#sherliam fluff

[doomstypewriter]

New York morning be like 😭✨💕

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[scarlet-streak-fanfics]

[Untitled] Pt. 5 (1.1k words)

Back on my Sherliam shit, enjoy.

William had long ago given up on God–too many prayers unanswered, and too many run-ins with devils. He was, after all, bound for Hell, no matter what anyone else said. Louis and Albert had quickly given up on convincing him otherwise, as had each member of his team in turn. The only person still fighting him was Sherlock, the very man that Liam intended to damn him in the end.

Sherlock continued to vehemently argue for Liam’s goodness, how nothing he could possibly do would be enough to make him evil in the detective’s eyes. It made the nobleman sick to his stomach to hear those words, but Sherlock was too stubborn to drop the topic without hearing Liam’s crimes, and William would never allow that. Most days, at least. Today, the two of them had gone drinking to celebrate Sherlock solving a particularly difficult case that, for once, was not connected to the Lord of Crime’s activities–Sherlock had drunk more, leaning slightly on Liam’s shoulder for support on their way back to 221B, but Liam is definitely drunk enough to feel the effects. His chest feels slightly too warm and his thoughts a bit too sluggish, hands lingering longer than he knows they should as he settles Sherlock on the couch and brushes the long, dark hair away from those beautiful blue eyes.

He should feel ashamed of himself for letting these feelings get away from him–a condemned man doesn’t deserve this kind of love. But, when Sherlock grabs his wrist, murmuring something about him “not leavin’ me, please, Liam,” he knows that he’s a goner. So, Liam sits down and allows Sherlock to pull him almost on top of the other man. The detective swings his own legs up on the couch, tangling their legs and wrapping his arms around Liam like a child clinging to their favorite toy. He allows Sherlock to bury his face in the crook of his neck, each warm breath from the detective tickling his skin as the nobleman’s nose is filled with the familiar scent of cigarettes, alcohol, and the cologne that Liam had gifted him. Unfortunately, in his comfortable, drunk state, he also allows his thoughts to slip out into the open. “I do not deserve you, Sherlock.”

The reaction is immediate–Sherlock pushes himself so they’re both sitting upright, with the detective holding Liam up and slightly away from him to look him in the eyes. “The hell’s that s’posed t’mean, Liam?”

William takes in the slightly unfocused gaze, slurred words, and the strong smell of alcohol on his breath and decides that, for once, he’ll be honest. Sherlock won’t remember any of this in the morning and, from the fact that he’s even considering this, Liam hopefully won’t either. “Sherlock–”

“Sherly.” Liam smiles in spite of the seriousness he’s trying to show as he takes over holding up his own weight, hands planted on the couch cushions on either side of the detective to prop up his upper body. Sherlock’s insistence on the nickname intensifies the warmth in his chest. However, almost as quickly as it came, that high of affection crashes. “You wouldn’t still want me to call you that if you knew what I’ve done.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows, his lips almost forming a pout. “Not true.”

“Are you sure? Could you still care for me if I were to confess my sins to you?” There it was, the crux of Liam’s fears. Would his angel of penance and light turn his back on William upon seeing the blood that stained the nobleman’s hands? Despite all his promises and insistence, could Sherlock truly love the Lord of Crime?

“Liam?” The gentle call pulls the nobleman back to the present, where Sherlock is studying his face through half-closed eyes. One calloused hand comes up to cup Liam’s cheek, thumb brushing away tears he didn’t know were building up in the corner of his eyes. When he speaks, his words are shockingly clear for his inebriated state. “There ain’t a sin great enough t’make me stop lovin’ you.”

And isn’t that just a knife to William’s heart? Once again, the words slip out before he can stop them. “Even if I’m the Lord of Crime?”

He doesn’t want an answer to that question, he realizes, as the panic starts crashing in. Sherlock is too good of a person for his response to be anything other than William’s worst nightmares, and he doesn’t want this moment of security and comfort to end like that, with this illusion of affection crashing down around him.

