking him if he was okay and grateful, yet partially mad that he left their flat in his condition. They were only staying in a hotel for a night, so they explored till Billy found a cheap pub. And now, he was telling William everything while using his hands as another form of communication. 

Sherlock listened and rested his head on his palm as if he hadn’t just lived through Billy’s story. He sat at the farthest seat from William, with Billy in the middle separating them, and he interrupted him after sitting bored, waiting for William to acknowledge him for the past fifteen minutes, “Liam, could ya give me six days?”

And of course, this got the man who was clearly avoiding him’s attention.

Billy looked back at Sherlock while still facing William, “Mr Ponytail, this story is—”

 “And six days for what exactly?” William replied, finally talking to Sherlock after he was worried he’d angered him with his recklessness, which they still hadn’t talked about, but which he knew they eventually would.

“You’re smart, I’m sure it’ll be more than obvious if ya just look into it a bit more.”

William gave him the provocative yet slightly annoyed grin Sherlock was practically pushing for while still maintaining his unwavering posture, “Well, there’s not much to look into if there’s nothing to go off of?” He teased, “I’d assume someone like you is well aware of that, is he not?”

Billy kept turning his head to match whoever was talking, while Sherlock leaned back in his chair, raised an arm, and let it rest behind the top rail as he laughed aloud, not hardly surprised by the ex-professor’s response. “All I’m askin’ for is six days, six chances—anddd we start now.” He looked around, trying to find an idea till it came to him, and smiled, “We’re already in a cheap pub, aren’t we? I’ll buy you drinks…that is, of course, only if you rich folk don’t mind that sorta thing.”

“Sherly, I don’t drink.”

He looked William up and down, “That’s kinda hard to believe when wine—alcohol, would be a sign of luxury, no?”

Drinking wasn’t one of William’s many skills. But if it were the cheap alcohol, especially that would burn his throat, it would seriously suck. Still unsure of what Sherlock had planned, William still had a debt to pay, if he didn’t spend the rest of his life chasing that which he owed the man who, for whatever reason, selflessly saved his life.

They wouldn’t get another chance to all be free like this unless Lady Luck were to shine down on William once again—if she turned her back, it could have been a month, maybe two…so he vowed not to get too carried away with Sherlock. 

“One…one is all.”

“I knew you’d come around!” Sherlock waved over a chubby man with a beard that had totally seen better days—but no, that wasn’t the point of this. In fact, if you really thought about it, he might even consider this a date. Their second one, if you included the train where they solved a crime the unable, arguably brainless transport police couldn’t.

Though not said aloud, Sherlock would be buying Billy a drink too, but he was in no mood after his story got interrupted. He now sat with his arms folded and his forehead in them, while he waited for Sherlock to actually walk over to William instead of across him.

The chubby man came over while wiping a glass cup, but Sherlock didn’t have the decency to let him ask what they wanted, “Three whiskeys!” He turned to William, “Ya want that too, right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

After the man left, Sherlock rested his head in his palm again, giving William the eye contact he only offered to the few people he respected, “Aren’t ya formal?”

“It’s decency; something you didn’t show that man.”

“Will an apology to ya do?” He laid a hand over his heart as he paused to try to come up with some excuse, “My dear Liam, my attitude towards that poor man was—”

“Apologize to the man, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat still, looking up at the ceiling as if it were his brain for ideas to avoid this demand. After finding it, a grin that only kept growing replaced his complicated thinking face.

He suggested, “Darts—if ya win, I’ll apologize, and if I win, ya still go along with six days, six chances.” Billy lifted his head, and Sherlock held up one finger. He continued while William looked at him curiously, almost making him fumble his words, “We’ll…uh, we’ll both have one drink, then play after—assumin’ ya can take it.”

The man came back with the three glasses of whiskey, and almost dropped them, then, as he walked away after setting them down, he failed to discreetly eye both Sherlock and William.

Billy laughed at them as he sat up straight to hold his, happy to play Sherlock’s game, which guaranteed him a certain loss, but perhaps he was into that? For the short but considerable time he’s known Sherlock, he's always chosen the games he’d lose, but somehow they've always worked in his favor—this “favor” being spending time with William, of course.

He teased, “This comin’ from the same man whose only words are ‘Liam, are you okay?’” 

“Ya hold that glass as if ya can even take it, only less than a year ago were ya allowed to have alcohol.”

Billy took a sip of his, careful not to spit it out because of the bitter taste, “If I couldn’t take alcohol, I would make a game to spend time with a certain someone, but who needs specifics?!” He dramatically shrugged his shoulders and kept switching his gaze between Sherlock and William, but made it clear who it was aimed at.

William set his glass down, already empty.“Or…we could focus on the game so that man stops staring at you two?”

“He’s starin’ at you and Mr Ponytail.”

Sherlock quickly finished his too, “Okay…! That’s enough of that…the game? Let’s get to that…”

Although he’d do anything but admit it, William was already feeling slightly tipsy. He could’ve sworn it was the cheapness of the alcohol causing the entering lightheadedness that grew each second—but god, how embarrassing it would be to let this stupid alcohol ruin him in front of Sherlock.

