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William knew that hospitals needed to be sterile. It made complete sense, of course. The environment had to be clean in order to minimise the risk of infection - it would make no sense at all if a place meant for healing promoted sickness.
All of that knowledge didn't mean that William liked how the hospital was so soulless.
The walls felt oppressive, closing in on him at every turn as he walked briskly through the corridors. He knew it would only be a matter of time before an alarm sounded and the staff were notified to his flight.
But he needed to get out in some way, otherwise William was sure he was going to suffocate.
He clung onto the wall as he stumbled along, mind racing, barely able to think with the blood rush.
He needed to get somewhere safe. Somewhere where there was life. Somewhere that wasn't four white walls and didn't have a doctor.
All of a sudden, a location came to his mind, perfectly crystal clear.
The roof.
He'd first discovered the roof access the day he woke up from his coma. He vaguely remembered feeling like he did now - blood roaring in his ears, vision blurry with panic - when he'd shoved open the door and crawled his way up the stairs.
The roof had been quiet then, in the middle of the day, therefore it stood to reason that it was likely to be quiet now, so late at night. It was really only used for drying laundry, after all, and that was hung up in the morning.
His heart was still hammering in his ears as he made his way along the quiet corridor, bumping into walls as he went. He still wasn't used to the damned eyepatch. It threw off his depth perception.
Just as he got to the corridor that housed the staircase that led to the roof, William heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps - two people, he noted. His good eye darted around, looking for a place to hide, before his gaze fell on a supply cupboard.
Perfect.
He ducked inside (hitting his shoulder on the doorframe as he did), quickly closing the door as quietly as he could.
William recognised the voices speaking as they approached.
One was the doctor who was in charge of his treatment, the other a nurse who frequently came in to change his bandages and make sure that he was eating.
They were courteous towards him. They made him get up and move, making sure that his muscles didn't atrophy, that he still stayed limber. But he'd also seen them restrain and sedate a man who was screaming down the hall when William had been on one of his mandated walks.
Needless to say, William didn't want to be caught out of his room at this hour by them.
He heard the murmur of the nurse's voice as the pair passed. "That man who comes in to visit the patient in Room 452 is at the front desk again." The doctor sighed. "We can't allow him in. It's past visiting hours." The nurse hummed, the pair stopping just outside the supply closet William was tucked away in.
"I suppose you're right. But…" she sighed again. "I don't know. He seems so worried about his friend. I think it would really help in the patient's recovery if he was able to see him, even if it was just for a little while."
As the pair moved away, William was unable to hear what they said, even when he pressed his ear to the door.
After he was sure that the coast was clear, he slipped out of the supply closet and made a break for the stairs up to the roof. His heart was still pounding, the remnants of the conversation that he'd heard flitting around his head.
At least the roof had a little more character than the rest of the hospital. Every room down there just looked the same - the same people, the same dying souls over and over again.
Up here, at least there was the wind in his hair to distract from the thoughts in his mind.
William shakily walked over to the bench, taking his time, navigating through the blustery linens that had been hung up to dry.
He struggled to find exactly where the seat of the bench was, his depth perception so skewed. God, he hated this injury. He hated so helpless, so reliant on the people around him.
Part of him, larger than he would ever admit, hated being alive.
The goal at the end of it all, the plan he'd devised for so long, was for him to take as much blame as possible, leaving London mostly free of the scourge that had plagued it for so long, and for his allies to have a life free of the burden that he'd placed on them.
But Sherlock, that self sacrificing, glorious bastard had refused to let him die alone, jumping down with him, shielding them both.
And now he was here in New York, looking down at the streets below.
The door to the roof swung open, footsteps coming to a halt and breaths being let out in long, raggedy gasps.
William didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Liam," Sherlock gasped, clearly out of breath, presumably from sprinting up the stairs. William didn't turn around, simply gazing out at the city beneath them. "You're back early," he said simply. "You were meant to be coming back on Thursday. It's only Sunday."
The blond heard Sherlock approach him tentatively, soft footsteps against concrete until the man slowly slid down onto the bench next to him. William continued to stare out as Sherlock spoke.
"The mission in France was completed more swiftly than we expected," Sherlock said slowly, staring at William with wide eyes. William hummed at the man's words, a tinge of bitterness creeping into his voice as he spoke. "I assume everything went according to plan, then? Everything was good and easy?"
Sherlock blinked, confused and concerned at the man's words and at the entire situation that they found themselves in. "Yeah, it was fine, it was smooth. We helped get things all back into order."
William nodded again, falling silent once more. Sherlock fell silent as well, clearly unsure of how to breach the awkwardness that had fallen between them. "It's a cold night out here," the man said. "Are you sure that you're warm enough in just your hospital pajamas?"
The blond continued to look out over the streets below without even making the faintest amount of eye contact. "Yes, I'm sure that I'm fine. The nurses have switched over to winter attire for us…patients."
