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.
So, listen, listen. I was listening to World’s Smallest Violin by AJR and for some reason got Sherliam vibes, so now this exists. I’m so sorry, but I hope at least some of you enjoy it! Please give me title suggestions.
Sherlock allows his head to rest against the back of his chair, his eyes fixing on the smoke gathering at the ceiling from the cigarette perched haphazardly between his lips. He knows he should open the window—John has been trying to get him to quit ever since he moved in, and Ms. Hudson has threatened to kick him out of the flat over smoking indoors on more than one occasion. Apparently, the smell gives her a headache, and the smoke damages the ceilings and furniture; he made the mistake once of asking if the damage really mattered if he and John were the only ones who would ever live there. The rise in rent the following month was enough to keep Sherlock from pushing the landlady’s buttons for a good while. Still, he can’t bring himself to care about anything besides tuning out his older brother’s scoldings. Mycroft had stopped by for his weekly attempt at making Sherlock find more steady work and actually make something of himself besides a drug-addict “consulting detective”. He can hear Mycroft pacing the apartment as he continues his lecture, “It’s all well and good right now—your Lord of Crime is keeping you in enough work to pay rent. However, once he’s caught or slinks off into the shadows as criminals are oft to do, you’ll be out of a job. If Mother were still alive—”
“She’d be bloody disappointed at the failure she gave birth to.” Sherlock finishes bitterly, removing the cigarette from his lips and holding it between two fingers as he releases the smoke from his lungs. The older Holmes brother stops, all his attention focusing on Sherlock. “That’s not what I was going to say and you know that.”
“It’s what you meant, innit?” Sherlock stands up, stepping behind his chair to open the window and turning his back to his brother. He leans on the windowsill, tapping the ash from his cigarette to the streets below. “Ma always wanted us to be something more. That’s what all the fancy schoolin’ was for, right, Myc? Why you talk all posh and rub elbows with the nobility.”
“Yes, but I don’t expect that from you because I know that we are not the same person. However, that doesn’t mean you lack the potential for your own greatness. You have a brilliant mind, Sherly, and you’re squandering it.”
“Unlike you, pushin’ papers all day as the Queen’s lapdog.” Sherlock’s sarcasm is not lost on Mycroft—he finds himself being spun to face his older brother, cigarette falling from his fingers to the street below. “You know just as well as I do that one of us had to continue repaying the debt of our family—I took that burden so you could find a path of your own and this is what you’ve done with it!”
“I don’t recall askin’ you to make that sacrifice for me.” Sherlock looks his brother in the eyes, face and voice the picture of defiance. Mycroft studies him for a moment before letting the hand he’d used to turn Sherlock drop back to his side, a huff of defeat leaving him. “Just think about it, Sherly. I know you’re better than this.”
Sherlock doesn’t try to stop his brother as Mycroft departs from the apartment. He doesn’t bother to close the door after him, leaving it slightly ajar as he returns to the window and fishes a fresh cigarette and his lighter out of his pocket. Usually, he’d already be on his way to the nearest bar, but it’s barely sunset. John made him promise after one too many mornings where Sherlock stumbled in hungover, bloody, and bruised from whatever nonsense he’d gotten into the night before that he’d tell John when he was going out, what bar he was going to, and when he intended to be back so the doctor could retrieve him if necessary. He understood this rule in principle, but it was particularly frustrating on evenings when John was out with his fiancée Mary and wouldn’t be back until much later.
Sherlock is startled out of his brooding by a gentle knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice that makes his heart leap. “Apologies for the interruption, Mr. Holmes. Judging by your brother’s frustration and your own preoccupation, it seems that tonight may not be the best night for us to have dinner. Shall I come back another time?”
Damn it, he’d forgotten that he’d asked William to go to dinner with him to discuss a case—after all, that was his best reason for requesting the lord’s company without scrutiny. He turns, smiling stiffly at Liam as he stuffs the unlit cigarette back in his pocket. “Of course not, Liam! Just let me grab my coat.”
He moves towards the coat rack, a fake smile still plastered on his face. As he tries to pass William, the nobleman places a hand on his chest to stop him. “Please, sit. We can get dinner another time.”
Sherlock hangs his head slightly, shuffling to the couch like a scolded dog. Much to his surprise, Liam sits on the opposite side of the couch from him instead of in one of the armchairs near the window before tugging on his sleeve. Without thinking, Sherlock obeys the nonverbal request, allowing himself to be guided to lying on the couch, lanky legs thrown over the armrest and head resting in William’s lap. This had been a new development in their friendship—a silent understanding that they were both touch-starved and trusted the other to know when contact was needed. However, the close proximity is something he was still getting used to, and he can feel his cheeks heating up slightly. “What’s on your mind, Sherlock?”