He’d only taken it in one swing to end Billy and Sherlock’s bickering, but in turn, he was suffering the torture of a lightweight while Sherlock was just fine. 

The low swaying in his posture had started, and when Sherlock had bought the darts, of course, the ex-detective, the once best in London, couldn’t ignore it, “Liam?”

He jolted up at the sound of his name, “Hm!?”

Without a word, Sherlock simply looked at him worriedly, silently praying William would take the hint. But also because if he said, “Liam, are you okay?” he’d be proving Billy’s point.

William raised his hand mid-point and waved it, “No, no, I’m just fine!”

Billy could’ve spat out his drink right then and there. The usually calm and composed genius who would normally tell Sherlock to stop drinking was suddenly tipsy…? And to this, he was so obvious!

“Mr. William, maybe—”

Standing up, William went to Sherlock’s hand, which held the darts, as they faced off, and he laid a hand over the flights. “Could you please give me one quickly?”

Yes, Sherlock made up his six-day game, but it shouldn’t even be working as well as it was now. He was incredibly unprepared for the man he was actively plotting on to deliberately take his hand and ask for something only he could give. Saying no was obviously out of the question, but saying yes could also end badly. Looking to Billy would do no good either, only because when this first occurred a few seconds ago, Sherlock could clearly see him trying to hide his laughter in his palm.

After several seconds of carefully choosing his answer, Sherlock said, “...Sure.”

Billy secretly handed the unfinished drink to the bartender and laughed at Sherlock, “Oh my god, you actually said yes!?”

Drinking wasn’t one of William’s specialties, and it’s not like a cheap game of darts was either, but he threw it with such precision that anyone would think he practiced for a living. 

But he had no reaction other than insisting his previous claim, not even acknowledging what he just did, “See Sherly? Perfectly fine.”

Sherlock only chuckled while Billy ran up to William, “That was so cool! Do ya practice a lot, Mr. William?”

“Oh god no! I’ll hardly be free now, so even if I wanted to, I couldn’t practice!”

“Oh well…Mr. Ponytail could teach ya?”

Sherlock set the rest of the darts down, trying to prevent another hand-held ask that could very well work again with anything else William asked him for. “Billy…”

“A joke!” Billy then extended an arm around William’s shoulder and whispered, “‘Cause he’s probably pretty bad, y’know?” He turned back to Sherlock, hoping he heard that, “Which is fine!”

Although Sherlock had suggested the game, to which he now found one of his ideas that would perhaps backfire. And unfortunately, he was the type to fall for provocation even if it stared him in the face. He picked up one of the darts. As crazy as he was to jump off a bridge, even he could admit he wasn’t crazy enough to think he could hit a bullseye as effortlessly as William could—and not look weird doing so.

“You’ve got this, Mr. Ponytail! Don’t screw it up!” Billy fakely cheered while William was still swaying, but not nearly as much as before—it didn’t help that the bartender had started staring at them again.

Of course, he didn’t miss entirely—in fact, he didn’t miss at all. Well, not the board itself, but what he was aiming for, yes. Only a hair away from bullseye, but he knew William would judge based on technicality. The bartender stared at them as if he were expecting an apology anyway.

Sherlock groaned as he went back to the counter where Billy and William were. He stood beside William as he teased, “You’ve lost one of your games already…telling me the other one could take away from your owed apology.”

Sherlock looked at William, dumbfounded as he considered his offer. After a short time, he answered, “Ya literally had me wrapped around that finger of yours for a year.” He poked a finger at William’s head, “Use that same brain.”

“No more of that…you guys are forgettin’ that I still need to go, “ Billy smiled, “I could hit bullseye and choose either of yer causes.”

“...or neither,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Exactly! It’s a gamble!... For you guys though, not me.”

“Since when did ya care about the game?”

He took one of the darts Sherlock had left on the counter, “Since my decision mattered so much to both of ya.”

He was already sure whose cause he’d choose—either way, both ended with Sherlock getting what he wanted, which hardly made this the gamble he’d said. William would play the game regardless, trusting Sherlock without even knowing what the game was, and if Sherlock were to apologize, he’d just do it with William at his side.

The lack of alcohol in Billy’s body obviously held some advantage over whether he’d aim well or not. But he wasn’t lying when he said he started to actually care when his decision could be the deciding factor. He wasn’t going to dramatize it by holding the dart longer than he should or making some ridiculous stance or ritual to magically hit bullseye, but whenever he and Garret would compete, he’d always win.

So without even trying, the dart hit smack dab in the middle of the board, but this time, Billy was equally as shocked as Sherlock, “Whoa…who knew I could still do it like that?” Sherlock and William stared at him, both patiently waiting for Billy’s answer, before he slightly jumped up and realized what they were staring at him for. He started again, while pointing at his choice, “Mr. William, I like yers more,” he grinned widely at Sherlock and finished, “now you gotta go apologize.”

