Chapter Text
Sherlock caught William’s wrist in a vice grip, and William found that, for the second time, he had miscalculated. Sherlock hadn’t come here as London’s detective; he hadn’t come here as the hero of the story William had so carefully crafted; he had hardly come as a hero at all, considering the person he was currently trying to save was so close to a devil incarnate William could almost see the flames waiting to swallow him whole.
Yet there he was: Sherlock Holmes, who had never once desired to be anyone’s hero, deciding to try the role out for the Lord of Crime himself.
The bridge scaffolding wouldn’t hold. William could already feel the splintered edges of the wood bend as his weight all but pulled Sherlock over the edge with him. He had to let go. It was becoming apparent that William was going to have to make him let go.
William steeled himself, looked up at Sherlock, and, unable or unwilling to hide the last emotions he would ever feel, simply gazed at him.
“You’ve bested me, Sherly.” He said, quietly.
Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw the glint of metal, the swing of the sword. William couldn’t ever bring himself to hurt him, but he hoped Sherlock would be shocked enough to let him go. He was. Sherlock gasped as he lost his grip, and stared for a few awful moments as William fell.
Months ago now, Sherlock had snuck into William’s classroom at the university in Durham. He had taken a test assigned to the class before sitting with William while he graded the papers. William had known that Sherlock was testing him. He noticed his crestfallen face when his more formal teaching voice had sounded nothing like the voice of the ‘Lord of Crime’ he had heard in the abandoned church. William found it amusing that Sherlock spent such time staring at his hands, probably wondering why they were significantly smaller than the hands of the man he’d met that night. It was all so endearingly Sherlock that William had, on more than one occasion, thought of slipping bits of banter about Albert into the conversation. He was curious to see if Sherlock would latch onto information about his older brother; say, having an almost comically deep voice for his young appearance, or how Albert had borrowed a pair of his gloves and now they were stretched far too large for him (he hadn’t, but oh how amusing that would have been).
At the end of that day, when Sherlock boarded the evening train back to London, William had stood on the platform and asked him for one promise. A favour: to not die. To not sacrifice his life in his pursuit for this crime master he was so intent on catching. It had been risky. William’s surety in his request seemed to convey that he knew he would have a hand in ensuring Sherlock’s safety in that endeavour.
William remembered that day as he fell. Remembered it being one of the very last times he had felt not only purely happy, but content. A day of the entirely ordinary and mundane. Life. It was a life he never could have had, but he wanted it for Sherlock, and now he could die with the knowledge that Sherlock would walk off that bridge and into a world that would be better for William not being in it.
When William had made the request, he had been confident that Sherlock wouldn’t go so far as to risk his own life. It was William’s third miscalculation, when it came to Sherlock Holmes.
William fell, and saw Sherlock shout even though he couldn’t make out the words, before he jumped after him.
Time moved so quickly that it seemed as though Sherlock had caught him a split second later. William couldn’t bring himself to move at all. Shocked still.
“Finally,” he heard Sherlock say, “I’ve caught you, now.”
William knew they had no time. No time to speak. No time for anything. They were going to hit the water any second now, and all William could hear was Sherlock telling him they were going to live.
~
William had written the date and time of their final meeting, ‘The Final Problem’, on a card which he had let himself into 221B to deliver. The moment William had left, and Sherlock had read it, he understood why William had left him so little time to prepare. William wanted the dramatics. He wanted a feigned fight that common people and nobility alike could join together and watch. A common enemy finally bested by a public hero on the highest stage. For that to work it had to be as sudden, unexpected and organic as possible.
Sherlock had thought (hoped) that William would take his hand; would put up a bit of a fight but still come with him in the end. He had considered the possibility that William would try to bring the whole performance to a close on his own once he realised Sherlock really wasn’t going to kill him; though, he hadn’t considered he would simply let himself fall.
It hadn’t taken a second thought, or a first thought, for Sherlock to jump after him.
