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His fingers were numb.
It was always the same, each time William found himself suspended in this strange, eerily quiet, twilight world. The weight against his chest was suffocating, robbing him of breath, and his torso burned, but not with heat. Ferocious cold gripped him, so biting that he felt his teeth should be chattering. But they were not.
His face, just like his fingers, was numb.
Time seemed to move in all directions, all at once, and yet not at all. The urgency of needing to breathe was immediate, but he was caught, existing in such a desperate state, for what in reality should be an impossible period. He should be dead.
Dead, so many times over.
Then, could this be purgatory?
Crimson flashed through his gaze, and he was vaguely aware of pain, but it was distant, like the memory of a bruise long faded, and now the desolate, murky world before him was dyed red, and he was sinking, and if this were to be his punishment, then that was okay. It was fine, he would accept it all, let him —
A rough warmth engulfed his face. Sandpaper skin. Hands. He opened eyes he hadn’t remembered closing, and the world became a lively vision of dark hair billowing around pale features. Light which hadn’t seemed to be there before haloed the figure moving towards him, and oh, what a lovely picture he made; even with that cut spilling blood from his cheek. If only William wasn’t dead. If only he could just reach out and —
His lips parted at insistent heat, and a breath of life expanded his chest, as welcome as a warm breeze through a lonely room.
William’s fingers tingled. His eyes fell shut once again.
***
Life in New York City was good.
For the first time in his 25 years, William found that he had a home which truly felt like his. Even if it was shared by an eccentric, mystery obsessed detective. Or perhaps … the sense of belonging he felt was precisely because of that fact.
They did not have a lot in terms of money or possessions — far less than either of them had accumulated back in London and Durham. But the things they did have were well loved and well used.
Their main room, adjoining the humble kitchen with its little iron cookstove, was fairly sparsely furnished. A loveseat occupied the space in front of the fireplace, a site of refuge during the colder evenings where the brushing of shoulders and elbows and knees and the sharing of body heat couldn’t be thought of as anything other than a sort of companionable and wholly unavoidable phenomenon in such a cramped space.
In one corner of the room, William had created a cosy little reading nook which consisted of a threadbare stool, a three-shelf bookcase and a handful of pre-loved books — battered copies of mathematics and chemistry journals and throughly annotated anthologies of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. At the other end of the room, a single potted plant laid claim to the windowsill — Sherlock’s, and William found himself surprised and yet again not at all that it had survived this long under the detective’s care.
A thin wall separated their cramped bedrooms which held only beds and wardrobes. But each morning, William would find the dawn sun breaking through the window panes, bathing him in lively golden warmth, and that would be utterly and completely enough.
Despite everything; despite his ongoing struggles with atonement, and their now simple existence, the feeling of gratitude towards Sherlock for blessing him with an endless number of more first-lights would swell in William’s chest and tug his mouth upwards until his cheeks began to ache.
Sherlock was always the one to make breakfast. He was an excellent cook, too, and seemed to sleep far less than William; retiring later and rising often before dawn broke. William, on the contrary, found a regular sleeping schedule came much easier to him in New York than it had back in England. He surmised it must have something to do with his long hospital stay, and the way that Sherlock nagged at him about it even after his discharge, taking on the role of head nurse.
“It’s late. Go and sleep.”
“I’m quite alright, really.”
A lie, betrayed by heavy lids and slurred speech despite an eagerness to remain in present company for as long as possible; sides pressed lightly together as they’d watch the flames dance and ripple in the hearth, the wood popping occasionally.
Warm. Familiar. Easy.
“You’re gonna keel over into my lap shortly if you don’t shift yerself, Liam.”
Would that be so terrible a thing, though?
William sometimes had a mind to question what exactly had come over his newfound friend since they’d tumbled from that bridge together, but he always bit his tongue and simply smiled graciously instead as he took himself off to bed as ordered.
It had become easy, especially since Vermissa and their shared promise, to surrender himself to Sherlock’s gentle concern. Easier than William had ever expected it would be, to allow someone else to prioritise his well-being. William found himself acknowledging the fact that, if someone was prepared to leap headfirst to a 200ft drop potentially resulting in death, just so that you didn’t spend your last sunrise thinking you were alone in this world, then they surely meant business and any further attempts at resistance would be futile.
So he didn’t resist.
