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Liam had always been a mystery to Sherlock, unreadable and as intriguing as any of his cases, perhaps even more so. He supposed that’s why he’d fallen for him. Sherlock didn’t only want to understand Liam, he needed to. For his own sanity, Sherlock needed to know everything. Everything, so Liam would never leave him. If he understood him, truly understood what made Liam tick, Sherlock could make him happy.
That’s all he wanted.
“Liam?”
Liam hummed in response. He was splayed out on Sherlock’s bed, back to the sheets, long hair fanning across the pillow. His visible eye was lidded and his hand rested easily on the back of Sherlock’s neck.
He was so elegant, in nothing but one of Sherlock’s old worn-out dress shirts pulled open at the front and a pair of undershorts. His hair covered the milky-white of his scarred eye, so it was hardly noticeable. Sherlock didn’t care either way though. He loved Liam’s scars, all of them. He loved them not because of the pain they held or the story they told, but because they were a part of him, and that was all the reason Sherlock needed.
He brushed his lips over Liam’s cheek, feeling the roughness of the skin there. Gently, he pressed a kiss to the sightless eye, running his tongue along the scar before pulling away.
“Why don’t ya’ smile anymore?” he asked.
At the question, Liam’s mouth twitched and his eyes widened, pained scarlet meeting deep blue.
“It hurts,” he whispered and Sherlock felt his heart break.
His first instinct was to ask why, but that was foolish. Sherlock knew why.
“How can I make it better,” he asked instead.
“Sherly-” Liam started to shake his head, but Sherlock stopped him.
“Darling, don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t act like I won’t understand. I will understand! I promise, and if I don’t, then I’ll learn ta’! I want ta’ understand, Liam. I need ta’!”
Sherlock stared down at him, waiting for a response. Finally, Liam sighed. It was a sigh of defeat.
“Sherly,” he said, taking one of Sherlock’s fingers and running it along his right, unscarred cheek, “I am in love with you. I am in love with you and yet I hate myself. I am a sinner, an evil man who doesn’t deserve what you give me. I know this and still, I allow you to love me, to feed my own desire for you.” Still guided by Liam’s hand, Sherlock’s finger switched sides, tracing along the scar on the left of Liam’s face. “I tried to escape your love once,” he continued. “I tried and you would not let me go. You would have rather died along with me than have had to live in this world without me. I do not want to see that happen. I want you to live. I want you to be happy.”
His eyes were sad as he gazed up at Sherlock. Sherlock, who wanted the same thing for Liam.
Sherlock’s hands fell over Liam’s heart. He could feel it through his skin, beating a steady tattoo into his palm. It was comforting, reassuring. Liam was here, he was alive.
Thump, thump, thump…
Alive, alive, alive…
“For so many years,” he whispered, “my heart beat for vengeance, for justice. Now, it beats for you, only for you.” Liam reached up to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. They were cold, soothing. They stayed there for a moment before forging a path down his neck, across his chest, and to his waist.
Sherlock shivered at the touch, eyes closing and mouth falling open as his skin tingled. Head bowed, he waited for Liam’s next words.
“These hands that I hold you with, that you love so much… they’ve done terrible things.”
“I don’t care,” Sherlock breathed, screwing up his face as Liam’s slim fingers slipped under his waistband.
“But you should,” Liam told him. “I should, but… I don’t.” His fingers twisted around Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock’s head hit Liam’s chest, a breathy groan leaving his throat.
“I love you,” Liam said, “even though I don’t deserve to.”
“That really is an oxymoron, ain't it, Liam?” Sherlock gritted his teeth, the feeling of Liam’s hand on him, stroking him up and down, turning his muscles to puddy.
“It is,” and he sounded far away. “Just like the criminal and the detective.”
Sherlock hummed, pressing his hips forward, panting. “Ya' know what I think?”
“Humm?”
“I think we’re all just people who sometimes do bad things,” Sherlock told him. “I don’t think there’s more ta’ it than that. No sinners, no punishment.”
Liam’s voice sounded amused. “Someone’s been reading my self-help book.”
“Well, someone’s got ta',” Sherlock grumbled. “I bought it fo-” He was cut off by a flick of Liam’s thumb that caused his hips to buck and his words to turn into a string of curses.
