Archive of Our Own

The flyers pinned carefully to the bulletin board in the auditorium backroom announce too much information - or at least, more than William cares to share - and with far too much excitement. Certainly more than what William currently feels.

Currently, he is bored. 

William leans back idly in his aluminum folding chair, which creaks more loudly than the violinist playing in front of him. He taps his pen on the evaluation form in time with the song. 80 beats per minute, to the dot. The man is precise, on tempo, in perfect pitch. Even the pickiest of competition judges would have a difficult time finding anything wrong with this violinist’s music. 

Dull, William thinks.

The man continues through four more minutes of a somber recapitulation of the main theme, shifts into the finale with a crescendo, and finishes with a wide arc of a flourish.

William’s brother, Louis, who is sitting alongside him, nods approvingly and gives a short but sharp burst of applause. The man bows. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne,” Louis says. “We’ll be in touch by next Tuesday.”

The door to the now empty chamber hall opens and closes as Mr. Hawthorne leaves, and a gust of October air unpins several flyers, sending papers fluttering by William’s feet. 

“Violinist wanted! PROFESSIONALS ONLY. Perform alongside world-renowned WILLIAM JAMES MORIARTY on Christmas Eve at CARNEGIE HALL! Auditions at the Gramercy School of Music on October 20, 21, 27, and 28. Sign-ups are required.”

There’s a QR code to make up for the rest of the font on the page being too small to read, but William knows that it’s a detailed set of instructions for registration, an even longer list of musician requirements and qualifications, details around payment, and additional legal language that Louis had insisted needed to be included, “just in case”.

William lets out a long huff of air. 

“What? You didn’t like him? I thought he was pretty good.” Louis doesn’t look up from typing rapidfire notes from Mr. Hawthorne’s audition, glasses sliding gently down his nose.

His question is met by a noncommittal hum as William leans over to pick up the papers, stacking them together with his mostly-blank evaluation forms.

Louis sighs, half-shutting his laptop lid and running his hand through his hair. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Brother. You can’t keep saying no to everyone. These are all highly accomplished musicians, worthy of performing on a stage of your caliber.”

William is silent for a moment as he continues sorting the music, unperturbed. 

“Brother,” Louis says again, almost pleadingly.

After a moment - “It’s not that they are unqualified.”

“Then what is it?” Louis is typically the most patient of brothers. And in fact, between him, William and their eldest brother, Albert, he would take the title. But today, he feels a bit like, hm. Moran, perhaps, after four rounds of beer. Angry and prone to illogical outbursts.

“They’re missing… something.” It’s hard to describe, William thinks. 

“Like what.”

“A paycheck, if you keep this up.” A tall, handsome brunette appears in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. His green eyes dance with amusement. 

Louis switches tack immediately. “Albert. Please help me convince William that he can’t keep this up. We have gone through five professors at the Curtis Institute, three former New York Philharmonic first chairs, and a London Symphony soloist. The performance is barely two months away. Help.”

“Well,” Albert steps into the hall towards them, picking up a few more of the stranded flyers as he does so. “When’s the last time you were able to convince William to do something he did not want to do?”

Louis groans.

William blinks. “I gave in that time you insisted on going to the concert in Barcelona.” It’s not like he never listens. 

“But only after you found out Evgeny Kissin wasn’t going to be staying in Madrid anyway.” Louis rolls his eyes. “I am not delusional enough to believe my pleading had anything to do with it.”

“Yes, well.” That was largely true.

“Well?” Albert taps the back of William’s folding chair. “Are there more hopeful duet partners coming today? Or are you ready to head home with me?”

“Really? Heading home now? They let you out early. Aren’t you supposed to be chief editor now?”

“A rarity, I know,” Albert gives a wry smile. “But it is a Sunday. So usually yes, news editors are done by six.”

“Well, we have no more auditions today.” Louis sniffs. “Seven more next weekend. I’ll pass on the ride though, I need to pick up some equipment from Moran. He said he’s got a good lead on some options for the concert and I’d like to see them in person.”

“And you, William?”

Going home with Albert would mean a nice, warm, but exceptionally slow car ride. At this time of day, most blocks would be faster to walk than drive. “I’ll walk,” William says. “Need to wake up a bit after those performances.”

“That bad, huh?”

“They really weren’t,” Louis grouches.