He accepted the coffee gratefully (much improved since the acquisition of decent filters), surrendered grocery shopping duty on the days when his legs ached (he’d done marvellous work rebuilding his atrophied muscles, but the impact of being in a coma for so long still haunted him) and he allowed Sherlock to examine his injured eye every so often, even though he felt an instinctive shame course through him under the scrutiny.
“I’m sorry.”
The whispered sentiment would slip from him before he could catch it, each time Sherlock leaned in close, cobalt eyes studying the scarred skin and cloudy iris.
“For …?” Sherlock would ask, reaching for jars of ointment or pipettes containing eyedrops.
“You know.”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing in this world you’ve done to me that would warrant the amount of apologising you do. Much less an injury that was the result of me not protecting you as I should ‘ave.”
William could never understand how Sherlock had a certain ability to take on whatever guilt or shame he felt and shoulder it in partnership. Even when it was logically ridiculous.
“You did protect me. I wouldn’t be here now, if it weren’t for you, Sherly.”
***
It took them a whole year to invest in curtains.
William wasn’t sure why, exactly, except that each time it came up, there was always something else that warranted attention or, more importantly, funds.
Crockery, cigarettes, medicine, thicker winter clothes and blankets, paint for the charred mark Sherlock’s chemical experiments left on the kitchen ceiling, chemicals for said experiments (all part of a case, he assured. William wouldn’t have cared if it wasn’t; watching Sherlock work was fascinating.) Books for the reading nook, another potted plant to keep Sherly’s first company, pantry supplies in slower months, celebratory dinners in better, where the resolution of cases felt like the ultimate, shared glory.
William really didn’t mind. The shutting out of sunlight seemed counter-intuitive to what he had grown to love most about the world he remained tied to. It was a welcome sensation to open his eyes to, especially after the reoccurring dreams which dragged him back to that chilly, twilight world.
Even in the summer months, when it crept across his bedsheets at ungodly hours of the morning; to be woken by warmth and the promise of brilliant blue skies and perhaps even a cool treat in the park after their work for the day was done was a simple pleasure William had never once considered he would get to enjoy.
Besides, what did they have to hide from the world?
This was the question they would both ask of one another, each month, when their wages were paid and they were dividing out expenses and bills.
Do we really need to shut the world out?
Not yet.
It was a year to the day they fell from the Thames bridge that William finally felt it was time.
“Sherly,” he said, resting a knuckle against his chin as he glanced over their paychecks, laid out on the breakfast table. “I think we should invest in some curtains.”
“Oh?” Sherlock took a bite out of his toast. William had managed to steer him out of the habit of breakfast cigarettes and towards the food he so generously cooked for William instead. “Why now? Nothin’ else we need?”
William shrugged lightly, leaning back and folding his arms. Beneath the table, his slipper brushed Sherlock’s shin.
Neither thought anything of the gesture. Cramped living had made them more than a little familiar with one another’s personal space by this point.
“I’m not entirely sure; it just feels like a good time.”
Sherlock hummed, swallowed his toast, and wiped the crumbs off his hands animatedly. “Well then; suppose that’s today’s activity decided. Curtain shopping it is.”
It took them far too long to choose. Fabric, colour, style, fastenings; there were just so many choices to make. William couldn’t decide on the best sort to suit their little flat; Sherlock didn’t care enough to steer him in a particular direction.
Two hours into the search, Sherlock could be found sitting on the pavement outside of the third department store, dragging on his umpteenth cigarette like his sanity depended on it.
“I think these will do,” William ventured as he came up beside him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his smile gentle and a little apologetic. “Sorry, I’ve not actually ever had to shop for curtains before. There are so many considerations.”
“Thank god.” Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette, although his lips were twitching upwards around the butt, dimpling his cheek. He stubbed the thing out as he exhaled, wafting the smoke away from William’s direction. Then he pushed nimbly to his feet, haphazardly brushing down and straightening out his jacket. He gestured back to the shop. “Lead the way; let us pay for our curtains before you change your mind again. And then, let us pick up a bottle of wine enroute back to our humble abode; I’ve a feeling it will be needed for this latest installation.”
William stifled a snort of laughter with the back of his hand.
Perhaps he’s a tad dramatic.
In fact, Sherlock was not wrong.
They had sat together and translated scientific and mathematical journals from French and German; they had debated the efficacy of some of the greatest criminal cases in the history of Britain; they had co-masterminded plots to thwart the efforts of more than a handful of notorious American crime syndicates.
