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The thing about their line of work was that you never really realised what exactly was being asked of you until you were already in the thick of it.
So when William and Sherlock were instructed by Louis (as the head of MI6) to go to a pub in East London to investigate a criminal organisation that had been stirring up trouble for the crown, initially, nothing was thought of it.
A mission par for the course, even a little dull compared to the fast lives that they normally lived.
Reconnaissance was a simple task, after all.
The group often met in the back room of the pub to discuss who they were going to bribe next - even, as MI6 had learned, having a ranked list, something that had made Sherlock laugh when he’d heard it.
The goal of the organisation was simple - to convince government officials to turn a blind eye to the group's importing of illegal and restricted goods, or in some cases even getting the officials to sign necessary documents.
Sherlock and William had agreed without hesitation. After all, a mission was a mission, and they had a duty.
What they didn't know was the extent to which they would have to get involved.
They would have refused to go if they had.
— — —
So much for laying low until the time was right, William thought as he sat in the corner of the room, watching Sherlock grab a drunk by the collar and fling him out onto the street to stop him harassing a young woman.
Thankfully, the rest of the bar either didn't care or were too drunk to notice the mini brawl.
William did notice however, out of the corner of his eye, some of the bartenders signal to each other. He sighed slightly. They weren't meant to be noticed by the staff quite yet.
Sherlock let out a pleased huff as he sat back down, slinging down the last of his beer as he did so. William raised an eyebrow. "Feel any better after that?" he asked.
Sherlock affixed him with a slightly chastened look (though he was still pleased with what he’d done) before signalling to the bartender that he wanted another drink.
William took a sip of his own. "No judgement, Sherly. Just wondering if it'll compromise the job, is all."
Sherlock shook his head as the bartender brought another beer over. "It'll be fine, Liam. I don't think anyone really noticed or cared, except for maybe the girl that he was harassing."
William raised his drink to that, acquiescing silently.
The relaxed atmosphere between the two shifted as William straightened, eyes narrowing slightly. "My two o clock. One of the ringleaders. The one who Louis said would be here." Sherlock nodded, leaning back casually, head tilting to the side to get a look as much as he was able to without seeming obvious.
"Armed?" Sherlock asked as he took a gulp of his beer - enough to give him a buzz, but not enough to start to tip towards drunkenness. He was the heavyweight between the two of them when it came to drinking, after all.
William took another look at the ringleader and nodded.
"No weapon on him, but he's accompanied by two people who are. They're big. Not a good idea to get into a physical altercation unless we know that we can have an advantage."
William hummed as he finished his sentence, eyes flicking back and forth over the three men, mind racing with possibilities.
Suddenly, the blond pursed his lips, swearing quietly under his breath. "They're coming over here. Straight towards us, no doubt about it.”
Sherlock tensed as well. "Shit. Do you think that they've figured us out?" he hissed quietly, reaching down to the device Von Herder had given him that was meant to act as a final resort in case the mission went fully south and they had to abort.
In this case, a fight would compromise the job entirely.
William held up his hand slightly. "Don't try to engage them yet. We haven't lost the mission. We're still on track. They could be here to-"
The ringleader walked closer, lugging a chair over next to where William was sitting. The legs dragged slowly across the floor, screeching as they did.
The high pitched sound almost drowned out the cacophony in the bar. Even the lively music which had been playing energetically ground to a halt, most people turned around and stared at the scene.
The ringleader sat himself down with a contented sigh, his two lackeys flanking him. He pounded the table twice. "Get me a beer, dammit!" he yelled.
The barkeep, who had been watching the interaction with trepidation, sprung into action, getting the man a drink, hands shaking as he poured.
The ringleader - John Whittaker, William remembered - looked at the two other men at the table with a satisfied look. "So, gents," he started, looking at Sherlock. "What's going on with the two of you?"
Sherlock smiled, moving his glass to the side slightly. "Oh, you know. Just going out for dinner. A nice weekend treat."
Whittaker nodded, grinning. He produced a large cigarette, raising a hand and snapping his fingers together. The lackey on the right of him produced a box of matches, striking it, letting the flame grow, and then lighting the cigarette.
The man took a long drag in, before his gaze shifted to William instead. He exhaled slowly, the cloud of smoke enveloping the blond.