Albert laughs.

~~~

The Moriarty brothers live on the upper west side of Manhattan, so it is decidedly not what most would consider walking distance from the Gramercy Hall. 

But William had only been partially joking, about needing the walk to wake up. The auditions had been impressive, yet stifling. There was only so much William could take of listening to perfectly constructed arpeggios, perfectly timed pauses, perfectly designed crescendos. It had all been so… predictable. Each musician had selected songs that were the right choice to show off their skills, but because of that predictability, they had been boring.

It’s unseasonably nice outside, the late autumn air crisp but not frosty. So William tugs his coat closer to himself, taking care to keep his hands in his pockets, and winds his way up north a few blocks before cutting across the plaza marking the southeast corner of Central Park. 

Central Park is, per usual, full of people. Normally William prefers to avoid crowds, but on occasion, it feels nice to blend in. He’s made it halfway through his diagonal path, just past the central fountains, when he hears it. 

‘It’ is a clear stanza of violin soaring above the rush of water, vibrant and bold, but faint. Whoever is playing is still far, but even from the bits he can hear, William can tell that the player is skilled. Something about the violinist’s style is captivating - it’s equal parts playful, light, inviting. What was this song? And could it really be called a song? The melody wasn’t anything he recognized, so it couldn’t be any of the classics. Or the contemporaries. Or jazz, folk, pop. What was it?

William considers for a moment, then heads north, towards the music. 

By the time he reaches the edge of the lawn, the song has seemingly reached its climax, the violin notes accelerating into a dizzyingly impressive set of arpeggios, and the refrain repeating, repeating, repeating. 

Then William turns the corner, and he sees that he hadn’t been the only person curious. A small crowd has formed around the source of the music: a tall, lanky man, with dark hair swept back into a half-up ponytail, revealing a strong jawline. The man’s eyes are shut and his lips are curled into a small, lazy smile as the final notes dance from his fingers. He’s in probably two fewer layers than what Louis would recommend for this weather - what appears to be a grey shirt beneath a black sport coat - but still, with the energy and motion he’s putting into his violin, the man has worked up a light sweat.

Then, with a flourish, the man pulls the last chords from his violin, arms high in the air. His eyes are open now, and they are sharp, bright, alive. The man beams, and the crowd bursts into applause. There’s a small, upturned hat in front of an open violin case, and some of the audience begins to eagerly drop in coins, bills. 

William has no money on him. Feeling a bit put out, he stares at the man and wishes he did. Perhaps he did have a few dollars on him - Louis occasionally would stuff some cash in his wallet “in case he gets lost and his phone is dead” - which doesn’t happen to William, because he doesn’t use his phone - and it was worth a look. Or in any case, digging through his pockets would give him something to do with his hands. 

Eventually, the crowd dissipates and the man begins packing up. There are no secret bills stashed in William’s coat and he’s got nothing else to offer, but still, he steps up to the violinist. 

“Can I help you?” The man glances at him between counting dollar bills. He does a double take.

“Yes. I’d like for you to play with me.” 

A pause. “Come again?” The man is really looking at William now, sizing him up. He raises an eyebrow, mouth forming a wry smile.

William clears his throat, matching the smile. “I’d like to play a duet with you.”

The man stares at him, as though trying to decide something. “You’re a pianist, aren’t you.”

William isn’t sure what gives him away - his close-cut fingernails, perhaps, or his posture. Louis often tells him he needs to relax more. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

“Hm.” The man finishes packing up his bow, clips his case shut, and stands. “When?”

“I’m performing on Christmas Eve.”

He thinks for a moment. “Well, I suppose that’s after finals, so that works for me.”

A student. 

“Unfortunately, I have a composition due this week, so I won’t be able to start practicing until next weekend. That cool with you?”

Eight weeks was more than enough time to prepare. William had learned pieces in less than a week. Then, the implicit agreement behind man’s question sinks in, and he feels a curl of anticipation.  William realizes that he’s very much looking forward to playing with this violinist. “Yes, that works well. Meet here again, noon next Saturday?” 

“Works for me.” The man flashes another smile. He has a wild, cheeky grin, slightly lopsided - one that would suggest that spontaneously agreeing to a weeks-long project with a stranger on the street was very much in character. “Ah, shit. Gotta catch the train. See you next week!” He takes off.

William waves. Then, with a start, he realizes, and calls after the man: “Come to think of it - I haven’t asked for your name yet!” He isn’t sure the man heard him. 

The man laughs as he turns, running backwards for a few paces. “The name’s Holmes,” he yells back. “Sherlock Holmes!”

