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With flawless posture, William stood before a small chalkboard in their secluded room in Brooklyn.
The piece of chalk glided with practiced precision between his long fingers.
"If one considers the physiological mechanisms of the nervous system..."
He began, his voice maintaining a cool, academic distance.
"Sensory stimuli and emotional attachments inevitably cause a disruption in rational cognition. Furthermore, given the severe legal and societal ramifications of our...
situation, any lapse in caution could prove catastrophic. Therefore, to safely maintain our bond without risking exposure, I have constructed a schedule."
He lightly tapped the white dust from his fingers and turned around, gesturing to the neatly drawn grid.
"Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings. After dark. Exactly two hours each session. That should provide the precise frequency required to—"
William trailed off as his eyes landed on Sherlock.
The cold, logical detachment in his voice evaporated in an instant.
Sherlock was sitting backward on a wooden chair.
His arms were comfortably draped over the backrest, his chin resting on his forearms.
A pair of deep blue eyes looked up at him from beneath unruly dark hair with such open, charming intensity that William completely lost his train of thought. Sherlock’s expression remained calm, but that signature mischievously glint danced in his eyes.
Dammit. William felt the words catch in his throat.
He had intended to remain entirely objective, but the mere sight of Sherlock utterly shattered his concentration.
"...to ensure we grow closer while remaining vigilant," William managed to finish, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“Sherlock…” He held the piece of chalk almost defensively.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Oh, most attentively, Liam," Sherlock purred, without abandoning his comfortable pose.
A crooked, unfairly attractive smirk stole onto his lips. "Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Very safe and...structured. You've turned us into a timetable."
Sherlock rose in one fluid, unhurried motion and casually stepped over the chair.
"But do you know what my deduction tells me?" Sherlock continued, stepping so close that William could catch the subtle scent of tobacco.
He placed one hand gently against the wall right beside William’s head and, with the other, casually plucked the piece of chalk from his fingers.
William blinked, his breath hitching. The sheer closeness of the man he loved drove a vivid, deep flush straight to his cheeks and ears.
He looked down, far too embarrassed to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Your... deduction?" He murmured, his voice trembling slightly.
"Mhm." Sherlock tilted his head, his warm breath brushing against William’s burning cheek.
"You don't actually care about the safety aspect of this schedule, Liam."
He took one more tiny step forward, closing the last bit of distance, and wrapped his free arm naturally around William’s waist.
It wasn't forceful; rather, he drew him into a sweet, lingering embrace that made it utterly impossible to pull away.
"You just wanted an excuse to ask when we could be close," Sherlock whispered with a low chuckle near his temple. "But you're far too shy to say it out loud, aren't you?"
William’s heart gave a traitorous leap. He tried, briefly, to summon his mathematical mind to the rescue, but logic stood zero chance against Sherlock's presence.
"That... is purely speculation, Sherly." He murmured softly, though he was already resting his hands tentatively against Sherlock's chest, leaning ever so slightly into the embrace.
"Love isn't a schedule, you brilliant idiot," Sherlock whispered into William’s blonde hair with a soft, contented breath.
"If I want to hug you on a Monday, or a Wednesday, or right now... I'm gonna do it."
Then Sherlock reached up, his fingers gently cupping William's burning cheek, guiding his face up until their eyes met. His eyes flicked down to William's lips.
The atmosphere in the room turned thick, warm, and electric. Sherlock leaned in slowly, his own heart hammering against his ribs as he prepared to bridge the final, agonizing inch between them for their very first kiss—
BANG.
The door burst open with zero warning.
"Hey guys! Look what I scored at the market! Fresh—"
Billy stopped dead in his tracks, holding a heavy basket overflowing with bright red apples.
In a fraction of a second, Sherlock and William practically violently recoiled from each other. Sherlock nearly tripped over his own boots, while William whipped around toward the chalkboard so fast, frantically picking up the eraser.
Billy blinked, looking back and forth between the two grown men who both looked like they had just been caught stealing state secrets.
William’s face was glowing a shade of crimson that put the apples to shame.
Billy raised an eyebrow, staring at the grid on the wall.
"Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday? What are you two planning on those days? Another secret mission?"
"Ah—no! It's... a study schedule, Billy," William choked out, his voice a full octave higher than usual, staring intently at the chalk dust on his sleeve as if it were the most fascinating thing in the room.
"Mr. Holmes requires... rigorous tutoring."
"Right... Tutoring," Sherlock coughed into his fist, trying desperately to regain his cool, though his own ears were burning bright red.
"Very strict. Lots of... lessons."
Billy stared at them for three long, agonizing seconds before shaking his head with a grin.
"Well, okay then. Don't study too hard. I'll leave the apples on the table."
He set the basket down, completely blissfully unaware, and waltzed right back out, shutting the door behind him.
Silence descended upon the room once more.
William slowly turned around.