The last thing he expects is Sherlock’s lips pressing against his own, warm and slightly chapped. It’s clumsy and chaste, and Liam doesn’t doubt that this is probably Sherlock’s first time kissing anyone, but it’s perfect and grounding and exactly what Liam needed. When Sherlock pulls away, leaving the nobleman slightly dazed, he kisses Liam’s cheek, just next to his ear. “Even then, I promise.”

There’s no way of knowing if Sherlock even processed William’s words or knows what he’s promised, but that means less than nothing to Liam right now. He buries his face in the detective’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking with repressed sobs as he collapses against the other man, feeling one of Sherlock’s arms wrap around his waist as his free hand smooths down the nobleman’s silky, blond hair. If he could, he’d stay in this moment forever, Moriarty Plan and Lord of Crime be damned. If he could, he’d be Liam forever, leaving behind the life of William James Moriarty and dedicating himself to being the man Sherlock thinks he is. He knows somewhere deep in his heart that, if it were possible, he’d follow the detective anywhere, do anything he asked, as long as it meant they’d be together. But he can’t–that, after all, is what makes Sherlock so dangerous. With the right words, he could tear down everything William had sacrificed for, and Liam knows that Sherlock can never know that. For this plan to work, the detective must send the Lord of Crime to his grave with these declarations of love and devotion unspoken. The most he can do is return the kiss that the detective gave him and then some, murmuring his own love between each one as he tangles bloodstained hands in dark hair. It’s a futile, almost laughable attempt at conveying how important Sherlock’s words are to him, but it’s all Liam has.

William had long ago given up on God, but he still prays to whoever’s listening that he’ll be able to remember this in the morning–the feeling of being safe and loved even with his sins laid bare.

[doomstypewriter]

I made a short Sherliam comic

Fem!Sherliam vampire AU... that's it. I just love lesbians, vampires and Sherliam

Cw: Mild gore

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Also do not repost without permission pls

[scarlet-streak-fanfics]

[Untitled] Pt. 4 (1.1k words)

Enjoy!

Sherlock had spent his youth believing himself impervious to the charms of the fairer sex due to his intellect. After all, he’d never had feelings for a woman–not in the way that his schoolmates and literature had described, anyway. In fact, when he’d first met William, he thought the adrenaline rush and racing heart were from the excitement of having someone who could keep up with and challenge him. It took multiple other meetings, including working together to solve a case, before Sherlock realized he was in over his head.

Of course, he doesn’t regret the choices and discoveries that led to this moment, sitting on a couch in the Moriarty residence in Durham with Lord William James Moriarty asleep with his head on Sherlock’s lap. They’d been playing chess, the detective seated on an ottoman and the nobleman across from him on the couch, when Liam had simply fallen over on his side. Sherlock had rushed to his side, fearing the worst, and the sudden commotion had drawn Louis’s attention. The youngest of the Moriarty brothers had explained William’s peculiar narcolepsy and suggested that Sherlock return to 221B since his brother would most likely not wake within the next twelve hours, if not longer. However, Sherlock had declined, reasoning that, since he was here when William fell asleep, waking up to find the detective gone might be distressing. Louis was far from pleased, but Sherlock knew that he’d never protest against something his beloved older brother would like. This allows him to enjoy these quiet hours, resting and watching over Liam, for once.

In the months he’s known Liam, the nobleman’s face has never looked so peaceful, even when he’d slept over at Sherlock’s flat. He runs his fingers through the light blond hair, enjoying the rare chance at actually providing affection to his closest friend. Though their arrangement is supposed to benefit them both, considering they are both starved for this kind of casual affection, Liam almost never allows himself to be on the receiving end. “Ah, apologies, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t mean to overexert.”

Sherlock pulls his hand away like he’s been burned, cheeks already heating up. “No problem, Liam. Didn’t know you were narcoleptic.”

The nobleman sits up, rubbing his eyes. “I do not tend to advertise the fact–I’m sure you can understand why.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Secret’s safe with me.” The soft smile Liam graces him with makes his heart race. “I never doubted that for a moment, I assure you.”

As the nobleman goes to stand up, Sherlock grabs his hand on an impulse. William raises an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

“Just wonderin’ if we could sit here for a little while longer,” the detective says in a hurry. “Hadn’t seen ya in a few weeks, and it was nice to… You know.”