He spat out the last word, almost revulsed by the idea of his weakness. Sherlock's brow furrowed, but continued speaking as to not start anything. Not so late at night, not when they were both so tired. "That's good," he said with a smile, reaching over to squeeze William's hand. The blond didn't react at all, simply nodding as Sherlock withdrew, concern becoming more evident.
"You know," Sherlock started slowly. "You really had the staff downstairs in a bit of a tizzy. I was coming to see you - I'd even managed to get the receptionist to agree to a short visit - when the nurse that attends to you, the one I've met before, came running down the hallway shrieking that you were missing."
William shrugged. "I needed some fresh air." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, skeptical of the man's plain response. "At two in the morning?" At the blond's nod, Sherlock let out a huff. "Liam, that's bull and we both know it. Tell me what's going on here."
William pursed his lips, turning away from Sherlock. "Nothing's the matter. Leave it be."
Before he could fully turn away though, Sherlock reached out and gently, so very gently, cupped his cheek with his hand, bringing William's face back to look at his own.
"Hey," Sherlock whispered. "You know we can talk, right? You don't need to keep it all bottled up inside." When William tried to turn his head away again, Sherlock's arm tensed, not hurting William in any way but simply stopping him from averting his gaze.
"Liam," Sherlock said again, slightly more insistently. "Please. Tell me what's wrong."
The blond's eyes flicked down, inhaling slowly. "When I'm here, in the hospital," he started. "I feel like I'm…in Purgatory. Or in Hell. I'm not sure which yet. Day in, day out. Everything stays the same and everything changes. I haven't made a difference to the lives of the sick and the dying. I haven't made any impact at all."
He took a deep, shaky breath. Sherlock gave his hand a gentle squeeze, encouraging him to go on. "It's hard, being forced to be motionless," William said. "I suppose I've gotten so used to always having to move, to always be onto the next thing that had to be done, whether it was work or social events or…other activities. And now despite my very, very best efforts to not have to be here, I am. I am here, and I don't know what in the everloving hell to do about it."
His eyes turned watery as he spoke. "I don't know who I am anymore," he said, voice small. "I had a purpose, I had a goal, and there was a plan, a final plan, and now…and now the plan didn't work. And I'm left picking up the pieces and trying to fit them into a life that I had no plan for."
His voice cracked. "How am I meant to live if there's no plan? No end goal?"
Sherlock pulled him gently into a hug as the tears began to fall. He had never seen William like this before. He'd seen the man cry before, of course - in pain at the doctor's movements before Sherlock had snapped at them to be more gentle, at the pain of missing his allies, and more particularly, his brothers - but Sherlock had never seen William like…like this before. So hopeless. So devoid of any desire for the future.
For William to be without a direction, Sherlock realised, was like leaving an untethered ship with no crew and trusting it to reach its destination intact with no cargo lost at all. It was a disaster.
Not that he would ever call the blond that.
No, what William needed was help in finding his own direction. His own way to be active, to have a plan of some sort.
He needed talking off the ledge that he'd effectively gotten himself up onto.
Sherlock properly wrapped his arms around William, reaching up to stroke his hair, whispering hushed words of reassurance as the blond broke down.
The two of them stayed like that for a long while, until William's sobs died down. The blond pulled away roughly after a moment, wiping his eyes.
"Liam…" Sherlock started, unsure of what exactly to say. William stood up from the bench, looking down at the city below. Sherlock tensed, quickly springing up to his feet as the man walked towards the ledge. "Liam," he said firmly. "Don't get too close, alright? It's not safe, the wind's strong tonight."
Surprisingly, the blond heeded his words, stopping a meter from the edge. Sherlock got up quietly, walking to stand next to him. Just in case he tried anything.
"I can't go back down there," William whispered. "It feels like hell, Sherly. No, it's worse than that. It feels like nothingness. I'll lose myself in there." "You won't, Liam. You'll be okay, the doctors and nurses are there to help you."
The platitude was clearly the wrong thing to say, Sherlock realised as William's face contorted, rage and misery apparent for only a fleeting second before the blond smoothed it out into neutrality.
The blond turned away, starting towards the stairs leading down to the hospital. The dark haired man winced. He didn't think that what he'd said had been that bad, but clearly it was enough so if William was wanting to go back inside the hospital.
"What's your deal with hospitals?" Sherlock asked suddenly, William stopping in his tracks. "You wouldn't have this fear to this extent if it was unfounded, if you were just scared for the sake of being scared. And every time you've talked about the hospital, you've reached up and massaged your chest like you have heartburn."
The blond was quiet for a moment, before a breathy, croaking laugh ripped its way out of his chest. He turned and looked at Sherlock.
He looked beautiful in the moonlight, a small voice muttered in Sherlock's mind. Not right now, Sherlock muttered back.