To his credit, William didn't flinch or sputter, even as Whittaker chuckled and tapped the cigarette, causing ashes to drop onto William's pants.
Sherlock could sense the blond's rapidly growing aggravation, however, despite the calm facade he portrayed.
It was one of the most significant reasons why he'd quit smoking during their time in America, because of how much it pissed William off. And even when he had smoked, he'd done it on the rooftop.
Whittaker, conversely, seemed to relish in blowing the smoke all over the man.
Sherlock coughed slightly in an attempt to draw Whittaker's attention back onto him.
"The bar is rather nice, wouldn't you agree Mr…"
"Whittaker, John Whittaker," the man replied. "And yes. I would damn well say it's a nice bar, I was the one who financed it!"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and made an impressed noise. Best to stroke the man's ego. It might get him to open up a little more. Even as he continued to talk though, sirens started to go off in his head about how the man was looking at William.
The boss was practically ogling William, eyes raking up and down his body with no shame. The man even licked his lips as he fixed his gaze on William's lips.
"So," Sherlock said a little more forcefully, trying to draw the man's attention back onto him. "What inspired you to start up the business? It's so tucked away, I can't imagine that it would have been easy to get foot traffic-"
"How much?" Whittaker asked, taking another puff of his cigarette. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm sorry?" Whittaker grinned. "How much for him?"
Sherlock stared at the man in shock. Whittaker chortled at Sherlock's expression. "Oh, come on. I'll only give him a small spin around the block. What do you say…seventy five pounds for three hours?"
He reached across, no longer undressing William with just his eyes. The table obscured where exactly he was touching, but Sherlock could guess by the way William tensed up so much it was nowhere good.
"My, my," Whittaker purred. "Such strong thighs. Men as…sumptuous as you tend to be on the softer side. Soft curves. Soft men also have soft hands, you know, which always feels rather enjoyable."
He gave William a firm pat on the thigh, laughing as he did so.
Sherlock couldn't quite tell if the roar of blood was being audible to the people around him, but it drowned out any further comments the man was making. The only thing Sherlock could see was the man's mouth moving. Heartbeat racing, he began to stand-
"Mr Whittaker. Would it not be better for us to discuss arrangements in a more private location?" William asked calmly, cutting through Sherlock's rage, replacing it instead with shock. He couldn't seriously be considering this in order to get information out of the man?
Whittaker chortled again. "A fine idea! Come, come." He stood up, leading the way to a back room.
The same back room that the ringleaders of the goods smuggling ring often conducted their meetings in.
Oh, Liam, Sherlock thought as they were ushered (herded) by the two lackeys. You clever, clever man. He finger spelled against William's hand as the two walked towards the back of the bar, everyone in the bar watching them intently.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
William's eyes flicked towards his. Sherlock almost found himself freezing up at the conviction in the blond's eyes.
William nodded firmly as the door to the back room opened.
You may be sure, Sherlock thought. But I can't say I am.
— — —
The room that they'd been brought into was rather disappointing for the supposed headquarters of a criminal ring. A small dim lamp sat in the middle of an old tilted table. A stack of wood logs and planks of all sizes rested in the corner, but strangely enough, there was no fireplace to burn them in.
"I really don't see why you need to know about my business practices for the transaction to go ahead," Whittaker huffed, arms folded across his chest.
William clasped his hands together, tilting his head with a smile. "Shouldn't I be able to set the price, since I'm the one who you want?"
Whittaker scowled at the blond. "I wasn't talking to you, whore. Be quiet while the real men are speaking."
Sherlock was barely able to suppress the boiling rage that coursed through him at the man's comments.
"Please refer to the…goods at the quality that they are, Mr Whittaker," Sherlock said with a polite smile. “And besides,” he added. “Isn’t sodomy illegal?”
Sherlock had no idea how the hell Whittaker had gotten the idea that he had, but the man seemed to think that Sherlock was some sort of pimp, and that William was his bitch. Under any other circumstances, it might have almost been comedic.
Under these ones though, Sherlock was having to restrain himself every five seconds from beating Whittaker's face in. He switched the subject from the barbed remark he’d made. Best to get as much out of the man as he could.
"For a man such as…my client, we need to have suitable compensation. You, of course, as such a prolific businessman understand that. And what better compensation than knowledge on the inner workings of such an interesting business?"
