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A thick haze of smog covers the sky, clinging slowly to the cold metal and gliding the waters below in a dense and ominous attitude. The wind had picked up, sending debris of dust and more clouds of rolling fog all around them, so thick and suffocating it left an ashy coat on the flat of Sherlock’s tongue and roof of his palette. It'd dark, shrouding the bridge in a shadow of despair,
Even breathing's a struggle.
The question–was it the fog, or his staccato-beating heart? The collapsing of his lungs intervaled by rapid intakes? The tips of his cold fingers, no deader than the man who stands parallel to him, violently trembling?
What stands before him were the every burning, crimson eyes stained like fragmented rubies framed by feather-light, golden hair swaying in the thick wind. Someone whose eyes bore holes into his soul, eating his heart from the inside out and spitting it up in his face like this. Waiting for the death of his own soul.
Him, and Liam.
William’s gaze is furious, he stands there in his heavy and dark cloak. Maybe furious was the wrong word. It was more like somber, an unsettling weight of what was to come, but it didn’t stop his brows from knitting rightly, staring at Sherlock as if he was the one at fault. It's overtly obvious he didn't expect Sherlock to seriously chase after him this deluded that he had any sliver of a chance to save him.
To bad for him.
Sherlock won't let it happen, even if it meant the gazes of thousands of townsfolk would be watching from down below. It was unlikely. They were so many hundred feet up, their shadows were small dots of yellow and navy. It only made the roaring of rapids nearby louder, screaming and thrashing, waiting to take William into its rippling belly. Still, this did not change the his will of stopping William for ending his fate like this.
“-Live, and atone with your life for what you’ve done.” Sherlock holds his hand up, an offering, the butterfly of serenity that was nestled in his palm, a truth of peace to the bloody hand of William. “Right? Isn’t that right, Liam?” He hats the stupid nickname that slips past his lips like molten honey. Sweet and steady, slow and dripping. He hoped–maybe, just maybe, he could persuade him, using his ever soft tone dancing in the uncomfortable air of silence between them.
The problem is he was a stubborn bastard, no less than four from stepping off forever. William stands still in his dark trench coat. If not for his beautiful blonde hair or scarlet eyes, he near blends in with the darkness around them.
The wind up even more. William’s golden hair in lazy halos lifted around his face, tickling the peach fuzz so badly Sherlock wanted to caress in a loving gaze. That wasn’t possible when a universe’s worth had separated them, social class, status, beliefs, even the raw distance paid for it. If Sherlock had more time chasing and finding him, perhaps he could hide from the weight of the world. To kiss his cold, dead lips, just one time. That is why he must save him, to hold him at night and swear everything would be alright.
He would never get the chance if William was that much of a stubborn motherfucker so set on his suicide.
William ignores him, at first. A flicker of hesitation passes him, as though it was actual consideration. He lifts his hand up, palm flipping over. To him, he saw the blood of ruby and sanguine stained in a neon glow. Sherlock furrows his brows watching him examined what he saw as calloused palms. One he felt near determined to caress, to drag them back to safety in spite of the roaring and biting crowed waiting for them. They are no better. They wish for their lord of crime to be dead by his misdeeds. Sherlock can care more than less.
Instead he nervously scrutinizes the slow-motion of the other's delicate lips going still. His eyes softening and the slow quirk of a smile at the corners of his lips. Heavily weighted between elsewise or taking Sherlock’s offer of peace still waiting.
Sherlock’s hope rose up. Not a word had spoken from the lord’s lips. After his unsettling gaze lifted to look back at Sherlock. Hope ignites in Sherlock, maybe he’d step forward, crash into his arms and sob all the tears before the madness would finally end. Sherlock saw the glass sheen wading over the ruby eyes, like a slow tide hitting his feet, maybe– just maybe–
No.
His foot lifts, only to go backwards, parallel to the distance between them. Unkind in the way his heavy boots slam against the strip of opened bridge, then slamming down as a total seal. He will not accept his offer, and wishes to be stubborn.