Liam sighs in mock exasperation, falling back onto the couch with a grin on his face. “I suppose I can spare a few moments longer, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock. C’mon, Liam, you just slept most o’ the day away on my lap, you can call me by my first name.” William’s smile loses all the warmth behind it, crimson eyes taking on a look akin to that of a spooked animal. “I don’t want to presume that level of intimacy with you.”

“But this level is alright?” He raises their still-joined hands. William pointedly avoids his gaze and that just raises Sherlock’s frustration. “Liam, this was supposed to be something to help both of us, but I won’t do this if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You deserve better, Sherlock.” At first, the words don’t even register–the concept is so ridiculous, so completely unthinkable that it actually makes his brilliant brain grind to a halt. By the time he’s finished processing them, Liam is talking again. “I do not deign myself worthy of holding you back in the way that intimacy implies. This arrangement is simply to alleviate your touch starvation until you find someone better, someone who is actually deserving of your time and affections.”

“And when were you gonna tell me that?” It’s Liam’s turn to look confused. “I thought it was obvious. I hold you in high regard, Mr. Holmes, enough that I would not wish to hold you back from true happiness just for my selfish desires.”

Sherlock wants to tear his own hair out–how could someone with a genius to match his own be so incredibly stupid as to think that he is the one being held back. The detective is painfully aware of the numerous women clamoring for William’s attention and how their relationship could ruin the nobleman’s reputation forever, yet he truly believes that the one suffering is Sherlock. He can feel William pulling his hand away and immediately tightens his own grip, turning to face the blond completely as he joins their free hands as well. “Who told you I want someone else, Liam?”

The spooked animal expression returns and Liam can only stare as Sherlock barrels headfirst into the confession that he’d been holding back since their first meeting. “There’s nobody else in this world like ya–nobody else I’d rather be sittin’ here with. Before you, I was just wanderin’ from one high to the next, tryin’ t’run from boredom without carin’ where it got me. Ya changed my life, Liam, so don’t tell me to go find something better. This ain’t just some sort of interim t’me, so just set your damn fears aside and call me Sherlock!”

Liam looks even prettier than usually when he’s surprised, Sherlock decides, with those red eyes filled with honest astonishment and slightly parted lips. However, after a few moments of silence, the detective starts to worry that he’s broken the other man. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s made Liam speechless, and this was the longest time yet. “Ya don’t haveta if  you really don’t wanna, Liam. Don’t expect ya t’feel the same either. I just wanted t’let ya know how I feel about this–about you. This is important to me, and I think it’s the same to you, innit? I–”

“Sherlock.” That one word seems to steal the air from Sherlock’s lungs. It sounded so perfect, and all he wants to do is hear it again. However, he decides not to push his luck, instead pulling the other man closer and partially on top of himself, releasing Liam’s hands in favor of capturing him in a tight hug. He tucks the blond’s head under his chin, just like he does when they sleep together, to hide the wide grin on his face. It takes Liam a few moments to reciprocate the gesture, allowing himself to relax against the detective’s chest. Despite his best efforts, unfortunately, Sherlock eventually loses the fight to hold back a cheeky, “See, was that so hard?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Mr. Holmes.” William’s response is cool and indifferent, and Sherlock can’t help himself as he throws his head back and laughs. Liam can keep his ego–the detective is perfectly happy with what progress he’s made on making the nobleman understand how important he is to him.

[scarlet-streak-fanfics]

[Untitled] Pt. 3 (1.7k Words)

Time for another installment of this self indulgent nonsense, featuring William being very, very gay and angsty. I hope y’all enjoy!

There would never be another man like Sherlock Holmes. At least, that’s what William decides as he watches the detective from his seat on the sitting room’s well-worn couch in 221B. He knows that he should be listening to the other man’s words–after all, he was invited over to help with a case that he, miraculously, isn’t responsible for. It’s not often that he can properly assist Sherlock with his work, so he should be jumping at the chance.