Whittaker waved his hand, brushing off Sherlock's request. "Fine, fine. I'll tell you about my business."
He straightened his jacket, letting out a long hacking cough - no doubt a symptom of the cigarettes he smoked, Sherlock privately thought. He found himself quite glad that he'd stopped smoking when he had.
"We tend to use the docks late at night," he started. "We specifically conduct business with a few contacts in Spain to actually get the goods across the water, but occasionally we use a group from France, due to the closer proximity."
"Our most prominent products that we ship are tobacco and alcohol. We get the most value for money out of the gin we bring over, but we do pretty well with our rum as well."
Whittaker leaned back in the chair, seemingly satisfied with the information that he'd given them.
Sherlock frowned. "That's it?"
Whittaker frowned. "What do you mean, 'that's it'? You know how much I would get paid by basically anyone else to spill that sort of information? And then you have the gall to - to act so-"
Sherlock slammed his hands on the table and surged across it, aggregation consuming him, but was stopped by the two lackeys pointing their guns at him.
Whittaker smirked as Sherlock was backed up into a corner by the armed thugs.
The boss got up and walked around the table to take a proper look at William, running his hand through the silky black strands of the wig - thank god Bonde had gotten a good one and all the products to make it stick - and cupped his face, peering at his eyepatch.
"Hmm…and the goods are even damaged." He looked back at Sherlock. "And you had the gall to try and get me to say more." Whittaker tutted disapprovingly, eyes roving over William's form.
His fingers skimmed across to William's eyepatch. "I wonder what damage is under here," he leered with a grin. Before he could lift it up however, the blond caught his wrist firmly. "I would you rather not do that, Mr Whittaker," he said calmly.
Whittaker snorted, snatching his hand back and bringing it down across William's face hard. "Don't fucking try to tell me what I can and can't do, bitch." His eyes flicked to where Sherlock was still being held at gunpoint, before turning back to William slyly. "And now that your friend is out of the way, you really can't stop me from doing what I want."
His hand went to the collar of William's shirt, tracing a finger along it before he tightened his grip and pulled down, ripping the shirt, exposing William's chest.
Sherlock lunged forward, only prevented from beating the daylights out of Whittaker by one of the lackeys pistol-whipping him across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor.
Sherlock did suceed somewhat however, as Whittaker's attention was taken away from William, eyes fixing back on the dark haired man. "Aw," he said mockingly. "The little boy wants to stand up to the big strong man. Sorry, chum. Maybe one day you'll get to my level, but for now you're a little fish in a very big sea. And I'm not in the mood to let you go."
Sherlock looked up from the floor, nose bleeding. "Neither am I," he said.
The door to the backroom swung open, gunshots sounding. The lackeys collapsed to the floor, heads cracking loudly against the ground. Sherlock, to his credit after being slightly concussed by the gun, sprang to his feet after a moment.
Whittaker's head whipped around, looking at the figures who had stepped into the room. "Who the hell are you!" he snarled, reaching down to where his (now dead) lackey's gun was, only for two more shots to be fired at him, sending him scrambling back.
He tripped, falling backwards over his own feet as he looked frantically around the room.
Sherlock looked at the two people who had shot the goons with a nod. "Thanks for coming."
Bonde laughed, covering his mouth with the hand not holding a gun. "Just doing our job!" Moran, who was standing next to him, nodded back at Sherlock. "What he said."
Whittaker was still spluttering on the floor like a fish incoherently, his face turning purple with rage. "Who do you people think you are!" he shouted, slamming his hands on the floor like an unruly toddler.
The sound of a person being hit over the head with a wooden plank was slightly surprising, but not too much so, as Sherlock looked up and saw William standing there, panting slightly, hands clutched tight around the wood.
Sherlock looked at him with a smile. "We're the true backbone of the country."
— — —
The carriage ride was sedate after everything that had happened. The mission was successful - when William grabbed the wood plank to hit Whittaker over the head, the other pieces of wood shifted to show a couple of raised floorboards.
Upon moving them to investigate further, Bonde and Moran had discovered the necessary documentation needed to get to the heart of the matter.
And, despite both Sherlock's and William's protestations, the two of them were sent home to "rest and recuperate," as Bonde put it.