William had asked Sherlock to catch him, he wasn’t going to let the Lord of Crime down. William wanted to be caught, wanted to be punished for the horrible things he had done in the name of lessening the gap between the classes of England. He wasn’t just ready or willing to be a martyr. William wanted to die. Sherlock knew he was staggering under the weight of what he’d taken on, knew the guilt was eating him alive. Sherlock could see it in the way William’s face fell when it was clear Sherlock was going to do what he had done from the very beginning; from the Noahtic to the scaffolding they fell from, Sherlock was always going to be the unpredictable variable; the exception; the wild card. The only one there who had any fighting chance of throwing William off his game. It broke his heart a bit, that in William’s eyes, the most unsuspected thing Sherlock could have done was try to save him.
There were sentiments and emotions and realisations he hadn’t planned for, but those could wait. The Thames, on the other hand, wasn’t going to wait.
Sherlock had only ever been on steamboats in the river and god knows they hadn’t bothered dredging anything for that godforsaken treasure. It was dark and the water was cold and moving them away from the crowds and the city far faster than Sherlock could keep up with, his main focus being to keep hold of William, who was doing nothing in the way of holding on to him. He had lost his grip for a moment when they first hit the water, and when he finally caught on his coat again to pull him to the surface, William hadn’t done anything to assist.
For the time being, he didn’t expect anyone to follow them. John knew something of how far Sherlock was willing to go to save William, and he knew that if they survived this then they would need time. Sherlock could only hope that Louis Moriarty and the boy, Fred Pourlock, trusted him enough to not draw the unneeded attention, searching for them too soon. Besides, the fires were under control, but buildings were still crumbling; everyone was preoccupied.
The easiest way to absolve yourself of responsibility for some abstract figure of terror was to convince yourself someone else was going to handle it. So no, no one would come looking for them for at least a day or so. They had time. Provided they could survive the river.
Sherlock was a strong swimmer, of course it didn’t help that he had the dead weight of William who seemed to be as intent on drowning as he had been dying in any other way that night.
“You’re a hell of a lot of help,” he said, though he was sure William couldn’t hear him over the rushing water.
Ignoring a searing pain in his right arm that he would have to address later, he tightened that arm around William’s torso and let his left do the work to keep them above the water.
The Thames flowed east, and Sherlock knew that if they wanted to make it anywhere near a place they could get out of the water without being seen, they would have to round the Isle of Dogs and, if possible, make it all the way to Coldharbour before getting out of the frigid water. He ended up dragging them onto the banks of Barking Point. Not as far as he would have liked, but he wouldn’t be able to keep both his and William’s heads above the water if he tried to take them further. There was an inn near here that was long abandoned. They could regroup there.
Sherlock was gasping for air by the time he had them resting on the muddy banks. As he caught his breath, he wondered when William was going to bother saying anything. He wasn’t quite expecting a ‘thank you’, but right now anything would be nice.
Finally, he settled on the fear that he had, until then, hardly let himself consider: that he would fail and William would succeed.
Sherlock, having caught his breath, pushed at William’s shoulder.
“Liam?” He asked quietly. “Liam?”
Nothing.
He was a little more than frantic then, gently pulling at William’s cloak to turn him onto his back so he could see– blood. So much blood, god how had Sherlock not noticed? It was dark and the Thames was everything except clear water but he should have noticed he should have checked, should have considered that–
William was quiet as death and almost completely still, save for the tiniest movement of his chest where Sherlock could at least be sure he was breathing. Far too weak for his comfort, but it was something.
The inn he had thought of was still a mile and a half southeast. Thank god for Sherlock’s affinity for physical activity, because while the fastest way between two points was a straight line, there was no functioning road that approached from this direction, the ground was anything but flat, and was partially marshes, and William was awfully heavy as dead weight despite his slim frame.
They made it, and Sherlock nearly collapsed towards the end but he managed to be gentle with the unconscious man in his arms.
The inn was not only still full of food (both recently perishable and not), the closets were still stacked with blankets, firewood was in the corner, and Sherlock even found a simple (but still incredibly useful) medicine bag in a cabinet. Sherlock had never considered himself to be in the realm of religion, but if anything could turn him into a believer it was this.
~
For a few disorienting seconds, William thought he was waking up in the Moriarty estate in Durham. The sheets were soft and warm, he didn’t feel any immediate danger, but… that wasn’t right, his head was pounding. Had he been drinking? He didn’t drink, he would have to ask Louis for–
No… that wasn’t right either. William couldn’t ask Louis for anything because William was gone. He was gone so why was he feeling? Why did his head feel like it was being split open and why did he ache everywhere and why was someone talking to him?