And yet, the task of installing five sets of curtains in a little Brooklyn apartment proved to be the making of them.
When the task was all but completed, Sherlock collapsed onto the loveseat, running one hand through his especially disarrayed hair while the other brought a cigarette to his mouth.
He made a sort of, half-hum-half-moan sound of satisfaction after his first drag which made William’s pulse perk up. “Bloody hell. Can we open the wine now? That was ridiculous.”
William smiled empathically from halfway up their step ladder (first acquired for the ceiling painting incident). “Agreed.” He ran fingertips down fabric, straightening out the last curtain before it was tied back neatly.
Sherlock uncorked their wine and poured two glasses. William settled beside him on the loveseat, elbows brushing elbows.
They sipped in silence for a little while, admiring their handiwork.
Silence with Sherlock was never uncomfortable. Sometimes William felt assured in his ability to read Sherlock’s thoughts through his body language. Others, though, admittedly he became an enigma.
Strange, that this had only become the case after their fall from the bridge.
Perhaps friendship meant giving up the cold, hard, clinical psycho-examination of another and replacing it with warmth and a little mystery.
William was glad Sherlock had reached out his hand, in the end, and made him realise this candid insecurity was what he’d been yearning for all along.
“The wine is good,” William offered.
“Aye,” Sherlock agreed, and he grinned sideways.
It only encouraged the cosy sensation of heat blooming in William’s chest.
It made him honest. “Louis was always so much better at this than me. The housekeeping, I mean.”
Sherlock hummed. “Ms Hudson kept 221B up to scratch. John helped, too. I did nothing. Not really.”
It was the first time either of them had openly brought up the people they’d left, back in England.
A whole year. Why had it taken William so long to say Louis’ name aloud to Sherlock?
Perhaps it was fear of the ache it caused.
“Oh? I have to say, she did an excellent job, in that case. Your home looked spotless, the night I visited.” William took a more hearty sip of his wine.
Sherlock straightened in his seat. He’d shed his jacket a time ago, and his collar was characteristically unbuttoned. “Actually, that time it was me.”
William couldn’t put his finger on why, but that made him smile against the rim of his glass. “Ah, I see.”
They sat in silence for a while longer.
Sherlock broke it, this time. “Do you really reckon this wine is good?”
William shrugged. “I’ve had better, I’ve had worse. But you picked it, so I appreciate your tastes.”
Sherlock huffed, but he was grinning. “I appreciate how polite you are. Mycky would have poured it into one of my potted plants and walked out the door.”
William laughed. “Your poor plants.”
“S’alright. Couldn’t blame him. It’s really not that good at all, is it?”
“It’s … serving its purpose. If it’s any consolation, my elder brother would also have done so, albeit discreetly.”
Sherlock laughed then, too. “Bastards.”
William grinned, but at the thought of Albert, he felt another twinge in his heart.
As though reading his mind, Sherlock sighed. “Never thought I’d say it, but I miss Mycroft.”
William nodded solemnly. “I wonder if they have been able to share wine and memories like this. I wonder if they would wish to, after all…”
Sherlock swirled the wine in his glass, frowning down at it. His arm slid to rest casually on the back of the sofa, behind William. “I reckon so. You know, what you did … I think it would have brought a lot of people together.” He stopped the swirling and looked up at William, all tumultuous blue eyes and earnestness. “I’m sure of it.”
William felt raw again. Despite the way that he sat in his shirt and waistcoat and eyepatch still, he felt naked.
But he didn’t hate it.
He closed his eyes. “I’m unsure if it was worth what I took from everyone, though. The lives it cost. What it cost … you, as well.”
“You idiot.”
William opened his eyes, frowning at Sherlock’s bluntness.
“My life is richer now than it ever has been before.”
The statement both awed and yet rang so true for William, too, that he couldn’t think how to answer.
***
As the evening progressed, and the bottom of the bottle was reached, talk meandered from families back in England to events in New York, and their newfound friend, Billy.
“He seems very fond of you.”
“He likes winding me up, you mean.” Sherlock puffed on a cigarette. He was slouched down in the loveseat now, one leg resting over William’s shin. William watched him intently from his side of the seat, elbow resting on the arm as he supported his head. He was getting a little sleepy now, lulled into a comfortable sort of drowsiness by the heat of the fire and the wine and the man beside him.
“Perhaps it’s because your reaction to it is so amusing.”
