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The breeze was gentle, swirling with a sense of agency that whispered ‘calm’ into the nighttime sky. The sounds which pervaded New York City were as they always were at this hour—sudden yet expected, like the screech of a cat or the occasional howl from a bar below. It was all predictable, so much so that William could not help but gaze down at the streets in wait for some deviation.
It had been some time since he’d awoken from his coma and the reality of his situation had long dawned on him. As he was not yet ready to work with the Pinkerton Detective Agency, William was—literally, but mostly figuratively—locked away in a foreign flat. He was eternally grateful for the efforts to keep him well, but this tower left him with little to do but think. Thinking was all he’d ever done, but forever it existed with a calculated plan and course of action. Whether it was to be executed immediately or years down the line, William had lingered on it; that was his modus operandi. But, with the unpredicted succession of the final problem, these thoughts were no longer polished. They were frantic and scattered, unlike the constellations which shone above in pattern. All he was left with now were ideas and concepts of emotion—emotions so terribly complicated that all he could do was sit and depend on old habits.
A cigarette whistled smoke between his fingers while William leaned his arms against the railings of the rooftop. He watched idly as the embers disappeared into the night. He flicked his lighter open and closed, open and closed. He always enjoyed staring as carbon failed to fully combust, becoming soot before his eyes. It was that initial spark before the fire settled, taken aback by its sudden awakening, that fascinated William. How was it that parts of the world as organic as he could remain as consistent as they were? It was a question he could feasibly answer—no matter how random it appeared, his psychology was far more consistent than any simple reaction, but he found himself tired by the idea that he was a being as solvable as any equation. He was finite; he understood that, but the degree of reflection that was required to tackle such a concept was far beyond his limits for tonight. Tonight, all he did was watch and survey. He was not part of the orchestra which harmonized below; he was its audience, so who was he not to grant it a watchful eye?
“You ever gonna smoke that thing?”
William’s eyes widened at the familiar voice behind him. Perhaps he allowed himself to grow too comfortable, as he was quite surprised to hear the man. He looked down at his cigarette—a quarter of it was charred, ash hanging off the end as if begging him not to let it fall. He hadn’t realized how little he’d acknowledged the fag outside of its faint glow. Then, he turned to meet eyes with the man who’d been out for the day’s entirety.
“Perceptive as always, Sherly.”
Sherlock’s dark eyes were illuminated as if they’d done more than just reflect what little light there was. They had an almost painful sweetness to them—a sparkle which William could get lost in. The blonde swore they always did that, as if it were not some trick of the light or a figment of his mind. Our eyes did not glow, but if they could, he imagined they’d look something like Sherlock’s. It was a childish idea, yet he entertained it nonetheless.
“Hey, Liam.”
Sherlock stretched his arms lazily, groaning with cracking joints. William let out a gentle hum in response. It wasn’t energetic, but it was honest.
“When did you get home?”
“Just now. Didn’t see ya by the fireplace, so I figured you were up here... You got something on your mind?”
William cocked a brow.
“Alright, well, obviously you do. I’m trying to be more considerate, you know.”
Now, he laughed.
“Of course, apologies for my evasiveness.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“No, certainly not.”
Sherlock sucked his teeth and glanced over the Brooklyn streets, a bit bashful at William’s gentle taunt. He took anything his mind would let him before sighing and retrieving a pack of cigarettes. With dexterity, he slipped out two snouts and held one towards William.
“Here.”
“How generous.”
The blonde tossed his withering cigarette butt and took the offer between his fingers, surveying Sherlock’s attempt to locate his matches.
“Gotcha.”
William straightened his posture, and Sherlock struck the match with a grin.
“You remembered them this time, did you?”
He brought the cigarette up to his lips, awaiting a steady flame. In synchrony, Sherlock cupped his hand around William’s cigarette and watched it burn. His eyes lingered as William exhaled the smoke which quelled his troubled spirits.