“Liam, you awake?” The voice was equal parts calm and concerned, quiet and clear. There was only one person in the world who called him ‘Liam’.
William had gained enough consciousness to be aware of light coming from somewhere in the room. Too bright. He must have let out the most pitiful sound, because the same voice was quietly whispering, ‘shh.’ William could feel fingers lightly brushing his hair, being careful not to pull or catch anywhere that may be tangled.
He cleared his throat. “Li–light,” he said, and hated how ragged his voice sounded.
The hand in his hair withdrew, a quiet, ‘oh’, coming from its owner, and after hearing some movement around the room the light dimmed. Finally, he could focus on something besides the blinding light in his face that was sparking so much discomfort. Still, he didn’t open his eyes, even though he felt maybe he could.
William didn’t want to know what kind of expression Sherlock would be wearing. They had met several times face to face since William’s identity was revealed, but this was different. This was a chapter William had steadfastly not planned for; had not even thought about. He had considered it, once; considered living. But Sherlock’s entrance into the story had made that thought unbearable. There were things in this life William knew he could never have. He could never live up to half of what Sherlock deserved, and living on while knowing Sherlock was out there somewhere, thoroughly unreachable and most likely loathing William to begin with was too much. It was why the letter he’d left for Sherlock mentioned his desire for them to be friends in the next life. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he believed such things, but it was a sentiment, a silent consolation prize.
He was aware of the presence that had returned to him. By the sound of it Sherlock had a chair next to his bed. William didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes or respond to the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. He simply asked, having exhausted all other means of making sense of this, “why?”
Sherlock was silent for long enough that William thought he wasn’t going to answer. After at least a minute of silence, and gentle fingertips rubbing over his shoulder (his bandaged shoulder, William noted, belatedly), Sherlock whispered, “I asked you first.”
Of course. Of course Sherlock Holmes would say that. Ever the seeker of answers; never the granter of them. Sherlock was right of course, he had asked first. Why me?
“I thought the letter would…” William trailed off.
Would be sufficient, was what he was going to say, but even as he thought it he knew how lacking something as impersonal as ink and paper was; how it paled in comparison to how deeply he felt what he did about Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock hadn’t needed to know that when he wrote it, and William was loath to tell him as much as he did in the first place. Writing meant voicing; voicing meant acknowledging; acknowledging implied an expectation of response, implying he thought himself deserving of feeling it at all. He had left Sherlock far more insight into his personal feelings than the Lord of Crime should ever have shared with the hero of his theatrical drama. He just… he couldn’t leave it. William had tried, he had tried so hard; had written and rewritten the letter at least ten times and thrown each one into the fire. Except the last, of course.
The time to answer Sherlock had passed, and William felt his hand be picked up gently from where it rested over his stomach, lifted slowly. Sherlock wrapped both hands around William’s one, resting his forehead against them, the back of William’s knuckles brushed against his hairline. William could remember sitting like this with Louis, of course he had been the caretaker in those instances, only a child terrified of losing his little brother and trying to be so impossibly brave about it. He wondered if Sherlock felt half as scared for him as William had felt then.
William couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to. “I don’t deserve this,” he said.
“I have to agree with you,” Sherlock responded gently. His head lifted away from their clasped hands and William could physically feel his gaze on him. “You got off far worse than me after that fall.”
Oh, William thought, he misunderstood. That stupid, sentimental and heroic idiot.
“That’s not what I meant.” William did try to pull his hand away then, but he was weak and obviously in far worse shape than Sherlock after their fall. Besides, anything he tried to do to pull away from the man next to him was too much effort.
“I know that’s not what you meant, but you know me well by now, Mr. Lord of Crime,” Sherlock said, his grip still gentle if not a little more firm than before. “‘It feels as though you are a long standing friend’.” William cringed at the words, despite having been the one to write them.
“I didn’t anticipate having to explain it.”
“Liam, I don’t need you to explain it. I can’t imagine you would have written it if you weren’t aware I felt the same way.”
“Clearly leaving that letter was a mistake, I shouldn’t have–”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference. I would have done the same if you had left me with nothing at all.”
