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William woke from sleep the same way a bullet left a gun: suddenly, forcibly. Violently.
He shot upright with a strangled gasp, his heart hammering in his chest, blood pounding in his ears and his shoulders heaving. William clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the ragged sounds of his breathing. He sat there, in the tiny, dark bedroom, as still as he could be with trembling limbs. Sweat plastered his nightclothes to his body, though he barely registered the discomfort. That was nothing. Nothing at all compared to the chilled, phantasmic hands from his nightmare lingering on his skin.
William shuddered. The ghostly faces of his victims had not been content to stay in Britain: They had followed him across the pond, haunting his unconscious hours. Their blank eyes watched, judgemental, as his hands were once again drenched in scarlet, as their blood rose like a flood until he was drowning, frigid water filling his –
William closed his eyes and rested his head between his knees.
He lost sense of how long he stayed there, reciting the Fibonacci sequence until his breaths evened, his muscles relaxed and he was left in the still quiet of the unfamiliar bedroom. He scrunched the fabric of his nightclothes in tight fists. He longed for the Durham estate, for his home, so fiercely he could barely breathe. He could walk the grounds if he was there, grounding himself in the crisp air and rustling leaves. He could go to Albert, the one person he allowed to see him falter. He could go to his study and put his mind to better use. He could not escape his ghosts, but he had ways to avoid their constant staring.
He couldn’t do that here. Brooklyn’s streets were an unfamiliar maze to him. He couldn’t possibly wake Sherlock and burden him further, not after everything the detective already did to provide for him. His books and his theories had either been seized by the authorities or ransacked by thieves – which of the two did not matter. Either way, they were gone and very far out of his reach.
The apartment he resided in now was more Sherlock’s than his own. William thought of himself as an out of place guest – he still wasn’t used to the different material of the sheets, the feel of the mattress, the corners he sometimes misjudged. Apart from Sherlock himself, there was nothing familiar in the building he could latch onto.
Apart from the tea, that was.
William bit his lip. Any tea he made would be a poor imitation of Louis’s brews. However, he knew his mind; it was too firmly lodged in the past for sleep to embrace him again that night. He could sit quietly in the empty bedroom, or he could seek distraction and a vague sense of comfort. Familiarity.
It wasn’t a difficult choice.
Fortunately, the night was clear: despite his bandaged eye, the dim light that filtered through the window was enough for William to locate his slippers. He eased his door open and crept past Sherlock’s room, making his way to the kitchen.
The caddy rested on the counter. William lifted the lid and reeled, the fragrant aroma of his favourite tea leaves overwhelming his senses.
How long had it been since his last cup of tea? Was it longer than the five days since Sherlock brought him here, the seven since he’d woken, the months he’d been comatose? Had he even eaten during the days of the Final Problem? William didn’t think he had: he hadn’t seen the point when he had expected to be dead so soon, and he certainly had not allowed himself the indulgence of hot tea. Perhaps it had been before their assault on Milverton’s estate. William wished he remembered exactly how his last cup had tasted, prepared carefully and lovingly by Louis’s hands.
A lump formed in William’s throat. He’d always known the tea was there, but the weight of it being in the apartment now hit him like a blow. Importing that blend from England would have been expensive. Sherlock had parted with so much of his now-scarce coin on tea when he could have, should have, spent it on himself, just so William could have one comfort readily available to him. Sherlock had not even touched it during the months he waited for William to wake, despite the comfort it might have given him.
His ridiculous, brilliant detective. William blinked back tears as he approached his task, his limbs moving as methodically as a machine. It wasn’t long before he had measured the leaves and poured the boiling water into the teapot.
“Liam? What’re you doing?”
William should have expected this. He no longer resided in a spacious, thick-walled manor; sounds carried now, and Sherlock was a light sleeper.
Sherlock’s voice was groggy, half-fused with a yawn. William’s chest constricted. How incredible, how horrible, that of all the people in the world, he was one of the few who got to hear such a rare sound.
William honed in on his tea. It had already been brewing for a minute.
“Go back to bed, Sherly,” he said softly.
Sherlock, William’s stubborn fool, didn’t budge. William risked a glance and noticed that, despite leaning on the wall, circles beneath his eyes and clothes rumpled, Sherlock’s eyebrows were furrowed, creases carved between them. William fought the desire to run a thumb over those deep lines. Perhaps that would smooth them out, putting Sherlock at ease.
Perhaps that would stop Sherlock’s eyes piercing him deeper than any blade would. Perhaps that would stop Sherlock seeing him.
“Liam,” Sherlock probed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was merely craving tea.”
Sherlock hummed, cocking his head to the side. “At two in the morning?”