“Yeah, I’m getting better at it. Plus, it’s nice to be the one lighting your cigarette. Don’t you think?”
“Mm, certainly. I mean, it is my honour.”
The air was silent as the two nursed the fire at their fingertips. The evening zephyr swept the smoke through the sky into heights far beyond, like Icarus in search of the sun. When dusk came, would it embrace what it ached for? Would it make peace with its radiant demise? William broke his thoughts with a lingering question
“Care to speak of your assignment?”
“No, it was nothin’ special. Just some drug bust.”
“It took you no time at all.”
“Naturally.”
William’s silence spoke louder than the night’s wind. Thus, Sherlock continued:
“You saw the schematics outlining the syndicate’s locality. Well, we decided the best course of action would be to strike when they croaked in the West. It wasn’t their main base, but—”
“It was near enough to secure a position whilst avoiding being overwhelmed in numbers.”
“Correct.”
Several beats passed.
“It’s the kind of plot you’d derive, I think.”
Even when he didn’t intend to, Sherlock could garner a laugh from William. While he expected to scoff or chuckle at his own torment, it somehow came from the heart. There was a sense of innocence in Sherlock, one that felt like it could temporarily absolve William from the sins laid over his head. Taking a breath in, he let the air trickle against his skin.
“I suppose you would know.”
Sherlock shook the hairs from his face and turned to see his companion.
“Hey, how about we make this a night to remember? I’m going off again tomorrow, so why not maximize what time we have?”
A quizzical look.
“What did you have in mind?”
Sherlock shrugged and put out his cigarette on the railing, flicking it to the ground in one seamless display.
“We’ll figure it out.”
-
Past the solitary rooftop bench, down cast iron stairs, and through the fire escape window, Sherlock and William entered their tenement flat. The room was illuminated almost entirely by the moonlight which peeked through a few uncurtained windows. It was simple and almost painfully unfurnished—it would be difficult to say that anyone truly lived here, though that was, of course, the intention. This plainness was complemented by the patterned floors which repeated almost infinitely and the white-trim fireplace seated at the wall of the sitting room. The papers of Sherlock’s workbag sprawled themselves against the mini dining table by the window, one which always felt more like a desk than a place to share a meal. Expectedly, a sole wooden chair positioned itself in front of the unlit firebox, the same wooden chair where William spent most of his lonesome hours.
Sherlock made haste towards the fireplace and poked the charred logs before tossing a match to the hearth. The fire roared, and his face lit up alongside the rest of the lounge. “That’s more like it.”
“So, Sherly, what do we ‘figure?’”
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, thinking for a moment before snapping a finger gun towards William.
“Well, it seems to me in all your alone time you haven’t turned to music; that gramophone we got is looking rather dusty.”
“I’ve enjoyed the silence”
“I imagine you would. Still, I was thinking it might be nice to enjoy a piece or two together. I bought a new disc and heard the concertos are particularly appealing.”
“A good replacement for the violin?” Sherlock chuckled, “Hardly, but we make do.”
William followed as Sherlock approached the gramophone. It was one of the only things that stood out in their flat, as well as one of the only things they bought together. He watched him pick out one of the two discs they owned and place it flat on the turntable. He wound the handcrank and, as the needle made contact with the shellac, the room erupted into a gentle overture. Sherlock looked back at William with pleasure, and William returned the expression with a smile.
“Now, isn’t that nicer?”
“You’ve convinced me… even if the acoustics in here are quite poor. I suppose that is to be expected with how little we own, though.”
“I’m sure the neighbours won’t mind.. Besides, we can absorb the sound plenty.”
William raised his brows as Sherlock took his hand and moved towards the center of the room. For all his contemplation, it appeared to him that the detective knew exactly what he wanted. He moved with cognizance and with a hint of excitement that William hadn’t seen from him in a long time. Shame often tapped at the forefront of his mind, guilty that Sherlock all but abandoned his life to care for him here in Brooklyn, but seeing such pure delight painted across his face left William feeling light. He did not reject when Sherlock placed one hand on his waist and the other in his grasp.
