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For the first time in many, many years, William experienced true boredom. It was not a feeling that plagued him in his youth, nor in the aftermath of the Moriarty fire. His mind was an ever-working machine, charting maps of the future of their country’s people in his every waking moment. William had known with certainty what his role in the world was to be and it guided his time in a direction that could never leave him listless.
Now, he wasn’t quite so sure. Bedrest had given him weeks to consider his place in this new world, oceans across the country he had pledged himself to better. The path his life was to take was a blank canvas from the moment Sherlock Holmes had launched himself off a precipice to save him, untouched by the murky colors of his past, and it was up to William to paint a new picture of a life worth living. It was a different sort of burden.
Amongst the numerous things Sherlock had taught him, living in the present was one that William battled with daily. His mornings were filled with the New York sunshine piercing through the living room window, nursing a cup of coffee over a board of go with the world’s most brilliant consulting detective. American books on pure mathematics would show up around their apartment, the odd malfunctioning radio or toaster propped unceremoniously against the kitchen sink for William’s idle hands to find. Sherlock was not subtle. It had irked William at first, to be handed playthings to distract himself with while his companion was absent on jobs where his very life was at stake, but Sherlock had beamed as he flicked through William’s dogeared copy of mathematical proofs by the fireplace, fingers trailing over where he had left notes in the margins in awe, and William felt the fool for ever assuming Sherlock’s gestures were driven by condescension rather than kindness. I want you to be selfish, Liam. To do the things you want to do, for yourself and no one else.
William glanced down over the balcony railing. Men returned to their homes after a long day of labor, their gait unsteady with drink. Women giggled behind arm in arm, chatter of everything and nothing in particular filling the night air, the tops of their hats shining under the streetlights. From a single glance he could tell they were commoners, laborers working at the mill or nearby factory, women who wore thick soled shoes as they made the long walk home. They would find a cauldron of plain stew and bread upon their arrival, reheated over a modest fireplace before they tucked themselves in for the night, and their day of labor would begin anew before the crack of dawn. A circular routine, no spanner thrown in the works.
Would a simple life be so awful?
The railing trembling under his arm was all the warning William had before a figure launched itself over the steel. He was quick on his feet, dodging the flying leg aimed at his shoulder, slipping inside the living room with blood thrumming in his ears. An arm reached out to his side; William ducked, blocked the blow with his forearm and aimed one of his own against the back of the assailant’s neck. There was little force behind it.
‘Hah! You’re going to have to do better than that, Lord Moriarty!’
A series of coasters flew at him with perfect precision and Liam smiled, backing up to wield the poker propped against the fireplace to deflect them in an instant. The dimensions of the object were not dissimilar to the cane that he had discarded into the depths of the river, though the lighter weight sent the coasters flying back to their sender with more force than he intended. He recovered his stance quickly, launching himself over the counter to strike with his makeshift weapon.
‘Is this more to your liking, Mr. Detective?’
‘Right on!’
Sherlock’s grin showed all his teeth, gritted against the force of William’s weight. He swiped a leg underneath, a move William had predicted given Sherlock’s training in the martial arts. He braced his legs farther apart, used his weight to push Sherlock backwards, shuffling through the hallway. Sherlock ducked underneath the rod, glittering eyes impossibly close to William’s as he twisted the poker out of his reach. It hit the wooden floorboards with a clang their neighbors would not appreciate.
Sherlock grabbed for him through the open bedroom door, putting William on the defense. What started off as lighthearted jabs had become a heated spar and William found his weakened muscles reveling against the strain of holding off Sherlock, mind sorting through the possible moves he could make without gravely injuring his opponent. He had begun to pant lightly, throwing off Sherlock’s forearms as they reached for him incessantly until his legs were slipped from under him and he found himself landing on the mattress of his bed in a flurry of movements.
William’s arms were pinned above his head not a second later, his lower body held immobile by the weight of another.
‘Caught you.’
Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, black curls fallen out of their tie to hang over his face as he panted above him. His suit was rumpled as usual, even more so from their sparring, and it smelled of singed fabric, dirt and sweat and his particular brand of tobacco, and underneath it all his earthy cologne that had held onto the glands of his neck despite the day’s endeavors. William’s body gave an involuntary shudder as he tested Sherlock’s grip on his wrists, warm and firm. An easy hold to break out of, should he wish it. He let out a breath and met the wild eyes above his instead.
‘And what is my penance, Sherly?’
Sherlock froze as a strange look overcame him. He scanned William’s face intently, every inch from his eyes down to his flushed neck, his body held still as if suspended by a string. The sole source of light in the room by the bedside table had cast Sherlock in shadows, the angles of his cheekbones, the dip of his collar. William tracked the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
‘None,’ he breathed finally. ‘How could there be any when you say my name like that?’