William gave an “I told you” look to Sherlock before turning around to face the bottles behind the counter, trying to get the fat bartender’s attention. While he did that, Sherlock waited till Billy walked over to stand beside him, then spoke, “So why’d ya go choosin’ his?” He smiled and raised his head, “You’ve probably figured the game out, haven’t ya?”

Billy gave his usual childlike smile, “Well, I chose his ‘cause you’ve got pride that’d obviously be at least a bit cracked if you jus’ said a simple sorry.” He chuckled, “And yer game is superr obvious too, I dunno how Mr. William hasn’t gotten it yet. I didn’t wanna make it too easy for ya, y’know?”

The conversation was short-lived as the bartender quickly came over, almost as if he was anticipating a word from the two he’d been undisguisedly eyeing for the past forty-five minutes. Billy inched away from his spot to instead behind Sherlock so the man couldn’t see him. Without minding, since Billy had irrelevant involvement in this, William elbowed Sherlock, and in response, Sherlock gave a disapproving look towards him.

He raised his arm and began rubbing the nape of his neck while looking down, realizing Billy hadn’t been wrong in the slightest about his “tainted pride”. With that, he began, “...Thanks for bringin’ us those drinks after I demanded it from ya.”

Billy laughed behind him, “That’s not an apology, dumbass!”

William took over before Sherlock could make another futile attempt and before the man in front of them looked even more confused now that Sherlock apparently had a voice behind him, “He means to say we apologize for his inconsiderate choice of his words, sir.”

Sherlock leaned in from the side to whisper to William, “Not all of that, though.”

Billy also whispered to Sherlock, still behind him, “He said we?”

The bartender looked at them for a considerable amount of time before letting out a cackle much like they’d all imagined one from him would sound like—loud and annoying if around it for too long, “Don’t ya worry! You forget it’s my job!”

“We know, sir,” William extended a hand towards Sherlock, “but he just couldn’t help but feel guilty.”

The man reached across the counter to lay a big hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he made a face of disgust while only paying attention to that aspect. Not noticing this, the man replied, “Well isn’t that nice!? Ya didn’t look too guilty over playin’ darts?”

After he removed his hand, William then replaced the man’s with his own on Sherlock’s shoulders and smiled, “He’s simply too good at that, isn’t he?”

“Liam—”

Billy tried to hold in his laughter, “Oh my god, I can’t!”

“If it’s not too much of an ask, could we get the bill as well?” William finished, unapologetically recognizing the amount of fun he was having that hopefully embarrassed Sherlock since all of a sudden, he couldn’t take accountability like the grown ass man he was.

“Of course, thank you for the apology, Mr…?” He trailed off, aware he didn’t yet know William’s name.

“Moriarty.”

“Yes! Well, thank you, Mr. Moriarty, and your friend over here,” He beamed as he took out the bill he already had prepared in his pocket, “You can take off one drink!”

Billy nudged Sherlock, “Now you gotta say somethin’.”

“Thanks, sir…”

The bartender waved his hand, “Ahhh! It’s nothin’.” Hewhispered to William before leaving, “Jus’ make sure he gets ya next time, okay?”

He whispered back, “Of course, thank you.”

Sherlock and Billy both raised an eyebrow practically simultaneously after the man left.

“There’s no reason to worry, you two. A free drink is great for anyone, no?”

Billy mumbled to Sherlock and covered his hand, “I wonder why we got that free drink…”

Sherlock muttered back, “Billy, I don’t know what you’re suggestin’, but no.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’!”

Sherlock turned to William as Billy finally came out from behind Sherlock, “What was so wrong with my apology?”

“It didn’t get you a free drink,” William said, hardly joking.

“That’s right, Mr. Ponytail, ya gotta use apologies to their full potential!”

...

After arriving back at the hotel, it had already been an hour since Sherlock had paid, despite his and William’s already growing financial issues. Luckily for them, Billy said the hotel was at least courtesy of Pinkerton for giving Sherlock and him a life-threatening miscalculation.

Sherlock began filling out the report he always dreaded at the desk, while William sat on one bed and Billy snoring on the other. The only light was the lit lantern by the desk, which could’ve gone out at any second due to the wind from the nearby window that, for whatever reason, couldn’t close properly even with all their strength combined.

William spoke through the silence, which spooked Sherlock after all his attention was going to his work—unusually, “If we have to wake as early as five tomorrow, don’t you think you should leave that for then on the train?”

“That’s only if I can guarantee Pinkerton won’t be on my ass about it, Liam.”

He’d already gotten in trouble for late papers before. Would another time really hurt, though?

William replied, “The deadline doesn’t matter if they’re the reason you two could’ve died? If you do it and finish on the train, then submit it that same day, it’s still on it.”

Sherlock laughed in his chair, and it tilted as he almost fell back, “Thank god! I can’t do this shit anymore!”

William laughed with him and continued till he stopped, “So what’s the goal of 'six days, six chances’?

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and smirked, “Your distraction could’ve been better, y’know?”