~~~

Sherlock Holmes is a third year composition grad student. Or, well - he is enrolled as one right now, and will be for at least four more weeks. At the end of those four weeks his semester write-up is due, and immediately after that is finals, and after that he’s supposed to have a live demo with his adjunct professor - at which point if Sherlock fails any of the above, he supposes he would no longer be considered a student. 

Then what? He’d go and get a proper job, maybe, like John keeps telling him to, or maybe he’d just go and compose music for a few years, which is what he’d actually prefer. And yes - he’s been told numerous times by numerous people that that wasn’t going to make money - so yes, he’s prepared to supplement his passion with side jobs.

Like playing with this random pianist. Was that really something to look forward to, though? Sherlock had tried to look him up after, when the beautiful and mysterious pianist who’d shown up to his thrice weekly busking sessions had left him with an assignment, no name, and importantly, no tip. 

But searching “New York blond pianist really pretty” on Google left him with a lot of very unrelated and less beautiful women, and him trying to ask John, his roommate, had left him with a scathing, “You really have time for that? Go study for your final,” and a book to the face. 

That week passes in a blur. Sherlock sleeps through class, attempts to visit office hours, begs John for a copy of his notes, types approximately twenty words of his write-up, and goes back to composing more of his song - which isn’t due this semester, per se, so really, no point in doing it if he doesn’t survive until spring semester to submit this as part of his graduate thesis - but which is infinitely more interesting, and also almost done. Unlike his paper.

Saturday rolls around again, and, pointedly ignoring John’s sour expression as he breezes out of their flat, Sherlock shows up at the southern lawn of Central Park, violin in tow. 

The pretty mystery pianist is there waiting for him. He’s wearing the same soft, knowing smile he was the first time they’d met, and Sherlock feels his ears heat up. “Hey there,” he says.

“Mr. Holmes,” the pianist says politely.

Sherlock winces. “Please. Just Sherlock.”

The man pauses, cradling the name in his mouth. “Sherlock.” 

“That’s me. D’you have a name too? That way I can stop calling you ‘pretty mystery pianist’ in my head.” 

The pianist’s eyes widen briefly, and Sherlock is delighted to watch as his cheeks turn slightly pink. “I’m William.” He offers a hand in greeting. “I apologize for forgetting to introduce myself last time.”

Sherlock grins, takes his hand, and they shake. “You’re pretty hard to find on the internet, Liam.” The nickname slips out naturally. “So anyway - are we practicing now, or what?”

“Yes, let’s. We can go back to my piano and run through the song there.”

So Sherlock follows Liam as he leads them back towards the east border of Central Park, past Madison and Park, and down into the 6 line. Sherlock is only half-paying attention as they go. 

For the most part, he finds himself regaling Liam with tales from the past week: of the lecture he’d actually stayed awake for, because the professor had brought in a salterio - had Liam ever seen one of those?; of the excellent sale going on at the grocery store near his flat just off 11th Ave (40% off all cases of frozen goods); and of the near-altercation he’d had with the couple in the unit across from him and John, due to irreconcilable differences of opinion regarding appropriate house pets.

“I see that meeting me didn’t even make the list”, Liam says, feigning hurt, and Sherlock nearly falls over in surprise. 

“You - I - well you were there for that part! Was it really worth retelling?!”

Liam laughs then - a light laugh with an unexpectedly boyish lilt - and Sherlock feels his heart melt a little. 

Twenty minutes of conversation later, Sherlock stops, because Liam has stopped. He looks up. They’ve stopped in front of Carnegie Hall.

Sherlock stares. “It’s a nice building,” he tries. “Really, a well-known icon, built in 1890 something, renovated thrice, great acoustics.” He glances at the billboard nearby. “Tours start at 1pm. Yeah? That’s why we’re here?”

Before Liam can answer, a sharp voice calls out, “William! There you are.”

Sherlock looks up to see a familiar, albeit younger and sterner face, striding towards them. “Louis,” Liam says in greeting.