“Amusing!?” Sherlock sat forward a little and scoffed. “Don’t you start. You’re meant to be my ally, Liam!”
William couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “Ah, how times have changed, Sherly.”
Their gazes held, and in the brilliance of the fire, Sherlock’s beautiful eyes sparkled.
William let his brow quirk, and Sherlock grinned.
“Hey, know what he said to me, when I first came round on the boat?” Sherlock took another long drag of his cigarette, holding William’s eye. “The sheer audacity of the git when we’d only just met!” He stabbed the air with his smoke.
“Please, by all means, enlighten me.”
Sherlock grumbled, flicking ash into the precariously balanced ashtray on his lap. His knee nudged into William’s. “Well. Apparently, he had to resuscitate us in some filthy drainage tunnel, which I don’t doubt. But when ‘e told me this, ‘e said, and I quote, ‘ah sorry, did I steal your first kiss?’ Did I steal YOUR - FIRST- KISS.” Sherlock accentuated the words with a dramatic flourish of his cigarette, staring wide eyed at William.
In fact, the appalled look on his face was so comical that William couldn’t help but grin.
Perhaps the wine had made him bold, but the question was out of his mouth before he could hesitate: “And did he?”
Sherlock blinked at him as his face rapidly flushed, and then spluttered, “Besides the point, Liam!”
“Ah,” William replied, able to deduce the answer to his question all too easily by Sherlock’s reaction. “I see.”
Sherlock continued to stare at him. He frowned, sucked on his cigarette rather aggressively, and then sighed the smoke out through his nose. “What do you see?”
“I’m sorry,” William smiled, and this time, it was soft and well-meaning. “There’s no shame in it.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Good.”
“So … what about you, then?” Sherlock became suddenly interested in the stitching on the chair, prodding and picking at it, his skull ring glinting in the hearth light. “I take it Billy didn’t steal your first, eh?” He took another drag of his smoke as his gaze returned to William’s.
“Ah …” William tilted his head, allowing blonde strands to fall across his good eye. “Who can say?”
Sherlock tutted, stubbing the now spent cigarette in his ashtray and fixing William with a scrutinising gaze. “You and your bloody cryptic answers.”
His frustration pulled another tight-lipped smile from William. “Either way, does it really count, if you’re unconscious?”
There was a pause.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, and then made a great show of fishing his matches and carton of cigarettes from his pocket. He brought another up to his mouth, licking his lips as his hand hovered there. “S’pose not.” It dangled from his lip as he struck a match, the glow illuminating his features.
Something itched at William. His mind had become foggy, and despite the warmth of the fire, a numb chill had spread through his hands.
Perhaps it was time for bed.
He bade Sherlock goodnight, trying to pretend he didn’t notice the disappointed flash in his companion’s gaze, and settled himself in for the evening.
In his room, the new curtains hung limply, framing his window, but William couldn’t bring himself to draw them. An irrational fear had rooted itself in him; fear that without the brilliant light of the sun which pulled him back to consciousness every morning, William might never wake again.
***
He was sinking, pulled ever downwards into the bottomless dark of the Thames, choking on the absence of air in his lungs.
Suffocating.
And then the flash of pain to his face.
Blood.
It was everywhere, suspended in a blur of curling tendrils and clouds like crimson cigarette smoke, and please god, let it be his own, this time.
Let the wound be his.
Let his hands be numb but cleansed, finally, in waters that would end his abhorrent life.
William closed his eyes and felt himself surrender to it once more.
And, just like every other time he’d found himself sinking, hopeless, dying …
Warmth embraced his face. There was light again, and a figure — that angelic image, haloed above him, and then contact at his lips —
Heat coursed through his chest, and he gasped raggedly against the mouth of a man whom he was — physically —little more than acquainted with, and yet — existentially — seemed stitched soul to soul.
Live. We both must live.
***
William jerked awake to dimness, illuminated only by a shaft of moonlight which sliced through his windowpane.
His bad eye ached, and his hands smarted, and in the time he’d been asleep, the temperature in the flat seemed to have dropped significantly. Breath condensed in the air before him like fog.
He brought a hand to his face, running fingers along the place where the memory of that sandpaper touch was vivid.
Does it really count, if you’re unconscious?
S’pose not.
But William had been conscious, if only for a fleeting moment, and he remembered.