Sherlock’s heart seizes. A fatal error, a skip in beat. His eyes widen and he feels his mouth drop. What else did you expect? A nasty little voice speaks to him. Seriously–you’re supposed to be smarter than this. Of course he wants to die. Sherlock cannot be the heroine he so wishes at this very moment.
Sherlock knows he’s lost then and there. An eerie calmness fell between them, plunging deeper than icy shocks could ever meager as they waiting for William many feet down.
The realisation's slow. Slow, like the scent of rusted iron and thick smoke in his nostrils, suffocating him worse. Is his grit teeth and clenched jaw, a look kin to a crazed, rouge animal in the streets not enough?
Did William just now know how much he loved him?
Even worse–did he care?
William has yet to say anything.
And by god, it hurts like a viper directly to his heart.
Sherlock Holmes has seen death at the tops of his feet. He’s touched cold, rancid bodies. Some with guts sagging out or poorly placed bullet wounds spurting all over his chest. He’s killed with his revolver and sometimes bare hands. Sherlock has watched bodies slump like ragdolls in the heat of the moment, dancing with the thin thread of death itself ready to snap! He’s felt apathy, pain, and depression. Sherlock has tracked down thousands of murderers, killers. Sherlock might be able to recite every organ in the body backward and accurately describe the visceral stench of metallic blood. Sherlock has inhaled cocaine or plastered it to his sickly gums, tried half the brands of alcohol and inhaled enough cigarettes to blacken his lungs in every life after death. He’s stolen, hurt people, lied through his teeth, been thrown behind icy metal cell bars however-
Nothing–
Nothing will ever compare to the feeling of love like this. Something…twisted, encased by thorny vines choking him. The desire to fix the broken, someone who has done equally if not worse deeds in the name of fixing a complex societal problem. The way their minds tick is both so different and so alike. A living paradox, they are everything and they are nothing all at the same time.
Nothing like those misdeeds will sharply contrast to despair that swells inside his chest as watching William have such a disregard for himself. His heart fast enough that it could implode him, and tears?
Ego-be-fucking-dammed they were close.
The fog only gets thicker, trying to swallow both their body wholes. Sherlock blinks right as it happens. His shoulders and feet shake so bad it reminds him of a crash riding along the high of bitter cocaine. William is a sharp contrast to this, calm, composed, silent. Watching him like a hawk, yet eyes flicking elsewhere. He tries to hide from his gaze even though they both have nowhere to go whatsoever.
William steps back. Once, twice, thrice, splaying his arms out and tipping his body backward with no human drive to buckle in and save himself. No, Sherlock sees it in slow motion. His body… folding halfway and–
With whatever indescribable leap of strength fueled by adrenaline Sherlock can muster, he manages to slam his feet forward and just barely catch his arm by his hand. The rest of William’s body sags to the natural pull of gravity like a ragdoll, dangling. William lets out a small gasp past his lips, nagging his bottom one between his teeth, wriggling for several seconds only to notice the futile attempt. Sherlock might be stupid but so is William for daring to assume he'd let go that easy. A losing battle is sometimes still worth fighting for, his sheer will and determination begs. William can see it in his narrowed, furious eyes.
Again, Sherlock has met himself at the wits end of a dangling, frail thread of death.
The only difference was his love’s life.
William’s head turns away from his burning gaze. “Why… would you go so far to save me?” His voice bellows out, meek and small. Suddenly shy in spite of the heavy, looming atmosphere of the situation. It's a delicate air in the winds of gloom.
Now dancing on that thread.
Sherlock doesn’t get it. William had once expressed that death would be a freedom from it. It would, but logistically, if he was so convinced that dying for his sins was better it would make more sense if instead he lived with it. Those people were the worst of the worst. Aristocratic, sharp-teethed wolves snatching the limbs of the poor in a fucked cycle of injustice.