Liam only withdrew his hand, tracing one finger up Sherlock’s shivering side till it rested around his neck. “Not yet, my love. I want you inside of me.”
Sherlock raised his head. “Maybe I want ya’ inside of me. Did ya’ ever think of that? After all, for a criminal mastermind, ya’r awfully obedient. Why don’t ya' show me some of those terrible things ya' can do, eh’, Liam?” Sherlock winked and for a brief moment, Liam looked shocked, then his expression changed and a hard glint entered his eye.
It was the same expression he’d worn on the train. The same expression he’d had when they’d first met, deducing Sherlock on the Noahtic as easily as if he were just another one of his math problems.
“Do ya'r worst,” Sherlock egged him on. “I want ta’ see why they call ya' The Lord of Crime.”
Without warning, Liam surged forward, knocking Sherlock onto his back. Liam straddled him easily, one hand knotted in Sherlock’s hair, the other circling his neck.
For a second longer than Sherlock cared to admit, his brain short-circuited. Liam was so beautiful. The way his waist curved, pale skin flushed with heat, rising and falling methodically. Hair curtained his face, but Sherlock could see his one eye. It danced with a fiery amusement, and… that smile, cool, calculated, and cunning. It had been a year since Sherlock had seen that smile and the sight of it did strange things to his chest.
“Are you scared?” Liam asked, and his voice wasn’t soft like before. It was sharp, like the edge of a knife, wicked and dangerous.
No, Sherlock thought. His heart was beating out of his chest. He could feel its pauls thundering against his wrists, against his neck, but he wasn’t scared.
“No, my dear,” he said, leaning up just enough to whisper in Liam’s ear. “I’m excited. I like this side of ya’.”
At that, Liam moaned. The sound was loud and guttural, like that of a wounded animal. He threw back his head and his blind eye caught the light. It was ghostly, haunting. It made the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand on end and blood pound in his ears. There was something incredibly erotic in the way Liam shed his coat of class and grace. All boundaries dissolved, raw, just for Sherlock. Only for Sherlock.
“What do you see, Mr. Holmes, when you look at me?” he asked, gently rocking himself against Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock shivered at the formality, how his name sounded rolling off those beautiful lips. They were parted and glistening. He really wanted to bite them, to hear Liam whimper as he did it.
“I see ya', Liam.”
At that, his eye hardened and his grip on Sherlock’s neck tightened. He glared down at him, a mixture of fury and lust painted on his face. “Don’t lie to me, detective. You see what you want to see, what everyone sees. You’re all so blinded that no one ever recognizes the monster.”
Sherlock licked his lips. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on Liam’s words. “Show me then,” he said. “I wanna’ see.”
It all happened so fast. The feeling of warm lips, the shortness of breath. Liam was kissing him, kissing him so hard and fast that he could feel the life leaving his lungs. He was suffocating in the afterbite of herbal tea and soft lavender. His eyes rolled back as a hand fisted his hair, pinning him, trapping him.
His only thought was— Liam, Liam, LIAM…
He didn’t need air. He had everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever need, right there. He never wanted Liam to stop. Never, until his lungs were empty. He wanted to die suffocated in his lover’s lips.
Liam pulled away with a pop, their mixed saliva dripping from his mouth as his eye burned. Sherlock gasped, half from the suffocation, half from the feeling of Liam’s fingers sliding inside him. His back arched and he threw his head against the bed, feeling white knuckles pressing mercilessly against him, his walls, his throat, threatening to tear him apart and then undoubtedly stitch him back together.
“Have you lost your voice, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock managed to catch a glimpse of Liam’s smirk from between his own raised legs. Unfortunately, he was quite right. Sherlock barely had the breath to groan, let alone respond. Instead, he whimpered, letting his head fall to the side. The whimper turned to a whine as warm, wet lips pressed to his cock. Liam’s tongue traced the bottom of his shaft, sucking it clean before going back down for more.
Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, wondering if he was somehow dreaming. If they’d met like this before the bridge, before New York, is this what Liam would have been like? That glint in his eye, the lilt to his voice as he leaned so casually against the compartment seat. Liam didn’t see it, how beautiful he was, but Sherlock did. Sherlock saw him, and he wanted Liam to know.
“I love ya',” he sobbed, the tears falling without restraint. His hips bucked and Liam paused in his work. “Turn over,” he ordered. Sherlock’s eyes fell open. “Huh?”