The city was seeming to be peaceful for a change, Sherlock thought as the carriage trundled along. But it was made even more peaceful by William leaning against him, head tucked into the crook of his neck.
Sherlock had his arm around the blond, gently rubbing his arm. "You alright?" he asked, softly. William hummed. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock looked down at him. "Well, with everything that happened, it would be perfectly understandable if you weren't feeling alright."
"I'm fine, Sherlock."
"Liam-"
William pulled away, leaning against the window on the other side of the carriage. "Liam, please, don't shut me out.
The rest of the ride home was quiet.
— — —
"So," Albert said as the two men sat down in the parlour. "On a more informal note, since you and William both already finished debriefing Louis on the mission…"
He paused and took a sip of his wine.
"Ah, that's the stuff. Anyway, I wanted to ask. How is William doing now, do you think?" Sherlock paused. "You mean…after everything that happened on the mission?" Albert nodded. "Of course."
Sherlock sighed, gaze flicking away from Albert's. Despite William and Albert not being related by blood, Sherlock found that they still had the same intense stare. "I think that he's not doing as well as he was letting on. He shut down in the carriage. I…I don't know if something happened to him. And I'm not going to ask either, that's not my place. But I'm just not sure what to do. To help. You know?"
Albert had been nodding throughout Sherlock's semi ramble. "I understand what you're saying. Will is…a hard man to understand sometimes. I'll be the first one to admit that."
Sherlock snorted. "He's layers and layers and layers of lesser men who have tried and failed in what he succeeded in doing." At Albert's questioning look, Sherlock elaborated. "During everything leading up to…that night on the bridge, I found myself being forced to come to the realisation that I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal."
Albert let out a small laugh into his wine as he took another sip. "An antagonist? My, Sherlock. You certainly match my brother's flair for the dramatic." Sherlock smiled as well. "What can I say? We're two sides of the same coin."
The brunet sighed, smile fading, running a hand through his hair. "It really is just that, isn't it?"
He paused, mouth moving as if planning words out in his head. Sherlock gave him a moment to think.
Albert continued. "As much as it pains me to say it, I'll be the first one to admit that the two of you understand each other on a level that I can't." Sherlock opened his mouth to deny the man's claims - it was only the polite thing to do - but Albert waved him off before he could get the chance to do so.
"Mr Holmes. William needs you. He is comfortable with you, relaxed in a way that I've never seen." He smiled a little. "It's like he has his second half when you're around, and he doesn't know how to breathe when you're not."
Sherlock was quiet as he listened to Albert.
After a moment, he stood. "I know what I need to do now," he said. Albert sipped his wine again. "I hope that you do."
— — —
Sherlock stood in front of William's bedroom door, one hand poised to knock, the other carrying a small plate of food.
The apartment that the two of them shared - provided by MI6, of course - had two moderately large bedrooms (both equipped with ensuites), a kitchen, communal living area, and small balcony. The two of them often had 'sleepovers' in the other's room, however.
It was a convenient excuse, especially in winter when they could justifiably argue that the apartment got too cold to not have some heat-sharing measures.
Sherlock knew it wasn't a very good excuse, but it was an excuse nonetheless for when Louis raised his eyebrows at them both.
Eventually, he summoned his courage. "Liam?" he called, knocking on the door. "Can I come inside? I've got dinner."
No response.
He knocked again, more firmly this time.
No response again.
A pang of worry flitted through Sherlock's stomach before he sighed. "Okay, Liam. Uh, I'm coming in. If you're not decent…well, I hope you are."
With that, he pushed open the door, still carefully balancing the plate in one hand.
William's room was dark. The small electric lamp (they had such technology, thanks to Von Herder's wonders and the seemingly unlimited budget of MI6) glowed softly against the rest of the room.
The rest of the room was a mess, even by Sherlock's standards.
There were a number of things that were concerning Sherlock about William's room. Glasses from the kitchen piled up on William's desk. Books were left discarded around the room - extremely concerning, given how meticulous William was with them regularly. The clothes he had been wearing earlier were strewn over the floor - again, concerning. The man was a neat freak.
However, nothing compared to the man himself, who was standing in front of the mirror in the corner of the room completely naked, staring at himself in the mirror.