–Savored in it. Realized what he’d done, and came to terms that his actions in the past could not be bent or changed.
And chose to live with Sherlock.
Live.
It doesn't have to mean thriving. It just has to mean skating by. Skating by like Sherlock had been doing so many times. Fighting off crumbs from the streets and stealing food and money to barely live. Evidently, Sherlock's mind was what rose him to fame and a comfortable life to be lived up to this point. Sherlock is living proof that life mustn't always thrive. W
Live.
Sherlock wants to go off across the seas to begin a new life in another place away from the filth of London.
Live.
To rebuild something, the foundation crumbling and being mended by their very palms. Sherlock's bad at comforting but he's damn near sure his will would let he and Liam live a life together, happier.
“Isn’t that evident?’ Sherlock finally spoke, ridding the frog in his drying throat. So scared–so– so terrified. “Because you are my dearest f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶ lover.”
This was the end–wasn’t it?
The weight of William’s dangling body is becoming too much to hold. Sherlock is not as strong as he likes to puff his chest out over. The look that he is being given’s worth all the while, holding on, cradling something so broken and frail that were his hands, bony and rigid. William however, lifts his gaze up to him. The look on his face is indescribably soft, mimicking Sherlock’s tender heart.
“Living may hold nothing but bitterness for you, but the world you are changing is going to be a one worth living in. I’m sure of it!” His voice grew several octaves louder, something bordering on a shout. A desperate shout and plea.
Just why couldn’t William see that?
And why won't he say anything again! It's like...like talking to a wall!
Sherlock’s mind’s racing with any and every way to show that to him.
The clouds above cleared, if only a little. Fabric rustled under the weight of the wind. A break of sunlight was wriggling itself through a crack in the clouds, bordering on a beam of sunshine.
“You can see that same future for yourself!” Agitation wells inside him. William’s been utterly silent. Sherlock is no fool. He knows William hears him–how can he not? Sherlock’s raspy voice’s edged with tattered desperation.
Why won’t he fucking SAY something!
“So… live!” He near-screams
To live.
An entire dictionary flashes inside his mind. All 597 ways in every language, every slight tone of voice, all the ways he could curse this stupid fucking baffoon out take his other free arm and hoist himself up- choosing to live. They are just barely held between the base of his throat, occupied for heavy pants as his arm burns like a livewire the longer he holds on to William. His grip wavers, fingers unclenching themselves, the slicker of sweat his palms grew. Dangerously close to losing him. No matter fucking what, he refuses to let go. Every moment before this is insignificant, a blip in the expanding universe. All that matters is his dearest William alive.
“Live, Liam!”
His dearest love. The only one he’d ever and will ever fall for. Something who was everything and nothing like him, a living paradox.
“You…” William finds his voice. “You came here not as a detective… but a̶s̶ a̶ f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶ my love, didn’t you?” The man gruffs back, indifferent towards Sherlock's contrasting and increasingly desperate demeanor.
There it was.
Something unspoken finally acknowledged.
Cold wind drew upon their bodies. The biting of iron hits his crouched knees, arm threatening to sag further. Sherlock’s hell-bent on never letting go. Somewhere nestled between the crevices of the back of his mind was the sheer knowledge that William is beyond saving. He will not bend. Sherlock doesn't know whether to feel relieved or more anxious at the acknowledgement given this is where they ended up.
He wants to cry.
Sob. Scream at him so loud everyone so many thousands of metres below could hear his bellowing cry.
“You’ve bested me, Sherly.”
No, no- ...there it was.
Sherly.
Sherly.
Sherlock would wrap himself around the feather-like threads of the airy nickname, Sherly. Said so broken and desperate, a shrill plea, in a moment of finite. Even Sherlock’s best split reactions are not enough to predict William’s inhuman speed to unsheathed his gleaming sword.
“Liam no–” Sherlock chokes.