“I said, turn over.”
Arm wrenched behind his back, Sherlock fell face first back into the mattress. His breath was hot and sticky on the sheets, muffled by their closeness.
Liam’s smooth body slid against his, following the arch of his spine, gliding smoothly along his frame till they were fitted together, much like pieces of a puzzle. Their bodies rose and fell in tandem, lovers, partners, equals. Anyone else would have felt wrong in the other’s place. There was no one else. They were meant to be together.
“I love you, Sherly,” Liam said, a hint of softness creeping back into his voice. He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck and in the same motion, slid inside him.
Sherlock’s head bowed, a moan escaping his lips. His arms and legs quivered as dark hair curtained his vision. It swayed as Liam began to move, snapping his hips, bringing them flush against Sherlock before pulling out again. One arm moved to lace around Sherlock’s shoulders, knuckles caging his throat.
The noises Liam made, little gasps and groans, were enough to make Sherlock grit his teeth and fist the sheets in his sweaty palms. Tears were forming in his eyes again, hot and sticky. He felt them rolling down his face, tasted the salt on his tongue. They were everywhere, falling down his back, soaking him. They hurt, but the hurt wasn’t just his. It was Liam’s too. His pain was sharp and hot. Sherlock felt it in each thrust of his hips, in each squeeze of Liam’s wrist that threatened to suffocate him, and as the world around him faded, black spots dancing before his eyes, Sherlock finally understood. He saw Liam, he saw him clearly. He saw the good and he saw the bad. He saw the monster, but it did not surprise him. Privately, he felt like some part of him had always known it was there.
“Liam!”
It took all the strength Sherlock had to push him away.
“No!” Liam shouted as Sherlock flipped himself over. In seconds, Liam was clambering back on top of him, grappling with his shoulders.
“Liam!” Sherlock held him at arm’s length. “Stop!”
“No!” His voice was panicked, desperate as he gripped a handful of Sherlock’s hair. Tear tracks stained his cheeks, rimming his already wild eyes with red. “No! No! NO! You promised! You promised you would understand! You can’t push me away! NO!”
He tried to kiss Sherlock, missing as the other man forced his head to the side, locking him in his arms. Liam struggled as if he were a dying animal in a trap. His muffled cries drummed against Sherlock’s shoulder as he held him still.
“Liam, listen.”
“No, no, no…” his voice trailed off into a whisper as Sherlock tightened his grip, rocking him slowly in his arms. Liam sobbed silently. Their game was forgotten. They were no longer the criminal and the detective.
“I see ya', Liam,” Sherlock said. “I see ya’ and I still love ya’.”
He let Liam pull away just enough to hover over him. “You… do?” He sounded unsure.
“Darling, I always have.” He traced a thumb up Liam’s cheek. “Can ya' kiss me like that again? I liked it.”
Instead of obeying, he sat back, studying Sherlock layed out between his legs. Sherlock only admired him, drinking in the sight of Liam, his pink glistening skin and dripping cock.
“You are an interesting one, aren’t you, Sherly?”
Sherlock laughed. “Ya' aren’t so boring yourself, Professor.”
Liam’s finger fell over his lips, quieting him. “I aut to clean that mouth of yours out, my dear detective.”
“Be my guest.” Sherlock’s grin was swallowed by Liam’s kiss, as once again, Liam rutted their bodies together, slotting into Sherlock’s walls.
Sherlock sighed, contentment sweeping over him till all he could feel was a pleasant buzzing along his skin and deep within his chest. Liam quivered over top of him, lips pressing sloppy kisses across his collarbone and up his neck.
When his release came, it was quiet. He buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and pressed into him, despratly. Sherlock felt his own body relaxing, tension spilling from every muscle.
“Liam,” he mumbled, drunk on his lover's body, his touch. He pressed a palm to his cheek, lifting his face to eye level. Strands of fine blond hair tickled Sherlock’s nose. He parted his lips, breathing in Liam’s scent. “Will ya’ smile for me?”
“For you,” Liam said, “I would die,” and a soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I’d rather ya' lived,” Sherlock said, running a finger along the upturned corner of his mouth. Liam’s head fell to meet his, resting comfortably against Sherlock’s brow. “Then, for you, Sherlock Holmes, I will live.”