Sherlock shifted some of the glasses to the side, making space for him to put the hot plate down. "Liam?" he asked softly.
The man didn't respond.
Sherlock approached him tentatively, trying to make eye contact with William through the mirror. "Liam? Anybody home?" he asked again.
"What do they see when they look at me?" the blond said flatly, eyes shifting a fraction to meet Sherlock's gaze.
Sherlock blinked, slightly caught off guard by the question. "Well, I suppose it depends on who the person is. The face is normally the first thing that people look at when they do see somebody, but it depends on-"
"What do they see when they look at me," William repeated, more harshly this time, placing much more emphasis on the last word. Sherlock inhaled, understanding what he was asking.
"I think that the majority of people see a strong, quick witted, talented man. I see all that, and a little more, I think."
Sherlock took William's silence as an invitation to elaborate.
"I see someone who has a goal. Who is willing to do whatever it takes, even at a detriment to himself. I see a man who will go to the ends of the Earth and back if it means that he loses himself completely and has to claw the pieces back together."
William let out a long, shaky sigh at Sherlock's words.
"And," Sherlock added, "I see a beautiful, loving, tender man, who, at the heart of it all, wants to keep the people he loves safe at all costs."
William stood there for a moment longer, before turning around to look at Sherlock face to face rather than through the mirror.
The blond stepped forward, their noses almost touching. “Are you sure you still want me?” he asked hoarsely. “Even after everything?”
“Oh, Liam,” Sherlock whispered. “Everything that’s happened only makes me love you more, not less.”
The two of them stood like that for a long moment, each’s breath mingling with the other’s, until William stepped forward and placed a chaste, gentle kiss onto Sherlock’s lips.
The kiss only lasted a brief moment, but to Sherlock it felt like an eternity had passed.
He pulled away reluctantly, only to smooth back William's hair from his head, tucking the blond locks behind his ears. "You should eat something," he said softly. William nodded, leaning his head into the palm of Sherlock's hand. "Fine," he mumbled.
Sherlock helped William into a soft pair of white pajamas, despite the man's grumbled protests. It would do him no good to accidentally knock into something and bruise himself by mistake.
After he was done, Sherlock led William over to his desk. "Now, I want at least half of that eaten by the time I get back," he said, hands on his hips. "And try not to get it on your clothes. White is a devil of a colour to get stains out of."
William snorted as he picked up the cutlery that Sherlock had brought in. "Yes, Mother," he said with a slight smirk. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but something in his heart warmed as the man started to eat.
As William ate, Sherlock busied himself around the room, bringing glasses and crockery out into the kitchen and washing it up, putting it away, folding the man's clothes into piles based on whether they would need to be ironed or washed, and he put the books back in order.
By the time the blond was done eating, the room was looking much tidier. Sherlock nodded, quietly satisfied.
He felt a pair of eyes on his back and he turned around, seeing William staring at him, his smirk having softened into a gentle smile. "You suit the home," the blond joked. Sherlock swatted him on the shoulder with a light hand, but even he couldn't resist a smile spreading across his own face as well.
Sherlock looked down at William's plate and nodded approvingly. "You finished the whole thing. Very good." He leaned down, dropping a kiss onto the man's head. "I'm proud of you, Liam."
All of a sudden, the blond looked up at him with big wide eyes. "Sherly…" He paused for a moment, before shaking his head, clearing it of whatever thoughts he had been thinking. "Um, do you think that we could maybe have a sleepover tonight?"
Sherlock nodded. "Of course. I'll go wash up your plate, and then get ready for bed myself. You brush your teeth and get into bed, okay?"
At William's positive response, the two did just that. Sherlock got into a comfortable pair of navy pajamas - a gift from William when they had been overseas - quickly brushed his teeth, and made his way back to William's room.
There, he found the blond cosily tucked up in his bed. Sherlock slid in beside him quietly, turning off the bedside lamp as he did. William yawned, shuffling closer to him as Sherlock got himself settled.
"I like it when we can be close like this," he murmured. "I like that the touch doesn't have to mean anything." Sherlock tilted his head, looking at William's sleepy face. "I would never touch you in a way that you didn't want, Liam."
William nodded, yawning again as he closed his eyes.
"Goodnight, Sherly," he whispered against the pillow.
"Goodnight, Liam," Sherlock whispered back.