A numbing flush crept over William’s body. He burned with the intensity of the blood pumping through his veins, of Sherlock’s warm weight against his, the hoarse tenor of his voice and the scrutiny of his dark eyes. Was Sherlock aware of the power he held over him? The way in which only he could strip William of all his guises, through his bloodstained hands and further until his soul was laid bare to him in its basest form, to be seen, to be damned. He glanced away in surrender when he could bear it no longer, beyond the length of the body hovering over his own and to the windowsill. His voice sounded shaky to his own ears when he spoke again.
‘How was the job?’
Sherlock scanned him for a moment longer, gaze searching for the intent behind William’s defeat, until he heaved a great sigh and fell against his chest. All the fight in him dissipated almost as abruptly as it had come, his body a sluggish weight as he mumbled something into the fabric of William’s nightgown. He couldn’t help but smile.
‘Hm?’
‘Boring,’ Sherlock groaned with all the petulance of a child. A mumma’s boy, indeed, William thought amusedly, wondering not for the first time what Sherlock’s younger self was like. Curious, intelligent. ‘It’s all so bloody boring.’
Insufferable, most definitely.
‘Is that what moved you to attack me out of the blue?’
He felt Sherlock’s smile against his stomach before he turned his head to the side. His left arm reached out to pick at a thread in the bedsheet, his right still curled around William’s middle. An act so uninhibited on Sherlock’s part had William’s body hyperaware of each and every point of contact between them, until he could chart a graph of where the lines of their bodies intersected in his mind’s eye.
‘Mycroft would pull that stunt on me all the time as a kid. It was infuriating, but now I get why he did it.’
William made a curious sound and Sherlock peeked at him, nose still buried in William’s clothing. It was an unusually bashful look on him, eyelids blinking languidly up at William with the day’s exhaustion. He wondered if Sherlock had a bite to eat in all those hours.
‘You looked so solemn up there, by the balcony railing. All by your lonesome. I wanted to take that serious expression off your face.’
A rush of fondness warmed him once more. It was becoming harder and harder to resist the way his body desired to translate the sensation that Sherlock’s words gave him into action. He allowed his fingers to reach out and brush Sherlock’s curls away from his face, once, twice, until the man leaned into the touch and slumped back into William’s body with a soft sigh.
‘You needn’t go to such lengths for my sake,’ he chided gently. ‘A conversation with you would have sufficed.’
‘Mm,’ Sherlock hummed, the vibration of the sound resonating through William’s own skin. He followed the rise and fall of Sherlock’s back as his breathing slowed. It was a while before he spoke again, accent thickening with his drowsiness. ‘And how was your day, Liam?’
William couldn’t help but laugh, hand combing through Sherlock’s curls down to the nape of his neck. It had grown long. ‘That would hardly make for stimulating conversation.’
‘I always like hearing what you get up to.’
‘Last I recall, calculus was not an interest we shared.’
‘Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on me, Professor,’ he drawled, then suddenly sat upright to wriggle further up the bed, pulling the duvet with him, until his face lay atop William’s chest. He made a low sound of satisfaction, warm breath reaching the hollow of William’s neck and arms coming in close around him. William’s own breathing felt labored as his chest rose with the weight of Sherlock’s head against it, until their lungs syncopated in a steady pattern. ‘Or perhaps I just like the sound of your voice.’
Sherlock had him in a compromising position - he would feel the quickened beat of his heart right under his ears. William began speaking to overcome his embarrassment, until he rediscovered the enjoyment of sharing his pleasures with Sherlock. His voice filled the room as he spoke of the theories that fascinated him most, Sherlock’s breathing a steady rhythm against his neck until his body had given into slumber. It was late in the night, a handful of hours before dawn, and William worried for the angle of Sherlock’s neck if he were to lay in such a way for a prolonged period of time. William himself could lie underneath him for hours.
‘Sherlock,’ he called out finally, fighting his own desires to nudge the detective’s shoulder lightly. ‘Come, let’s get you some dinner. You’ve had a long day.’ When the body atop his gave no sign of waking, William attempted to slip out from under it, holding the detective gently in his position so as not to wake him. It was futile; sinewy arms tightened their hold and a low grumble pressed into his throat.
‘You’re hardly comfortable. Allow me to help you to your room.’
William’s protest met no answer and he sighed ruefully, dousing the lights before settling back into the arms that held him captive. Sherlock made a deep sound of contentment, tugging William impossibly closer and entangling their limbs until it was unclear where one started and the other ended. How long had it been since he had last been this close to someone? He had huddled close with Louis as children through the cold months and his sickness, but it had never felt like this. Like Sherlock had deemed every inch of space between them detrimental, like there was no greater comfort to be found than in William’s arms.
Perhaps this was the pleasure of simplicity. A roof over their heads, a warm bed. Someone to come home to.
William let the thought spread through him like a balm, until there was no room for anything but warmth and contentment and the man that was to blame. He reached for the forearm around his waist and sank into the simple rise and fall of their shared breathing.
‘Goodnight, Sherly.’