“Where have you been, brother.” It’s not really a question, as Louis doesn’t leave room for Liam to answer. “And really, could you have checked your phone even once? Actually - no - we don’t have time for that right now. Please, could you come now? We’ve had our auditionees wait for over half an hour.” 

“You can send them home. I’ve found my violinist.”

Louis opens and closes his mouth. His eyes flit between Liam and Sherlock, and Sherlock gets the sense that he is not the problem here. Louis locks his jaw. “And who, pray tell, might this violinist be?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” William says before Sherlock can answer. “Graduate student at Juilliard in composition, with some impressive Youtube videos of his works, and who has a written exam due in three week’s time.” He counts off his fingers. “Relatively punctual, has one roommate, forages for food at the corner store near the west side piers, allergic to cats. Am I missing anything?” A smile toys at his lips. 

Sherlock’s jaw drops open. “I barely know your name.”

“Brother,” Louis rubs his temples. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

“I rarely joke.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“I believe I’ve solved our problem, no? My violinist is here. We can walk through the piece today. We have plenty of time before the concert.”

“Today’s the second set of auditions,” Louis hisses. “I can’t just send them all home. These are highly qualified, well known and renowned musicians, all who could be a much better match than… erm, Mr. Holmes, here. No offense.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You’re probably right, so none taken.”

There’s a pause. Sherlock looks back and forth between the two brothers curiously. There’s no real tension here - no anger, no resentment. Somehow, their disagreement is merely that - an acknowledgment of differing perspectives and differing approaches, still lined with respect. 

“I insist,” William says, after a moment, so Louis, tight-lipped, acquiesces. “Fine. Then we may try. Mr. Holmes, we’ll have you join the audition as well. Then it’s only fair, yes?”

Sherlock really hadn’t signed up for this. But it could be a good prep for his demo in a few weeks, and besides, when he meets Liam’s warm eyes, it feels like it could only make sense for them to play together. “Sure. You cool with that, Liam?”