William frowned. “And why is that?”
William felt a weight next to him and pictured Sherlock resting his elbows on the bed, his chin in his hands.
“Because I’m not your puppet, or your plaything, but I am your friend.”
Friend, William thought. Is that all?
Sherlock was often quite giddy explaining his reasoning to others, William had known that, had found it endearing even. If he didn’t sound giddy, then he was bored. His tone now didn’t convey either. William tried to place it and couldn’t, and Sherlock continued.
“I told you I would have been disappointed if you weren’t the Lord of Crime, and I would have been; but, I didn’t care about saving the ‘Lord of Crime’. I cared about saving you. I planned to save you before you left me those files; before I read your letter.” Sherlock paused, seemingly thinking over his next words. Having decided to continue again, he said, “I planned to save you before your brother asked me to.”
William did open his eyes then, genuine surprise overcoming the throbbing in his head. Covering the light from the window had helped when his eye was closed, but even the orange light of what appeared to be late evening felt like it was chipping at his brain, slow and persistent. He pushed through it, looked past his own pain and discomfort to look at the man sitting next to him.
“He didn’t,” William said quietly.
Sherlock frowned. “Is it so surprising,” he asked, “that he would do anything it took to save you? He’s your family.”
William tried to sit up as he spoke. “That doesn’t matter, he wouldn’t go behind my back like that, he wouldn’t go against the plan.”
“Hey, take it easy!” Sherlock steadied William’s shoulders to help him lean against the headboard of the bed. “You fell off of the Tower bridge less than twelve hours ago.”
“You jumped off the Tower bridge less than twelve hours ago,” William retorted, his frustration welling up over the pain. “Why would you do that? None of this was supposed to happen this way.”
“Well, it did,” Sherlock said, “it did and you’re alive. I told you I’d catch you my own way. I’m not about to let you go.”
William levelled him an exhausted glare, and as he stared he began to realise something odd about the way Sherlock was looking at him. The deep blue eyes, the soft but concerned look, that was all expected. But there were times when Sherlock seemed to be looking off to the side just a bit, away from William, why…
William lifted his hand to his left eye, finding a bandage he had only just processed was there. He let out a shaky breath, pressing his hand against his forehead.
Sherlock was silent, letting William think. In all honesty, William couldn’t think straight about anything. He wanted Sherlock to talk. After a moment it seemed Sherlock sensed this.
“I don’t know how bad it is, yet,” Sherlock said quietly. He pulled William’s hand away from his face. “I should have enough medical knowledge to take care of it, but we’ll have to get somewhere further away with more supplies before I’ll know for sure.”
“...”
“Liam…”
“Where are we?” William asked.
“An inn a few miles southeast of London.”
William glanced around the room. “How?”
Sherlock dipped his head a bit, sheepish. “It was a front for a new opium ring. It was rooted out of the city recently and the leaders were arrested. Everything here was abandoned about a month ago.”
William raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve never been here before,” Sherlock said, answering William’s unspoken but quite obvious question. “You aren’t the only one with a brother in the government.”
He had been attempting to lighten the mood a bit, but the mention of Albert had the same effect on William that his mention of Louis had, and William visibly retreated from the conversation.
Sherlock sighed.
“I’ll change these one more time.” He gestured to his own bandages. “And yours. But we can’t stay here another night, we’ll have to move on.”
William turned to him, looking him over. Sherlock had a bandage peeking out of his shirt collar, as well as several cuts on his face that weren’t quite deep enough to need constant cover, but looked painful nonetheless. Though he was moving both arms when steadying William, he seemed to be favouring his left over his right, keeping the latter closer to him and still for the most part. His hair was pulled back in a short ponytail as it had always been, though several bits had fallen out and he didn’t seem particularly worried about fixing it. William stopped himself from reaching out to put the extra strands behind Sherlock’s ear. Sentiment like that would make it all the harder to pull away when he had the opportunity. And he would, for Sherlock’s own good as well as the world’s. This world didn’t need someone like William James Moriarty. Not anymore.
Sherlock’s eyes met his. William watched him warily, and couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Why are you doing this?”
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, finally responding: “I suppose this is my version of a letter to someone who, while only being a recent acquaintance, I feel as though is a long standing friend.”