“Yes,” William said mildly. He smiled the awful smile he plastered on his face during upper class gatherings. Directing it at Sherlock made his stomach churn. “I did not always return from killing nobles at a decent hour. I became accustomed to drinking Louis’s tea at odd times.”
His words were an assassin’s daggers, sharp edges disguised but still designed to cut. They were a reminder of the violence William had committed, the blood that had stained his hands for so long it had seeped into the crevices of his skin. They were the closest William could get to showing Sherlock his ghosts. They were meant to make him turn around, retreat, throw his hands in the air and decide William was not worth the effort. Not tonight, at least.
But Sherlock did none of those things. Instead, he sighed and pushed himself off the wall, walking toward the counter. He pulled the lid off the teapot, inspected it, then nodded to himself. William blinked as Sherlock poured the liquid into the awaiting teacup and turned, holding the cup aloft.
“I know you like your tea strong, but brewing it any longer would ruin it,” Sherlock said wryly.
William slowly took the proffered cup, at a loss for anything else to do, holding it in one hand. He and Sherlock stood almost chest to chest, so little room between them that their breaths fanned over the other’s face. William could count every eyelash on Sherlock’s face, spot every tiny crack on his lips.
It was as though William’s earlier words had been naught but soft feathers, capable of only brushing harmlessly against Sherlock’s skin.
Something warm nudged William’s free hand. He inhaled sharply as it became entwined with dry, calloused fingers.
“Come on,” Sherlock said.
He didn’t pull. His grip was lax enough that William could free himself without resistance, if that was what he wanted. Even in this, Sherlock ensured William had a choice. William’s canvas, still blank, was his own to paint, right down to the most miniscule brushstroke.
William tightened his grip on the teacup and followed.
Sherlock led them up several flights of stairs until they reached the building’s roof. He exhaled contentedly and walked nearly to the edge, plonking himself on the ground. William frowned but followed suit, careful not to spill his tea.
For several moments he did not move, joints locked and muscles rigid. Sherlock had bested him yet again, disarming him of his daggers and placing something warm in his hands. William did not know how to hold Sherlock’s kindness; he still hesitated to place himself next to the detective’s light for tear he would tarnish it.
It took several deep breaths before William relaxed enough to sip his tea. Sherlock had been right; if it had brewed any longer, the flavour would have been overpowering, even for him. It barely registered as surprise that Sherlock knew his tea preferences.
“I never slept well,” Sherlock said presently.
William froze, the cup halfway to his lips.
Sherlock leaned back, his hands splayed behind him on the pavement, head tilted toward the sky. Strands of hair had escaped his already sleep-mussed ponytail, blowing in the wind. Anyone who did not know Sherlock might have thought he was lounging without a care in the world.
William knew better.
“It’s my mind,” Sherlock continued, tapping the side of his temple. “It keeps me awake, jumping through more thoughts and an acrobat jumps through hoops. Drove me mad as a kid. Got so bad some nights, I woke Mycroft over it.” Sherlock huffed a laugh under his breath. “He could’ve called me a brat and shooed me back to my room. Instead, he took me outside and taught me to name stars. I later realised this was his way of getting me out of the house, where I could talk or ask questions as much as I wanted without waking anyone. That worked, but it had a secondary effect: if I looked long enough, I got lost in the stars. They were endless. That calmed me, somehow.”
William stared. Of course Sherlock had been vulnerable before; he had not held back during their confrontation, speaking words William now knew came directly from his heart. But Sherlock had never talked family before, at least not beyond his irritation at Mycroft. To be trusted with this piece of Sherlock felt like he had gifted a key, one that granted access to a room otherwise constantly locked – even against its owner. It nearly rendered him speechless.
“I thought there was no room for astrology in your mind attic,” William whispered.
Sherlock, of course, heard the underlying question to his words.
“Well, if I’d told John, I’d have to tell him how I knew so much,” he said, shrugging. “Couldn’t have that, now, could I?”
William swallowed. His lungs had quite forgotten the processes that allowed him to breathe. Only months ago, Sherlock would not have dared to be caught speaking remotely well about his brother.
Sherlock was showing William a side to himself he didn't show anyone. Sherlock would not lie to him. He did not feel the need nor the desire to do so; everything was on the table. There was no need for untruths, for half-lies or slights of hands between them. Not anymore. No matter what William had to confess, he was safe.
William turned his face to the stars. He could never hope to count them, not in this life or the next; there were so many, all untouched by the world’s greatest concerns. They were surrounded by constant darkness but shined steadily on, holding even the fathomless depths of space at bay.
It was a comfort, in a way. It made his next steps feel that little bit more doable.
“I also do not sleep well,” he confessed. His voice was cracked, no more than a whisper. “Nightmares have haunted me since we burned Albert’s house. My victims – they are my ghosts, my constant companions, constant reminders of my sins.” William curled into himself. “I find myself unsure whether I can ever atone, Sherly.”
