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“Liam, have you seen my—”
Sherlock stopped short.
The living room was empty.
He could have sworn William had been there a moment ago, settled on the sofa with a book, a blanket draped over his lap. He was always a bit cold these days.
“Liam?” he called, glancing toward the hall. “Where’d you go?”
A quiet snick sounded behind him—the soft click of a door closing.
There you are.
Sherlock turned without hesitation and crossed the room, already reaching for the handle. Of course it would be William—there was nowhere else he would have gone.
He twisted the knob, stepping through as the door creaked open.
“Oh! How about that one? He looks like he could be a challenge.” A lady in a pink gown gestured across the lounge.
Sherlock blinked beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers, the sudden brightness catching at his eyes. He glanced down at himself—carelessly dressed, his collar unbuttoned.
“Mister?” another lady prompted.
He followed the first woman’s indication, already assessing. “Him? No challenge at all. Obviously he’s a—”
His breath stuttered.
A flash of pale gold caught his eye.
Suit pressed and impeccable, blond hair swept back from his face—
“Liam!”
Sherlock shouldered past the ladies crowding him, already moving.
William did not turn. He moved steadily through the lounge, making for the grand spiral staircase at its center, ascending with that same effortless grace before slipping from view around the curve.
Sherlock quickened his pace, taking the steps two at a time as he reached them. He followed them up. William had to be at the top. Around the bend.
Sherlock stumbled.
His foot came down wrong—the ground shifting beneath it.
The wooden floor of a train—vibrating faintly, a steady rhythm running through it.
Voices surrounded him—low, conversational—cutlery against china, the soft clink of glass.
Sherlock steadied himself, already looking up.
William.
Seated in a booth halfway down the dining carriage, posture relaxed, one hand resting lightly against the table.
For a moment—just a moment—Sherlock thought he might be able to reach him.
William rose.
No hesitation. No glance back. He stepped away from the booth and made for the end of the carriage, disappearing through the door without so much as a pause.
“Liam—”
He could only follow.
Sherlock pushed through the carriage door—
—and his foot struck stone.
Not the narrow passage of the train, but uneven cobbles beneath him, damp and slick.
The rhythm of the rails fell away, replaced by the echo of his own steps between close-set buildings.
William was already ahead, coat flaring behind him as he moved down the street. His pace never changed. He never hurried.
Sherlock pressed on.
His shoes struck hard against the cobbles, breath catching as he closed the distance.
He should have been able to reach him.
William turned a corner.
Sherlock was only a moment behind.
Sherlock followed, swinging around an old stone building before skidding to a halt.
Too far.
William was already halfway down the next street, distance stretched impossibly between them, as though the ground Sherlock had covered had meant nothing at all.
He ran.
It changed nothing.
William passed beneath a narrow stone archway without breaking stride.
Sherlock followed close behind, emerging into an open courtyard.
Stone underfoot, wide and bare, the sound of his steps echoing outward.
William crossed it at the same measured pace, already nearing the far side.
Sherlock pushed harder, breath sharp, stride lengthening.
He did not get any closer.
William reached the opposite building and stepped inside.
Sherlock followed.
Always followed.
He wrenched open the door to the building.
Steps.
Again.
The stairwell was dark, the air damp and close as it filled his lungs. Stone pressed in on either side, the sound of his own movement thrown back at him in sharp, uneven echoes.
A flicker of movement above—the edge of a dark coat, turning at the next landing.
“Liam!”
Sherlock took the steps two at a time.
The turn came too quickly. Then another. And another.
He climbed.
It should have been enough.
It wasn’t.
The stairs stretched on, flight after flight, each landing revealing only the next turn, the next glimpse just out of reach.
His legs burned. His breath came sharp and fast in his chest.
Still, he did not gain on him.
Cold struck his face, sharp and immediate, wind tugging at his hair. The walls fell away, stone giving way to open sky, the musty air replaced by something vast and biting.
Sherlock blinked.
Columns of smoke rose above the buildings below, lit by fires breaking out across the city.
William stood before him—face blank, sword drawn. His foot shifted, half a step toward the edge of the unfinished bridge.
“Liam!” Sherlock choked out a cry, lungs still heaving. “What are you—”
He didn’t wait for him to finish.
He stepped back.
Sherlock moved.
Too late.
Not a stumble. No hesitation.
Just—gone.
Sherlock lunged for him, hand outstretched, already moving for the edge. He had followed him once before. He would do it again.
He couldn't reach him.
William was falling fast. Too fast. Faster than Sherlock—far below already, striking the dark surface of the Thames.
“Liam—”
Sherlock bolted upright.
His heart still hammered in his chest, lungs fighting a phantom battle to draw in air. His arm remained outstretched, as though he were still trying to catch William.
The dim light of pre-dawn sifted through the lacy curtains.
Home.
He was in his bed.
His hand curled briefly into a fist before releasing. He brought it up to cover his eyes, taking a steadying breath. Then slid it down his face, as if he could wipe away the remnants of the dream.
Sherlock turned to the other side of the mattress.
William.
His chest rose slowly, soft puffs of breath passing his parted lips. Blond hair fanned across the pillow around him.
Sherlock bent close, tucking a loose strand behind his ear.
William’s face twitched, the scar at his eye creasing as his brow furrowed.
“Hmm… Sherly…?”
Sherlock cursed himself.
“Sorry.” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
His eyes squinted open. “You alright?” William asked softly.
“Nothing—it’s nothing…”
William hummed in quiet disbelief before shifting up the bed—not quite sitting up, but subtly inclined. His eyes drifted shut again as he held out his arms.
“Come here.”
Sherlock hesitated only a moment before easing himself down into William’s embrace, resting his cheek against his chest. He could hear his heart beating, steady and sure. Long fingers combed through Sherlock’s sweat-damp hair.
“I’m here,” William murmured. “Go back to sleep…”
Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, clutching him tightly, never wanting to let go.
At least for a little while.
He closed his eyes and let sleep carry him away once more.