For this must be a memory, surely? It was too vibrant; the colours, the sensations, all of it was too real, to simply be a dream …
Sherlock had shared breath with him, in the clutches of those frigid waters; he’d kept William alive long enough for Billy to reach them both.
Sherlock had saved him so many times, in so many ways, that it made William’s chest ache with all-encompassing fondness for the detective, and he needed to know …
Did Sherlock remember?
If this recurring dream was really a memory, then Sherlock would remember it too.
So then … was he aware that William was conscious? Did he know that William remembered, and it wasn’t Billy, and actually, yes, the first had been Sherlock — it was always Sherlock — and yes, it counted.
It counted a million times over, if it was him.
William’s feet were in his slippers and his dressing gown thrown over his nightshirt before he could rethink his decision. He hastily tied on his eyepatch — more for the benefit of easing the ache in his bad eye, than for appearances — and he slipped from his bedroom.
He did not expect to find Sherlock still sitting in the same spot that he’d left him, countless hours before.
William stopped dead at the threshold of the room as Sherlock looked up at him. He seemed dazed, as though he’d been lost in deep thought for a long time, and the fire had long since dwindled to smouldering embers in the hearth.
William pulled his gown tighter around himself. “Sherly … you’re still awake?”
Sherlock ran a hand over his face. “Aye. Can’t sleep.”
“It might be easier if you tried lying down in a bed.”
Sherlock peeked at him through his fingers. “Alright, Professor know-it-all.”
William felt his smile turn wistful. “Unfortunately I can no longer lay claim to that title.”
But he found himself pleased at the small chuckle his comment pulled from Sherlock.
“Touché.”
“May I sit?”
“Of course.”
William made to take a step forwards, but then hesitated. He turned and headed towards the window. The fabric of their new curtains was pleasant under his touch as he shut the world out, leaving only a sliver of moonlight to fall across the room through the gap.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock watched him curiously from the loveseat.
“Something I should have done a long time ago.”
William’s pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to sit; so close to Sherlock that their knees jostled.
Sherlock didn’t move back, but he did look concerned.
“I …” William took a breath, clutching at the folds of his nightgown. His heart fluttered beneath his hand. “I remember, and it counts.”
“Eh?”
Despite his apparent confusion, William’s suspicions were confirmed by the way Sherlock’s eyes widened.
He did remember.
“It wasn’t Billy, Sherly.”
Sherlock sucked in his cheeks, smoothing down the material of his trousers. “I’m really not sure I —“
“Please.” For the first time in a long time, impatience had gotten the better of William. “I … I just need you to know, Sherly. I want to say it to you, if you do think it counts at all. I know Billy didn’t steal your first kiss.” As soon as the words were said aloud, William realised how ridiculous they sounded. He leaned forwards, pressing his hand to his forehead. “Oh, dear.” He winced behind his curtain of hair. “I sound like a fool. I’m sorry.”
“No —“
“Really, I shouldn’t have done this. Please just forget I —“
“Can’t do that, Liam.”
William lifted his gaze. Sherlock’s eyes were glassy. His throat bobbed, and he looked away abruptly.
“S’not that — I don’t — ugh.” He tutted at himself, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “The memory, is all …” he gestured with a finger in a round-about way next to his head, and William’s throat went dry as he realised Sherlock’s hand was shaking.
Sherlock swallowed again thickly. “I wasn’t sure if … I just needed you to live, Liam. I don’t really remember the specifics. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s — better than fine, I mean. I’m grateful. If it wasn’t for you …”
“No, it’s not fine.”
William promptly shut his mouth at the sight of Sherlock pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t bloody remember it at all. Just — just scrambling through the water after you. And all the fucking debris and I — just panic. That’s all I can recall. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry …?” William heard himself whisper.
“Because …” Sherlock forced through grit teeth, head still in his hands. “Because. It’s bloody ridiculous, but … if it was with you … I don’t want it to be like that. I don’t want it to be a wound.” His voice trailed off to the point William had to edge forwards to hear the next words. They came out strangled. “Shoulda been something different.”
“Different …?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, and he didn’t look up.
William swallowed the lump in his throat, gaze dipping to hands which were now clasped in his lap. “I’m sure it doesn’t help, but … I … it’s not a discomforting memory. And it’s not a wound, Sherly. It’s … it’s perhaps the single most hopeful moment of my life.”
There was a quiet intake of breath somewhere before him.