"When we were younger," William started, "Louis was very ill. He had problems with his heart - the wall separating his left and right atrium didn't close up properly. We spent a lot of time in the medical ward of the orphanage. Even after Albert took us in, it still took time for the problem to be officially diagnosed."
He took a shaky breath. "I spent a lot of time watching over Louis. I also saw other people in the hospital as they were moved past the room Louis stayed in after Albert took us in. They called the corridor we were on the Walk of Death - if a patient was being wheeled down it to the double doors at the end, we most likely wouldn't be seeing them again."
Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes as William spoke. "I didn't know," he said softly. William snorted. "No one does. I don't think even Louis remembers much of his time in that hospital."
He took another trembling breath. "I remember when he was recovering from his surgery. There was a complication - a stitch had come loose or something, and he was internally bleeding. He had to go back under. No one would tell me what was going on, but all I knew was that Louis was going down the corridor that people didn't come back from."
William swallowed, and was quiet for a moment. "He did come back, of course." He took a few steps towards Sherlock, sitting back down on the bench. "I remember screaming into Albert's shoulder, begging him to let me go see him. I was too young to fully understand what was happening. I was only twelve, after all."
He snorted. "Strange. I was able to kill three people at the ripe age of twelve. But I couldn't stomach my brother being wheeled away from me in the hospital."
Sherlock was quiet after hearing that. William sighed. "Don't feel bad for me, Sherly. I just…I don't do very well in hospitals, was the point of everything I was trying to say. They're not for me. And having to spend so long in one is starting to get to me."
Sherlock nodded, swallowing. "Of course it is. Christ, Liam. I didn't know about any of that. I'm…I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you had to go through that."
William shrugged. "It's over now. But I just can't tolerate being down there stuck between those four white walls. I think I'll lose my mind."
"Then we don't," Sherlock said simply. The blond blinked at him, confused. "Let's go on a walk," Sherlock continued. "You still need to recover. I'm not suggesting that we leave forever. But let's go on a walk, go down to the river. Have a drink. People watch."
Sherlock reached over and squeezed William's hand. "You matter to me more than whatever hospital protocol exists, Liam. So let's scram. How does that sound?"
William stared at Sherlock. For a moment, the detective thought the blond would refuse and storm off. But then he squeezed his hand back. "I don't have a coat, or any non hospital clothes."
Sherlock grinned. "Don't worry about that, Liam. Leave that to me."
He stood, offering William his hand. "What say you?"
William reached out and grabbed it firmly, Sherlock hauling him to his feet. "I say we shall."
— — —
The clothes they'd liberated from the store room inside the hospital kept William warm as the pair ran down the street together. It was the first time that William had felt like this in a long time.
It had certainly been before his final plan that he'd been this happy.
They'd bought cheap bottles of beer, labels hidden in paper bags from a bar a brisk fifteen minute walk from the hospital
William wasn't entirely sure how the hospital staff was going to react when he reappeared later on. But for the time being, he was living in the moment, and the problems of the future were just that. Of the future.
He had no idea where they were going. All he knew was that he was trying to not slip as the two rounded the corner, as well as doing his very best to keep a firm grip on the drinks they'd bought. He heard shouts from passersby as the pair streaked past them, some yelling, some cheering.
For once, he didn't bother to observe or analyse.
For once, he felt alive.
William found himself out of breath as Sherlock finally slowed, a grassy slope coming into view next to a river
The two found a good spot on the grass and sat down, Sherlock laying down on his back, laughing. "We made it!" he cheered, pumping his fist up in the air.
"You'll get stains on your coat, you realise," William teasingly commented. Sherlock waved him off. "Pinkertons will pay for it to be dry cleaned. I'm not too fussed." He patted the ground next to him. "Pull up a bit of grass next to me, Liam. I think the hospital will have bigger fish to fry then stains."
The blond did just that. Sherlock knocked both of their beer bottles against the ground, expertly taking off the caps. The two sat and drank, watching the night pass in a mix of loud laughter from people going home after a night out and quiet lulls where the only thing they could hear was the wind.
"Sherly?" William asked, eyes on the slowly rising sun. Sherlock's eyes were instantly on him, concern lacing his face before William leaned down and kissed him softly, gently, on the lips.
The man melted into the kiss, groaning softly at the sensation. After a long moment, the blond pulled away. Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a grin. "Feeling risky, eh, Liam?" The blond snorted. "Be quiet. I just…I wanted to say thank you. For taking me out of the hospital. I feel like I can breathe again."
Sherlock nodded as the pair watched the sky becoming a beautiful gold, fading into the blue as the sun fully rose. "I'm always here if you need an alternate form of medicine, Liam."
"Beer and parks, Sherly?"
The dark haired man swatted him lightly on the thigh. "I meant love, you idiot."