He sways it to the side, at an angle to cut through the thin indigo fabric of Sherlock’s suit and tearing through. Flecks of blood and a sharp jolt of pain exploded into bitter warmth contrasting the fog. It forces him to let go.
It seems the smog clears to be doused in embers. Bright red and orange melting together, he could feel it in every beat of his heart and thrum of his veins. William’s body finally falls and descends, the boards and Sherlock’s slouched frame disappearing out of view save for his whipping ponytail and utterly gobsmacked expression.
He’s lost.
Or has he?
Sherlock feel the visceral terror hitting him, it chokes him. He has no choice. He wouldn’t dare let Liam go through the burden of his choices alone. And if William chooses death? Truly? Fuck, Sherlock’s an impulsive bastard. He’s never been afraid of death. He’s killed and been close to suffering the same faint more times than the fingers he can count seven times. Death is nothing new to him. The absence of love? Of his true love Liam? Well, shit. Tears blur his vision but never does it waver the descending fall of Liam, his Liam, doused in a black coat and twisting sword out of his grasping hand. His face is horribly twisted and majestic, as if content with his choice.
He doesn’t think much. All he sees is red at his periphery, drenching everything in a sunset glow. “I’m not about… to let you be the only one who dies!” Sherlock jumps after belting out with grit teeth. A feeling of weightlessness pillows his body, falling at rapid speeds chasing after the body of William. The sights and scents, every feeling and sensation around him bleed like watercolor. Molding together through his teary eyes and ricochet by his pounding heart.
If this is his death? So it be.
Sherlock knew he saw it. The fraction of a reflection of pearlescent wings beating and drawing closer, encased by deep blood red of his eyes widening to the size of both the sun and moon itself. A mirroring in William's pupil of someone trying to save someone else as equally broken. Chasing after him-
Falling. Falling, only to be clutched tighter than a vice weighting their barrelling bodies against flickers and embers of flame the same shade of his eyes. Something had... changed. The closer they got to sparkling tinted rapids the lighter in blue had the sky became. Sherlock began to feel at true peace, his lover wrapped between his arms forever more.
Every doused flickering flame was nothing but imagined fury. The closer they got to icy shocks of water, the more the fog lessens breaking away the closer to sea. Sherlock swears on his life to never let go like this, moments before death. He holds William's frame right to his chest. The weightless sensation and ringing in his ears is not loud enough to wade away his acute awareness of William's beating heart flushed right against his.
And time? It has an odd way of working. A paradox like them, equally everything and nothing at the same time. It slows down and bends and twists, making a moment of literal death into minutes longer than an original split half of ten. Sherlock this time feels it in slow motion. The warmth of a cold body, contradicting itself, melding with his, limbs entwined and tangled while a burst of vibrant sunshine dissipates angry flames.
A rainbow reflects the edge of the metal bridge. Its rustic iron exterior doused in the fatal glow of finality sunlight. The same shade of William’s golden hair, dusting off and breaking from the thicket of grey clouds and smoke above. Closer to the water reflecting said sunlight like prism glass or the most vibrant of painted murals decorated against cobblestone; said rapids showed no mercy even of a split second of serenity. The same serenity as the dove’s beating, pearlescent wings a fatal seal of death impending. The water was so turqouise it looks like it comes from a literal dream. Something far and distant, flecked with sunlight.
Sea spray hit from the ocean, tickling their faces.
Sherlock had enough time to not mutter, instead calmly reiterate, “Liam, let’s live.”
The feathery softness of William’s hair clutched between his palm Sherlock could not catch his expression. However, he feels the way it relaxes in his hold.
He doesn’t care at this point.
As long as he can hold William one last time as they die together, he’s satiated. He cannot change this situation or how he feels.
Sherlock is not religious. He thinks the world has no bounds or rules for an afterlife, so he believes there is nothing saying they can’t live in another life like this.
With that, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets water plunge their bodies.
I’ll see you in the next life, my dearest Liam.