William continued, willing his voice to remain steady. “I wish I could share the way you looked in that moment. Everything’s blurry, but you — I can see you, when I close my eyes, and it feels like hope. I know it must have been traumatic for you, and I’m so sorry I stole something from you that should belong to a better memory.”
“You didn’t steal anything. It was me. I gave it voluntarily.”
“Well, I … either way, I wish I could repay you. Please believe me … I only have that small fragment, and for me, the moment was …”
Terrifying. Euphoric. Other-wordly. Relief. Re-birth.
“Show me.”
When William lifted his gaze again, Sherlock was staring at his own hands. They trembled as he wrung them in his lap.
William’s good eye blurred with moisture.
“What do you mean …?”
“Make me remember it like you do.” The words sounded like they had been pushed out against better judgement.
But William was surprised to find he didn’t need convincing.
His breath hitched as he reached forwards, taking one of Sherlock’s hands in his own. His skin was cool and clammy. William untied his eye patch with his other hand, and let the material fall away until he was visibly whole again; nothing to shut away or hide. If he was going to do this, he did not want anything between them.
“Please. Look at me then, Sherly.”
For the first time, when Sherlock’s eyes fell upon his scars, William did not feel ashamed. He found only gentle devotion in the inky blue across from him, and it made his heart burst into full bloom behind his ribs.
They were breathless with the intimacy of it, hidden away from the captious eyes of the world in their tiny Brooklyn apartment; the only intrusion from outside a thin beam of moonlight which painted a pretty silver halo behind Sherlock’s dark head.
William squeezed Sherlock’s hand, the ridges of his ring catching in a comfortingly familiar way against his fingers. He tugged gently, and Sherlock eased forwards in the seat, knees slotting together like perfectly matched puzzle pieces.
Sherlock’s gaze slipped unapologetically to William’s mouth. William licked his lips. He pulled Sherlock’s hand and pressed his palm to the clean-shaven skin of his cheek.
This time around, the heat did not come from Sherlock. William’s body was warmer, and what a gift to give — to be so wonderfully, astounding alive that you were able to share your body heat with someone.
William leaned into the touch. “I remember seeing the light coming from behind you …”
“Sunrise,” Sherlock murmured. He inched forwards a little more.
“Yes.”
William filled his lungs with air, struck again by the sensation of what it felt like to be denied the most basic human need.
“I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning; suffocating. I wanted to reach for you, but I couldn’t.”
His voice shook now, but the presence of Sherlock’s touch was grounding.
“And then you took hold of my face, like this.”
William stroked Sherlock’s knuckle. Sherlock’s thumb twitched against William’s cheekbone, a half-caress.
“With both hands, actually, and —“
Sherlock’s other hand lifted without further prompt. He cradled William’s face with a devastating tenderness, and moved to close the gap—
William was underwater again.
Time slowed to a mere trickle as he allowed himself to be enveloped in everything Sherlock Holmes.
It was clumsy; teeth clashed and noses bumped.
It was awkward; they couldn’t seem to get quite close enough, and William had no idea where his hands were best placed.
It was absolutely the most joyfult thing that William had ever experienced.
Why hadn’t they done this sooner?
He settled for clutching at the front of Sherlock’s shirt. The frantic pace of the heart beating beneath his knuckles matched his own.
“Sherly,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips. They were rough; chapped from being out in the elements at this time of year. William found the friction delightful.
Sherlock merely hummed in response.
“Slower.”
The word came out slurred between their mouths, and then Sherlock broke away.
He pressed his forehead to William’s. “Uh, shit. Sorry.”
A chuckle bubbled up from William’s throat involuntarily. It spilled out, filling the small gap between them, and he felt the twitch of Sherlock’s smile by their mere proximity.
“It’s quite alright. I am rather enjoying myself.”
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to huff out a laugh. “Oh?” He slid his hands down, a thumb brushing William’s jawline as his other found William’s hand, digits tangling enthusiastically together against his thigh. He pressed a hurried kiss to the corner of William’s mouth. “I’d never given it much thought before I caught you, but … reckon this might be more like how I’d have wanted it to go, Liam.”
“Yes,” William whispered, turning to slot their mouths together properly again. He was impatient to steal more of Sherlock’s breath.
Across from the loveseat, a dying ember in the hearth found a new wind, flickering back to life.
Tangled with Sherlock’s own and wrapped in the cotton of his shirt, William’s fingertips began to tingle.
Nothing had ever felt more like living.