Instead, he’s sitting in this chaotic mess of an apartment and looking at Sherlock like a schoolchild looks at the classmate they fancy. Of course, he can’t exactly blame himself. Beyond his brothers and the rest of his team, William had given up on finding goodness in this world. Everything seemed to be tainted by the unfeeling influence of the upper class, and he’d hated it. Then he’d met Sherlock, and that view had been completely shattered. 

He knows logically that keeping Sherlock this close was an incredible risk. The detective is both his Patroclus and Paris, his Achilles Heel and the arrow all rolled into one. The only person capable of tempting him to give up the plan and the only person capable of solving it, and William still can’t bring himself to give Sherlock up. His brothers are no help, of course–Louis disapproves of it completely but prioritizes William’s happiness and Albert is wary yet supportive of this one indulgence. So, they’ll neither tell him to abandon the detective nor to remain with him, only that they trust his judgment. If only they knew how much Sherlock impaired that usually infallible tool.

“Liam? You’re still listening, right?” The nobleman starts at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, looking up guiltily. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. My apologies, there’s been a lot weighing on my mind lately.”

In truth, he had not been listening in the slightest. It certainly doesn’t help that the only reason he started listening was hearing the nickname Sherlock had given him–the one name that felt like it truly belong to him and him alone. The child from Whitechapel had died alongside the boy whose identity William had stolen; he was neither that poor orphan nor Lord William James Moriarty, just a poor facsimile of both. However, when Sherlock called him Liam, he could allow himself to imagine a life where he could truly claim that name, living forever as the man Sherlock had given that endearment to. He can pretend he is simply Liam, a professor of Mathematics taking a respite from his teaching at the University of Durham to visit his…

That’s always where the dream ends. Not because he doesn’t know what title he wants to bestow upon Sherlock, but because he knows that he is undeserving of bearing it in return. William had sacrificed the goodness in him piece by piece for the Moriarty Plan, becoming what he despised with every drop of corrupted blood spilled. Sherlock was William’s mirror, what he could have been in another life where he had not been forced to become like the devils he hunted. From the moment that he’d met the detective, William knew that he wanted–no, needed–it to be Sherlock who killed him, the final devil casting shadows on the nation. He needed all of England to see Sherlock how he did: a hero capable of driving out even the deepest of evils with his dizzying intellect and stubborn courage. He was the Eden that William had been cast out of and the Uriel that guarded its gates.

Once again, Sherlock pulls William from his thoughts, this time by settling down on the spot next to him, so close that their legs and shoulders are almost touching. “Penny for your thoughts, then? It’s no fun tellin’ ya about a case if y’can’t focus, Liam.”

The blond hangs his head forward slightly, finally accepting he’s been caught. “It’s nothing of great importance, Mr. Holmes. I’d only bore you by telling you.”

“You never bore me.” His heart shouldn’t skip a beat at that, but he knows how much weight that sentence bears. William knows he doesn’t deserve to hold the attention of this man, but he decides that will only lead to further argument. “You flatter me, Mr. Holmes.”

“No flattery ‘bout it, Liam. You’re interesting t’me.” William just wants to laugh at those words. If he’s interesting, what does that make Sherlock? Magnetic, to start, like a gravity well that keeps tugging him back in no matter how hard he tries to keep his distance. Sherlock is the sun of William’s entire universe and he doesn’t have a clue–completely ignorant of how caught in his orbit the nobleman is. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“So, gonna tell me what’s goin’ on in that beautiful brain of yours?” Sherlock’s shoulder bumps into his own in a playful manner, and William surprises both the dark-haired man and himself by leaning into the contact. “Perhaps, or maybe I’d just like a chance to turn it off for a while and enjoy time with my favorite detective.”

Sherlock snorts. “That’d mean more if you knew any other detective, y’know.”

“Well, there is Gregson…” Sherlock has moved off the couch in a show of sheer indignance before William is even done speaking. “Him? You’d really choose him over me?”

The nobleman laughs, pushing himself up to his feet gracefully. He steps towards Sherlock, but the other man pointedly looks away, an expression akin to a pout on his face. “Oh, don’t be like that, Sherlock.”

