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New York was much louder than London. This was naturally par for the course for such a large city - New York had just surpassed a million residents, after all - but William still found himself caught off guard by the bustle of it all.
The tea rooms of polite society in England were a million miles away as he stood on the roof. The conventions and norms that he had learned and adapted were replaced with a hodgepodge of people from all over - Irish, Poles, Italians, Chinese - all chasing the high that the Frontier had to offer. Even with it starting to close, immigration to America still remained at a high. Seen by many as the land of opportunity.
William smiled softly as he gazed out over the city. America wasn't perfect, not by a long shot - poverty and disease and inequality wracked the streets. But he could appreciate how, from his vantage point high above the city, there was a greater chance for people to start over. Start again on a blank sheet.
"I thought I might find you up here," a familiar voice called out from behind him as the door thudded shut. "I couldn't find you in your room or the cafeteria. I was worried that you'd wandered off again."
William's shoulders raised slightly, before sinking back down, smirking. "You worry far too much, Sherly. Fear not, my impulses to leave have been curtailed for the time being thanks to the adequate company provided."
Sherlock came around and sat next to him on the bench, scoffing. "I'd like to think my company is more than adequate." William shifted over so Sherlock could sit more comfortably on the bench as the two gazed out over the streets below, the sound of drying sheets flapping noisily behind them.
Sherlock stretched out, crossing his arms behind his head as the two men looked out over the city. He pulled his hair out of the ponytail, hair flowing freely in the wind. He broke the silence after a moment.
"You know America has that grid system for their streets? Can you imagine if something like that was put into place back home? It would be a total disaster." William hummed at the remark, nodding, as the two of them continued to survey the urban landscape.
It was a cool spring morning, beginning to tinge warm at the edges. Despite the growing warmth of the day, William pulled the blanket slightly closer to him, shivering a little.
Sherlock's gaze flittered over William's form, observing him with a critical but not unkind eye. The blond was thinner than he had been back in London. A hospital diet would do that to you, though. The meals, while decent and (somewhat) nutritional, were a far cry from the home cooked meals that William must have grown accustomed to back home. His visible eye though was significantly brighter than it had been that night on the bridge.
Sherlock reached over and rested one arm on the back of the bench, not quite wrapping his arm around William, but something close to it. Just enough so that the blond knew that he was really there. The man hadn't always been highly accepting of touch, Sherlock had observed. Even with his brothers, William often liked his own space. So Sherlock sat, inviting but not pushing.
After a few minutes, William leaned to the side without comment, quietly resting against Sherlock. Even with the laundry flapping behind them, accompanied by the honk and screech and clamour below, the world felt quiet. Just the two of them.
Sherlock reached up and loosely wrapped an arm around William's shoulder, silently inviting him to lean into him further, to escape from the slight chill in the air.
A brief pause followed, where Sherlock was unsure if he had crossed a line. His worries were dismayed though by William shuffling over slightly and tucking himself tighter into Sherlock's body, causing a small, almost bashful smile to spread across Sherlock's face.
Sherlock reached his hand up and began to run it through William's hair. Even after falling into the Thames, travelling across the pond, and being semi-freshly awake from a coma, it was still smooth and soft.
Good genetics, he supposed.
It had been two months since William had woken up from his coma. Daily visits from Sherlock had become commonplace, often lasting anywhere from three hours until the wee hours of the morning, or sometimes just the regular hours of the morning.
One more than one occasion a night nurse had come into William's room only to find Sherlock there by his bedside, or on one or two occasions in bed with him, cuddling.
(It had happened more than that, but on the occasions that they had been found Sherlock had forgotten to lock the door or drag a chair in front of it.)
(A brief but blunt conversation had been had with the nurse, in which she agreed that it was a perfectly boring night where she saw nothing at all.)
It was pleasant, the routine. Sherlock would go to work, solve as many cases as possible before lunch, and then head to the hospital to see William. Sometimes they'd talk - about cases, about the city, about home. Sometimes they said nothing at all to each other, and would sit in silence until Sherlock would kiss his hand or forehead and leave.
Sometimes Billy would join them on the roof for a little while. But mostly it would just be the two of them.
It was domestic, in a way. The hospital wasn't their home anymore than New York itself was, but there was something tender in it, the feeling that no one else could intrude into this space.
Billy had mentioned to Sherlock that he might be able to set them up with an apartment in Brooklyn, and in between naps and moments of confused waking William had seen the two of them pouring over house listings that fit within the budget given to them by their work while still making sure that it had all the nuances that Sherlock knew that William would want.
But for now, the hospital would have to suffice as their (well, William's) place of residence. William was unsure how, but Sherlock had managed to work it with the hospital that William was able to come out of the hospital for a few hours every few days to go on a walk around the area, a privilege not afforded to the majority
They'd developed a habit of going to a small French bakery some twenty minutes away from the hospital, secluded in a little side street where they wouldn't be seen. It wasn't that they were too concerned with people spotting them, it was more about people making…assumptions, about what they were to each other. They were right, of course, that they were together. But it was better to be safe than sorry.