He still finds it amusing that William will only use his first name when they’re in situations like this, like the barrier of physical intimacy needs to be broken first. “Nothin’, Liam, I promise.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.” The statement leaves no room for argument, and Sherlock deflates, still trying to avoid eye contact with the nobleman. “Really, Liam, it’s just an argument me and Myc have been havin’ for a while.”
“About?” Sherlock snorts. “Him bein’ forced to have an unemployed drug addict as his only family member. Myc’s not too keen on the concept, never has been.”
He can feel Liam studying him and, not for the first time, wonders if this is how he makes people feel, like a bug under a microscope. He expects some sort of analytical response, some brilliant answer to this problem; he doesn’t expect William to pull his hair out of its usual ponytail before running his fingers through it. “Oi, Liam, knock it off. I’m not a little kid.”
The request is half-hearted, and he leans into the contact slightly, closing his eyes and ignoring the chuckle from the other man. “You feel inadequate.”
Again, a statement, not a question, and one that makes Sherlock's eyes pop back open with surprise. He knew Liam was good, but he’d thought it’d be harder to read that particular insecurity. Still, he tries to play it off with a lighthearted tone. “Well, who wouldn’t next to Mycroft. He’s the golden child. I’m sure you get that all the time with Al, yeah?”
William stares at him, red eyes partially obscured by blond lashes as his fingers comb through Sherlock’s hair at a languid pace. Sherlock can tell that he isn’t falling for that answer. “What do you want me to say, Liam? That I agree with everythin’ he’s sayin’? It’s true, innit? I’m wastin’ my life on murder and drugs because I can’t find anythin’ else that can keep my attention.” Sherlock wants to add ‘except for you,’ but he feels that the nobleman might not take kindly to being listed among his more unsavory vices. “And Myc’s right, once the Lord of Crime disappears, I’ll be back to the occasional serial killer and petty crime. Neither pay enough for rent, and I’m no good at anything else. I’ll be nothin’ again.”
He hates that he’s spilling all his insecurities out in front of William, but he also knows that logically there’s no person he’d trust to understand him more. Even if Sherlock thinks all of this is stupid and petty, William will listen without judgment. “You are far from nothing, Sherlock.”
“How do you know?” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but that’s far from his primary concern. William smiles slightly, obviously preparing to humor this stubborn mood of Sherlock’s. “Because I know you. A man who was nothing would have been of no interest to me on the Noahtic.”
Sherlock grunts in acknowledgment. “Still, you read all you needed to know about me at a glance, Liam, even the drug habits. There’s nothin’ more to me than what you’ve already seen.”
“Is that so? I find that unlikely, considering you continue to surprise and entertain me at every meeting.” Against his will, Sherlock can feel the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. “For example, I have yet to hear you play that violin piece you’ve been composing.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen for a moment before letting out a bark of honest laughter, propping himself on his elbows to look at William better. “How’d you know I was tryin’ to compose somethin’, Liam?”
“The sheet music on your desk–I’ve noticed it changing during my past few visits. Additionally,” he grabs one of Sherlock’s hands, pulling it up and forcing him to shift his weight fully to one side. William turns the hand over so the palm is facing up, gently pushing the sleeve down slightly, “there are inkstains on your hands and wrist–you aren’t usually a writer, and the sheet music is rather smudged. I’d suggest slowing down and allowing the ink to dry properly in the future, Sherlock. It’d be a shame if your work was lost before it was finished.”
Sherlock is almost dizzy with the sheer delight of witnessing the blond man’s deductions–in fact, he’s more certain than ever that nobody had ever truly seen him before William came into his life. However, before he can articulate that, their conversation is interrupted by someone awkwardly clearing their throat, and Sherlock suddenly remembers why he and William were supposed to go out that evening. He shoots his roommate and his fiancée a guilty, apologetic smile. “Sorry, we were just leavin’.”
John doesn’t seem to believe that for a second, but has the good manners to not argue. William, ever the gentleman, gracefully rises from his seat and crosses the room, offering his hand to Mary. She hesitantly takes the proffered hand, and William bows gallantly, placing a kiss on the back of her gloved hand. “Lord William James Moriarty, at your service, Miss..?
“Mary–Mary Morstan.” She supplies, and he straightens up, releasing her hand. “Miss Morstan, please take my sincerest apologies for this rude intrusion on your evening. We will take our leave at once.”
“We’ll be going to the bar down the road, should be back before too late in the evenin’.” Sherlock adds as he gets up to trail after William. John’s expression is one torn between gratitude at Sherlock keeping his promise and sheer mortification at the notion that his roommate is taking a nobleman to their local bar. However, William seems to misread this as concern. “I assure you, Mr. Watson, I’ll make sure he returns safely. Louis and Albert will be expecting me home in a few hours, after all. Do enjoy your dinner.”