The shy, embarrassed mathematician was gone, replaced by a thoroughly flustered, sharp-eyed former crime lord.
Sherlock had retreated to his wooden chair. But this time, he wasn't sitting backward with a cocky grin.
He was sitting bolt upright, his feet neatly on the floor, his arms tightly crossed over his chest like a schoolboy who had just been sent to the headmaster's office.
"And this," William began, his voice trembling with a mixture of intense embarrassment and righteous victory as he pointed a finger at Sherlock, "is precisely why a structure is necessary! I specifically stated that the door must be locked at all times!"
Sherlock opened his mouth to offer a witty retort, but under the searing, blushing glare of a furious William James Moriarty, the great detective swallowed his pride.
He slumped slightly in his chair, crossed his arms tighter, and gave a tiny, sheepish nod.
"Yes, Liam," he muttered, looking down at his boots, embarrassed to his absolute core.
"Always lock the door. Got it."
William let out a long, shaky breath, though he couldn't entirely hide the tiny, affectionate smile fighting to break through his flushed face.
"Good," he whispered softly, walking over to the door and deliberately turning the heavy brass key until it clicked firmly into place.
Then he turned back to Sherlock, his eyes softening. "Now... where were we?"
As he began walking back toward Sherlock, he noticed the shift immediately.
The great, usually unflappable Sherlock Holmes was practically squirming in his wooden chair.
His hands rested awkwardly on his knees, and his eyes darted frantically from the floorboards to the heavy curtains, doing everything in his power to avoid William's gaze.
That sudden burst of courage from earlier and the sheer audacity to press William against the wall and pluck the chalk from his fingers had been pure impulse.
A heat of the moment reaction.
Now that reality had crashed back in, the staggering realization that they were truly sitting here together, about to enter an actual relationship—Sherlock was completely frozen.
The brilliant detective suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands, how to hold his posture, or where to look.
William stopped a few paces away.
The flush of embarrassment from Billy’s intrusion faded, replaced by a completely new expression.
A soft, incredulous smile began to tug at the corners of William's lips.
"Sherly?" William asked softly, tilting his head. "Are you... retreating? Your deductions sounded considerably more confident just a moment ago."
"I'm... I'm simply calculating our next move, Liam," Sherlock stammered, a fresh, deep crimson spreading rapidly from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears.
He ran a flustered hand through his messy hair. "I mean... we are... us now. That's... well. It isn't exactly a case one can just solve."
He glanced up briefly, looking at William with a rare, almost boyish helplessness.
"I've never... to be completely honest, I don't even know how to do this properly," Sherlock admitted quietly, shoving his hands deep into his trousers pockets and hunched his shoulders.
"Catching criminals? Easy. But this? I am entirely lost."
William looked at him.
And there they were. The master strategist who had tried to tame love with a chalkboard schedule, and England's greatest mind, currently failing at the simple task of not acting like a shy schoolboy.
Both of them, in their own unique ways, were utterly overwhelmed and lost.
William’s amusement melted into a profound, overwhelming warmth.
Seeing the great Sherlock Holmes looking so completely lost over a simple moment of intimacy was easily the most charming thing William had ever witnessed.
"Then I suppose it's a good thing," William murmured, his own cheeks still burning, but his eyes lit with warm, teasing affection,
"that we happen to be two geniuses. We'll just have to solve this equation step by step... without a textbook."
Sherlock blinked, caught off guard by William's newfound confidence, before a crooked, vastly relieved grin slowly spread across his lips.
Instead of teasing him any further, William closed the small distance between them.
He leaned down with quiet grace, gently taking Sherlock’s face in his hands, and pressed a slow, tender kiss right onto his forehead.
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. All the nervous tension instantly drained out of his shoulders.
When William pulled back, a soft, mischievous sparkle had returned to his crimson eyes. He looked over at the table where Billy had left the overflowing basket of apples.
"I believe," William murmured softly, his thumb gently caressing Sherlock's cheek, "the best way to clear our heads is to make proper use of Billy's timing. How about an apple pie? With as many apples as we can fit into it."
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. The flustered, hesitant boy was gone in an instant, replaced by a sudden, childlike enthusiasm. A genuine, bright grin broke across his face.
"An apple pie?" He repeated, his voice perking up immediately. Without missing a beat, Sherlock pushed himself up from the chair, completely forgetting his previous bashfulness.
He marched straight over to the table, snatched up a bowl and a small paring knife, and held it up with a proud smirk.
"I'm peeling," he declared, already pulling up his sleeves with absolute focus. "You handle the crust, I'll handle the apples."
William couldn't help the soft, breathless laugh that escaped his lips as he watched the detective immediately dedicate his brilliant mind to the high-stakes mission of peeling apples.
The overwhelming awkwardness of a new relationship had dissolved, leaving behind something warm, comfortable, and beautifully theirs.