The bakery was run by two elderly women, who Sherlock had deduced shared the same affection for each other that he and Liam did. And so, like clockwork, every Thursday and Saturday the two of them would stroll over there, and eat and chat and laugh under no one's watchful eye at all for as long as they wanted.
He still remembered the first time the two of them had gone in there. Sherlock had learned about it through a friend of a colleague at the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. She'd described it as a "quiet place, perfect for a secret rendezvous." Well, what he and Liam were doing didn't necessarily fall into the rendezvous category, but the 'secret' aspect of it was still greatly appreciated.
William let out a soft sigh, dragging Sherlock out of his thoughts. He looked down at the blond curiously. "What's on your mind, Liam?" he asked, head cocked.
William said nothing for a second, pondering whatever was on his mind. After a moment he snapped out of it with a slight jolt, looking up at Sherlock.
"Ah, nothing." Sherlock raised his eyebrows skeptically. "The look on your face didn't say 'nothing' to me, Liam." The blond sighed once more, though this was more laced with fond irritation. "I was thinking about what Louis and Albert might be up to."
Sherlock hummed, not saying anything right away. There was a weight to the air, and Sherlock let it rest, letting William say what he wanted in his own time.
"I miss them."
The confession was soft, quiet. It was a far cry from the usual barrier that William put up around himself where he covered his true feelings in layers of misdirection and falsehoods. The honesty was like a battering ram, feelings spilling out messily for Sherlock to see.
"Louis and Albert?" Sherlock asked softly, urging him to continue. William nodded. "Yes. But not just them. Fred and Moren and Bonde and Jack - hell, even Moniepenny and Herder. They looked out for me. They looked to me for guidance. And…I feel like I've run away and left them to deal with the mess."
Sherlock nodded. He understood the feeling, though albeit not to the same extent. He felt like he'd left John and Miss Hudson (and Mycroft and Mary, he would also admit, reluctantly) in the lurch. Waking up on the ship to America had been a shock after the fall from the bridge. He hadn't expected to survive it.
William turned and looked at him, a particularly large gust of wind blowing through his hair and causing it to whip around wildly. Purely out of instinct, Sherlock reached up and smoothed it down.
A tender smile crept over William's face. "I knew what had to be done, Sherlock. I don't regret what I've done, but I do regret that I've hurt the people I care about so much."
William slumped forward a little, resting his elbows and forearms on his knees. "I'm tired, Sherly."
Sherlock moved his hand to slowly rub over William's back, sighing. "It'll be alright, Liam. I don't know when exactly it will be, but I know that it will." The blond looked up at him.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "Healing takes time. Both mentally and physically. You won't be able to deal with what happened that night on the bridge, or hell, even the days and weeks before that right away. It'll be a while."
William looked at him for a long moment and then chuffed, causing Sherlock to playfully scowl. "Hey! I come offering some genuine advice, being all helpful and stuff and I get laughed at! What's the big idea?!"
He stood up in a dramatic huff and made to flounce away (not really, he would never leave Liam while he was like this), but was stopped by a hand grabbing at his arm.
He turned to see William looking up at him with a genuine smile across his face. "My intention was not to mock, Sherly. I just couldn't help but think that maybe you'd learned a thing or two from Doctor Watson about health."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back down on the bench, which creaked as he did so. "Yeah, I guess I learned a thing or two. But most of it I already knew, okay?!"
William huffed a laugh, his gaze flicking back to the skyline. A silence stretched between the two that was different from the one earlier - the air now devoid of tension and held breaths.
"There'll be good and there'll be bad days, you know," Sherlock said, interrupting the silence. "And it's okay to have them. I'll be there for you every step of the way." William looked at him and nodded silently.
The two of them sat up there for a long time, even after the sky turned a brilliant gold and orange and eventually faded to a navy blue. William had tilted his head to the side at some point to rest on Sherlock's shoulder.
They breathed in sync together for what seemed like years, chests moving up and down together. It was only when William began to yawn that Sherlock gently patted his arm.
"How about bed, hmm? You still need to be sleeping a lot. Good for making sure everything heals up right." William nodded, rubbing his eyes slightly in tiredness. "Yes, that may be a wise idea."
Sherlock offered him a hand up, beckoning the blond. William yawned. "Could we stop by the nurses station first for some water first? I feel rather parched after sitting out here."
Sherlock grinned as they began to walk back to the stairs that led down to the main hospital. "I think we can do a bit better than just water."
With that, the two of them slowly began to make their way down the stairs and along the winding maze of corridors that led to William's room, with a quick detour orchestrated by Sherlock to 'borrow' some milk from the nurses station - the only thing that could be quickly swiped.
To many, milk in a cup was a rather childish thing, but as William finished off his glass and set it on the small nightstand next to his bed, laying down on the pillow and closing his eyes, Sherlock thought that they were rather stupid. The look of comfort that spread across his face as he drank outweighed any sort of societal notion.
"Sherly?"
"Yes, Liam?"
"Will you stay?"
"Of course."
Sherlock shifted over, sitting on the edge of the bed as William closed his eyes.
"..."
"..."
"...Doctor Watson really did rub off on you, didn't he?"
"...Go to sleep, Liam."