The detective’s lips twitch and his eyes widen a fraction, but he maintains his facade of hurt, so William decides it’s time for drastic measures. He moves further into Sherlock’s personal space, placing one hand on the cheek turned away from him as he coos, “Sherly, you know I don’t mean it. Gregson is a bumbling, incapable idiot next to you.”

The slightly embarrassing display of affection is all worth it for the frustrated huff it earns from Sherlock as William feels the other man’s skin warming quickly beneath his touch. “That’s just not playin’ fair, innit.”

“I think appealing to your ego is completely fair play, Mr. Holmes.” As William tries to pull his hand away, Sherlock’s flies up, pinning it in place as he turns to face William fully. “That’s not the part I was referrin’ to and you know it, Liam.”

Some vague part of him knows that Sherlock is just as desperate for the verbal affection as he is–perhaps even more than the physical affection he so often visibly craves in the company of the nobleman. However, that intimacy is one he knows he doesn’t deserve with his brilliant detective. William won’t have his words fooling Sherlock into thinking that he’s a person who can be trusted, cared for, or–

“Liam?” Sherlock’s voice is impossible soft and, coupled with a gentle squeeze of the blond’s hand, is enough to bring William back to the present. They’re so close that he can feel Sherlock’s breath, warm against his skin. Everything about him is warm, William decides. “You sure you’re ok?”

William wordlessly pulls the other man into a tight embrace using his free arm, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder as he inhales the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and Sherlock’s admittedly-cheap cologne. With his expression safely hidden from scrutiny, he mumbles. “I’m tired, Sherly. I don’t mean to be an inconvenience, but–”

“Of course y’can bunk over, you bloody idiot. You really think I’m lettin’ you walk home at this time o’ night?” Despite the rough scolding of his words, Sherlock returns the hug, resting his chin on William’s shoulder. “Yer night clothes are in the wash, though.”

William lifts his head slightly, freeing himself from the muffling of Sherlock’s jacket. “I suppose I’ll be forced to borrow some of yours then?” Like last time. And the time before that. He finds it endearing that Sherlock thinks he hasn’t caught onto this particular lie yet. Sherlock seems to get a kick out of seeing the normally elegant nobleman clad in his ratty, old excuses for sleepwear, and William doesn’t mind indulging him.

The bedtime routine is quickly completed, though William insists on dragging Sherlock through a few extra steps with only slight bickering about the detective’s hygiene habits. Finally, they reach the part that William dreads. “So, I’ll be taking the couch.”

There is a concerning lack of argument from Sherlock, but William tries to be optimistic–maybe he’s taking pity on him in his fatigued state. However, he quickly figures out the dark-haired man’s angle when Sherlock follows him all the way to the couch. “You can’t be serious.”

That infuriating grin that only graces the detective’s face when he knows he’s won is already in full force. “Oh, I’m dead serious, Liam.”

“We cannot both fit on the couch.”

“Then I guess we’ll both have to fit in my bed. That’s the only other option, innit?”

“Your bed smells like cigarette smoke.”

“So do my clothes–don’t see ya complainin’ about ‘em, though.” William grabs the other man’s hand with an exasperated huff, dragging him toward his bedroom. Sherlock makes a point of waiting until William gets under the covers before clamoring in himself. In return, the nobleman turns away from the other man, determined to stay on his side of the bed in protest. Unfortunately, this effort is immediately undone when Sherlock sneaks both arms around him and drags William over to him. “So ya can’t get up and go to the couch when I fall asleep.”

William roles over to face the still grinning detective, displeasure obvious on his face. Sherlock responds by pulling William closer and tucking the blond’s head under his chin. “Caught you.”

The joke shouldn’t make William’s heart ache as painfully as it does. He can’t stand to hear those words, given to the detective as a joke, said so affectionately. He’d rather only hear it when the time is right, said with the hate he deserves for all his crimes. However, he can push that aside for the night as long as Sherlock continues to hold him. After all, he’s the only truly untainted thing left in his life, and William wants to enjoy just being Sherlock’s Liam while he still can. The sleep that normally eludes him always comes so easily in these moments–in fact, he’s already too far gone to register the gentle, chaste kiss pressed against his forehead and the quiet “Good night” whispered with it.