His throat felt raw. Doable did not mean easy; vulnerability had fought him the entire way from his lungs to his lips, its edges jagged and rough. He had never felt more exposed, and he had confessed his crimes to all of England.
William downed the last of his tea and grimaced. Stone cold.
“You can,” Sherlock said. “You don’t need to have the answers immediately, Liam, nor do you have to figure them out alone. I’ll be by your side for all of it – including when you have your nightmares.” He smiled. “You can wake me up, you know.”
“And if I stumble?” William questioned. His hands trembled, but he had to make sure. “If I keep waking you up in the middle of the night? If I start screaming, if I never have the answers?”
“Then I’ll still be here,” Sherlock said simply.
Sherlock looked at him with the same resoluteness he had on the bridge, a resolution that had not wavered even as William fought him, blade against fists, throwing back all of Sherlock’s efforts to save him. The same resoluteness that saw Sherlock jump after him, just so William would not slip through his fingers.
The truth made itself at home in William’s soul. He blinked back tears, even as he smiled.
“You’re impossible, Sherly,” he said.
“I’m being quite serious!”
“I know.” William looked up, making sure he stared directly into Sherlock’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Sherlock waved it off, though the night couldn’t quite conceal the redness to his ears. William smiled wider and leaned into his side, his head coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.
The stars really were beautiful that night.
When William woke the next day, he was in his bedroom and the sun had reached its highest point in the sky.
He and Sherlock had returned to their apartment just before dawn, just as the chefs were beginning their days at the restaurant downstairs. Normally, William could not fall asleep again after his nightmares, the weight of his ghosts hanging over him for the rest of the day. Perhaps it had been their talk. Perhaps it had been Sherlock’s presence, or perhaps the stars – but for whatever reason, when William returned to his bed, he had fallen once more into a deep slumber and had woken on his own time.
There was no rush that day: no classes to teach, no lessons to prepare, no plans to organise, no essential travel to undertake. Time had been a luxury before, but now it stretched before him like the endless sky. William allowed himself a few minutes to simply lie in bed before he got up, slowly preparing himself for the day. He padded toward their kitchen while still fitting his arm through the right sleeve.
Sherlock was already awake. William paused at the end of the corridor, drinking in the sight: Sherlock at their tiny table, leaning casually back into his seat, a discarded mug at his side as he flicked through a newspaper. William suspected he had not been awake very long, for his clothes were untucked and his curls still unruly. Sunlight filtered through their window, framing the detective in a bright, warm glow.
William thought he could have stood there all day, perhaps even all week, rendered speechless by the knowledge that Sherlock had chosen to be here. That no matter how many people sought Sherlock’s help or read his books, only a handful of people truly knew him beyond that – and William was becoming one of those people.
Perhaps he already was.
Swallowing thickly, William slid into the other seat at the table. He immediately became aware of the way his legs pressed close to Sherlock’s in the cramped space, but made no attempt to move them. Neither did Sherlock. The detective shifted his seat closer and lowered his newspaper, looking directly at William.
Red bloomed across William’s cheeks, delicate and vibrant like two blossoming roses.
“Good afternoon, Sherly,” he said softly.
“Afternoon, sleepyhead,” Sherlock responded, a teasing lilt to his tone. He glanced William over. “How’re you going today?”
Sherlock watched him with more attentiveness and seriousness than most doctors gave their patients. William smiled. “Better, thank you.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Sherlock’s lips spread into a responding smile. Something like molten sugar, impossibly warm and sweet, spread through William’s veins, crystalising in his heart. In desperate need to move the conversation along, William nodded toward Sherlock’s empty mug. “Is that all you’ve had so far, Sherly? Have you eaten yet?”
“Nah. Was waiting for you to wake up.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the window. “Might as well dive straight into lunch, considering the time. I was thinking we could treat ourselves and try the place downstairs.”
“The… pizzeria, was it? I haven’t seen one before.”
Sherlock lips curved, sharpening into a grin. “Neither have I. That’s what makes it exciting, isn’t it? Another mystery for us.”
His eyes glimmered, alight with infectious joy. William couldn’t help but be swept up in it.
“Alright, Sherly,” he said, pushing his chair back. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s see how this goes.”
It went surprisingly well. With every laugh Sherlock pulled from William’s lungs, with each bite of food, William felt another knot loosen in his body. He started wondering how they would pass the rest of the day in their apartment and found himself looking forward to the possibility of more days like this: late mornings, Sherlock’s company, time to slow down and decide what he wanted to do with the day. The promise of safety if his ghosts appeared again, or if he needed someone to lean on.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was a start.
William had made do with far less.