“You’re not the dancing type,” William remarked as he held onto Sherlock’s shoulder.
“I’m not.”
They gradually switched from stillness to sway, rocking back and forth like a pendulum. They danced in harmony, eyes locked on one another, though this staring contest was a losing battle for William. Breaking his gaze, he tenderly rested his head on Sherlock’s opposite shoulder and let the music guide their movements. He focused on his calloused hands, the curve of his clavicle, and the rhythmic rising of his chest. Somehow, despite everything on his mind, he couldn’t bear to say anything at all.
“Hey,”
“Hm?”
There was a moment of silence before Sherlock continued, “I know I’ve already said this, but I’ve got no regrets.”
Love was not something that William had ever considered, nor did he believe that it existed for him. It was not in a self-sacrificial sense, purely a logical one. While his dreams required sacrifice, he’d accepted it as a part of himself long ago. People, his brothers, and those who committed themselves to his ambitions were all he needed. At least they were all he believed he could afford. But now, pressed vulnerably against his supposed ‘rival,’ he was forced to come to terms with the fact that he wanted—no, he needed—this connection.
“I know,” he slid his fingers from Sherlock’s and wrapped his arms around his neck.
“But you know that I do.”
“Yeah, and I think it’s good that you do. Shows you’ve still got more humanity than the lot of us.”
“Your perspective always amuses me. Has anyone ever told you you’re quite wise?”
“Gods no. Watch out, Liam, your praise will go straight to my head.”
William let out a soft laugh.
“Perhaps it should.”
Sherlock nudged against the head on his shoulder. As William felt the brush of his chin, he couldn’t help but linger on their many ‘almosts.’ It was clear the two of them yearned. While they were hardly unaffectionate, many romantic gestures evaded them. It was as if the great chase between them still endured, that they could not yet capture one another. Still, they were indisputably shackled.
William turned his face to meet Sherlock’s. It was difficult for their eyes to meet, the detective overshadowing, but they knew where their gazes lay. They studied each other, transfixed as they continued to rock, and as the music continued, the growing weight of their chains pulled them closer. Their lips locked alongside a heavy percussion and their grip on each other grew tighter. William couldn’t dare breathe, couldn’t dare linger on another thought. Sherlock became the pull of gravity itself, and even he could not defy the universe’s order.
There was a mix of rue, eagerness, and relief between them; an embarrassment that they gave in but a need far greater than their dignity. William’s fingers entangled themselves in Sherlock’s hair, while Sherlock explored the small of his back. Despite the intensity of the song’s final movement, they focused only on the beating of their hearts.
And with that, they were plunged into silence. The gramophone crackled, and the record spun in search of the next tune. William pulled away and huffed air from his nose, chuckling at the foolish smiles plastered on their faces.
“Do you feel better?” Sherlock croaked.
William purred in response. “You’d like it if I did, wouldn’t you?”
“You make it sound like such a selfish thing. I won’t say it doesn’t satisfy me, though.”
With a smile, William returned to his place on Sherlock’s shoulder. The next song echoed to life, and the two returned to their dancing stance.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not miserable.”
“The Lord of Crime making me miserable? I simply couldn’t imagine.”
Through the unveiled windows, their lone flat illuminated the streets below. It was as if the whole world slept while their silhouettes spun like revolving figurines in a music box. While William knew the guilt of his past would follow him forever, it was moments like these that gave him hope for his future. Perhaps he would soon embrace those he lost after the fall. Perhaps a cigarette would not be the only warmth reserved for him. Perhaps the cold would one day subside. Despite all his machinations, he knew not what was left for him. But at least, as he and Sherlock danced the night goodbye, he knew one thing: he would not need to answer these questions alone.