Oh!! Oh!!!!! I forgot to post this sherliam drabble. It's been sitting in my notes for a while, whoops 🤭
Dedicated to the precious people who give me the courage to write. To the silliest duck 🦆, and to the 🙄 angel who haunts my waking moments, you know who you are.
William is no stranger to compliments. He’s heard a multitude of them throughout his childhood, and later growing up as the second son of Moriarty. There had been no shortage of nobles seeking to curry favour and lavish him in praises for his looks or intelligence.
This, however, is far different.
It starts out rather innocuously, a simple throwaway comment of, “Good job, Liam,” that Sherlock had made after completing a job together.
William hadn’t expected the heat rushing to his ears, or the catching of his voice as he muttered a quiet thanks and turned away.
Sherlock’s words are different.
He knows for a fact that the other only ever speaks the truth. He has no ulterior motive behind his praise, only stating what he sees as fact.
It rattles William to hear Sherlock call him good.
His words feel like a balm upon his soul.
An ablution for the days where William still feels the scarlet blood sticking to his skin and the desperate hands of victims clinging, clutching, clawing at him.
William’s reaction to praise does not go unnoticed. It is Sherlock, after all.
Of course, Sherlock does occasionally comment on his brilliance, especially after a difficult criminal profiling or a particularly tricky mission. But the praises that linger in his memory are often those quietly pressed into his skin in the silence of the night.
You were good today, accompanies a kiss upon his scar.
I adore your kindness, is a searing brand that Sherly presses into his neck.
Your compassion is boundless, is whispered into his ears as long, violin-callused fingers thread through his hair.
William shivers through each and every one of them, guilt warring against precious relief. Some days, he finds himself unconvinced that a sinner like him deserved such sweet, gentle words. Sherlock can always tell when such thoughts creep into the tension in his back and wordlessly continues his soft ministrations, letting his fingers and lips and eyes demonstrate his devotion in a rite of sanctification.
Sometimes William finds warm tears pooling in the corner of his eyes, Sherlock’s genuine words unwittingly echoing the heartfelt praises from a lifetime ago.
He remembers a sickly Louis gripping his hands tightly in the cold of night, insisting that they share the blanket William had managed to procure. You’ve always had such a selfless heart, brother.
Sherlock’s compliments bring to mind the image of Albert patting him gently on the head and sneaking him spoils from his rounds through the town. You’re changing many lives, Will. The baker sends his thanks.
William trembles and shakes through silent sobs, allowing these words to wash over him, granting him a brief respite from loathing and despair.
He ought to be used to compliments after a lifetime of hearing them. (Brilliant professor, artful consultant, unrivalled mastermind.)
But only his closest few - Louis, Albert, Sherlock - ever complimented his heart.
In all honesty the inspiration was "what if Liam had a praise kink" but halfway through it became a bit more emotional HAHAHAHAHAH no idea where the sadness came from but oh well 🤷♀️