The two men exit the apartment and are soon walking side by side down the street towards the bar in question in a companionable silence. Upon their arrival, Sherlock immediately orders his usual, claiming one of the bar stools. He intends to drink until he forgets his conversation with Mycroft. After all, Liam has never drunk before when they’ve gone out together, so he can be depended on to get Sherlock back to 221B in one piece. William takes a seat next to him, looking as elegant and confident as ever despite the rough surroundings. “D’you want anythin’?”
“No, but thank you for the offer, Mr. Holmes. I believe we had work to discuss, yes?” Sherlock groans, draining the rest of his drink and signaling for another. “Yeah, but I was hopin’ you’d forget.”
It doesn’t escape him that William has returned to addressing him formally, but he decides to push aside that disappointment and dive right into explaining the latest case that Scotland Yard had requested his assistance on. William listens patiently, occasionally nodding or making affirmative noises so Sherlock, who slowly becomes drunker as the evening goes on, knows he’s still listening. By the time he’s finished giving all the details, Sherlock has lost track of how many drinks he’s had, and, frankly, he doesn’t care. It must be enough since he doesn’t remember why he wanted to drink this much in the first place. William’s voice, probably giving his perspective on the case, vaguely registers in Sherlock’s ears as he drops his head on the bar, turning it just enough to look at the nobleman through half closed eyes.
Liam really is too pretty, he decides. It’s not fair of him to still look that perfect next to the wreck that is drunken Sherlock. William snorts, brushing the tangle of dark hair away from Sherlock’s eyes. “I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Holmes, but I believe this means it’s time for me to be escorting you home.”
“S’you c’n read m’mind now, huh?” Sherlock slurs his words slightly as William helps him up to his feet, the dark haired man slinging one arm around his blond companion’s shoulder and start out of the pub. Liam doesn’t respond until they’re fully outside, walking under the gas lamps that line the dark street. “There’s no need for mind-reading when you’re drunk enough to speak your mind, Sherly.”
“Y’know, I like when y’call me that, Liam.” He leans heavily on the other man, taking the excuse to enjoy more physical contact and honesty. To his chagrin, he can feel William’s shoulders shake slightly with repressed laughter. “I believe you’ve mentioned it before. Feeling affectionate, I see.”
“Only with you.” That gets a laugh out of the nobleman as they reach 221b’s doorstep. “I’m honored, Mr. Holmes.”
“Sherlock.”
“Sherly.” Sherlock knows the goofy smile on his face must make him look like an absolute fool, but he doesn’t really care. He can blame it all on being drunk tomorrow. For now, he’ll just enjoy this time. William helps him up the stairs, and they discover a note on the door: ‘Walking Mary home. Be back soon.’
Sherlock perks up slightly. “Does this mean I c’n get you t’stay until John’s back.”
“Well, I’m certainly not leaving you to your own devices in this state, Sherlock. I value your friendship far too much to risk your safety so blatantly.”
“Hey, ‘m not that bad!” William makes a dismissive noise, guiding him into the dark apartment to the same couch they’d sat on earlier. “I’ll get you some water. Stay put, alright?”
Sherlock grunts in affirmation, leaning his head against the back of the chair. While he waits for Liam, his eyes roam the room lazily, eventually landing on his violin. He’d left it leaning against his desk chair again, apparently–very irresponsible of him, but that’s not surprising. Then He vaguely remembers that William had mentioned that he hadn’t heard the song that Sherlock was composing. He staggers back up to his feet, walking over to pick up his violin before rifling through the papers on his desk. “Oh? What are you doing, Sherly?”
“Playin’ th’song for you.” He glances over at William, who looks like an adult trying to humor a very small child. “I’m sure that can wait until my next visit. You need the rest now.”
Sherlock waves him away with the hand holding the violin bow, returning his focus to the smudged sheet music. He expects more argument from Liam as he begins to play, but it never comes. A look in the nobleman’s direction reveals that he’s once again sat on the couch, watching Sherlock with relaxed crimson eyes. This is all the encouragement he needs to double down on his efforts, closing his eyes and allowing the muscle memory of his repetitive practice through the composition process guide him. It isn’t perfect by any means. More than once, he plays a wrong note and has to fumble to recover, but William never makes any comments on it. As Sherlock continues playing, his confidence grows, and that change in emotion is reflected in the song.
Once he reaches the end of what he’s composed, Sherlock opens his eyes again, suddenly embarrassed at the abrupt ending. “It’s still a work in progress. Still, not bad, innit?”
“I think it’s perfect.” The warmth in Liam’s voice catches him off guard, and suddenly Sherlock is glad that the only light in the room is from the gas lamps outside. He lays the violin back down on the table, stumbling through the dark room to collapse on the couch next to William. He leans against the blond man, letting his head rest on William’s shoulder as exhaustion starts to hit him. If he was more awake and sober, he’d be certain that, as he drifted off to sleep, Liam says to himself, “Just like you, Sherly.”