Liam exhales. “Yes. If you are. Apologies that you have to go the long way around.”

~~~

Carnegie Hall is tall, yawning, vast, the plush red carpeting vibrant against the old money splendor. Sherlock has only been here twice before - once as a child, when his parents had taken him and Mycroft to the Vienna Philharmonic, and once more during orientation at Juilliard, when the fourth-year giving the tour had promised that someday, if they graduated, they’d perform here.

The stage lights in the Stern Auditorium are on, though missing the flock of spotlights that would normally accompany a live performance. Most of the other lights have been left off, casting the back of the concert hall in darkness. Good thing too, so no one would be able to see the shock process slowly on Sherlock's face: that the pretty mystery pianist - Liam - was the William James Moriarty, prodigy and local idol of several of his pianist classmates. Sherlock didn't follow most happenings in the piano world, but even he'd heard the name.

Sherlock’s slated to go last. The other violinists have seemingly waited a while - two visibly impatient, and one seated too far away for Sherlock to see her face. The others haven’t arrived yet, scheduled for later slots in the afternoon. All participants had the option to sit through the other performances, Louis had said, so Sherlock would be offered that option as well. And Sherlock, spurred by the delicious embrace of procrastination, readily accepted. 

As the first few violinists perform, Sherlock has to admit - they’re good. Better than him? Maybe. Actually yeah, some of these people are definitely technically better than him. They play a variety of classics: some Liszt, some Chopin, one or two spicy Vivaldis. 

Despite an undercurrent of insecurity (why am I here?), it’s still nice to listen. Sherlock hasn’t properly sat and appreciated others’ play in a while. It’s delightful to hear the different interpretations of each player and which notes they choose to emphasize, and to learn their personalities through their choices. 

Two hours later, the second-to-last auditionee steps past Sherlock. He tosses a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. “You’re still here?” the man says. “So you’re really auditioning. Is that a Holstein? Can those things even be played?” 

“Mr. Enders,” Louis calls sharply. “Please proceed to the stage.” 

With a scoff, the man turns away.

Sherlock grimaces. 

Mr. Enders is, surprisingly, a subdued player. He is precise and he is meticulous, landing every chord and every run perfectly according to script. By the end of his two songs, Sherlock is pretty sure he hasn’t missed a single note. 

“Thank you, Mr. Enders,” Louis says when he finishes. His expression is unreadable. “And finally, last up on our list - Mr. Holmes?”

There’s a funny thing about lists, Sherlock thinks. Eventually you get through them. And Sherlock’s name is last, and next, on the list. It had felt impossibly far away when he’d sat listening to everyone else play - impossible that he, too, would be asked to perform on stage. And yet here he was.

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat as he realizes he hadn’t really thought of what he should perform. He could do some Paganini, perhaps - he’d learned a good bit earlier in the semester as accompaniment to a play some of the other students had put on - or maybe some Bach, just to be safe. Or Beethoven, maybe? Only one person had played Beethoven. Or actually, shouldn’t he play what Liam likes to listen to? What does he even like? 

Sherlock’s feet are carrying him to the stage now, even as different options swirl in his mind, and then the stage lights are in his eyes, the auditorium disappears from view, the murmurs from the crowd fade, and without thinking, he starts to play his song.

Sherlock hasn’t named it yet, but it’s the same song he played in Central Park the prior week, the one he’s planning to use for his graduate thesis. The song had been inspired by the music he’d heard on a research trip to Europe and pulls from all of Sherlock’s favorite genres. He plays through them in turn now: starting with a playful and high-spirited movement, reminiscent of a dance, and which is an absolute devil to play; shifting into an interlude that is emotional, thoughtful, and dramatic - Sherlock loves holding onto notes for a quarter-beat longer than absolutely necessary; and ending with a finale that is grand and bold, with soaring notes that climb into a remixed refrain of the first movement, tying together the beginning and the end, and leaving him both winded and somehow more energetic than when he started.

Then it’s over, and Sherlock’s bow arm is raised high, and the auditorium is silent. 

Someone starts clapping. Sherlock tilts his head so the light’s out of his eyes, and he sees that it’s Liam. Liam is smiling. Louis, sitting next to him, looks faintly bewildered. 

A pause, then a few others still in the room begin clapping as well. One of them - the blonde woman whose expression he hadn’t been able to catch early - stands up, grinning ear-to-ear, and gives a Hell yeah! of encouragement. 

Then Louis seems to gather himself. “Thank you all for your time, and for participating. We’ll be sending out notifications by the end of this weekend.” 

The remaining auditionees file out. Sherlock hovers at the edge of the stage staircase, unsure if he, too, should go. Louis gives him a nod of dismissal, but Liam says, “Sherlock can stay.” Louis sighs with the resignation of one who has lost one too many battles.

They make their way back to one of the rehearsal rooms behind the auditorium, a wide, echoing space littered with sheet music, and Louis shuts the doors. 

“Well. That was certainly unconventional, but he’s - ” here Louis flushes a little “ - he’s good, so it’s not a problem if that’s what you really want, William. But is he really what you want?”

Liam doesn’t miss a beat. “He is.”

Louis sighs again. “Then I suppose you’ll be starting rehearsals today?” 

“That’s what we’re here for.” 

“Very well. Here are the sheets for the Christmas Eve performance. I reviewed these with you last month, remember? So there’s no switching it up now. And there are a few sections we may need to cut - what now?” 

Sherlock’s face must have given his feelings away. “Schubert? Really? That stuff can put people straight to sleep.”

Liam smiles. “I’d normally agree with you, but please, give this one a try.”

And so, they begin to play. Their first few runs through are slow and controlled, each testing the way their playstyles match up against the other. Sherlock is rougher around the edges, often nailing the hardest sections with ease and unexpectedly slipping up on the slower sections; Liam is careful yet commanding, gently tugging the songs along with a genius level of musicality Sherlock’s never heard before. 

Then they pick up the tempo, closer to time, and Sherlock is astonished by how easily and fluidly they trade off the melody, how they effortlessly slow down or speed up to match the pace of the other. And, somehow, playing with Liam makes this Schubert interesting.

They play together for hours. Sherlock doesn’t notice the time passing - and would not have, if not for the debilitating hunger that suddenly punches him in the gut. After their umpteenth playthrough, Sherlock stops and says, “Alright, Liam. I don’t know about you, but I am a human, and I do believe I require some food.”

Liam looks up and blinks, as though coming out of a trance. He gives Sherlock a half smile. “Ah, true. I apologize. I often forget to eat. Shall we pick this up again tomorrow?” 

Tomorrow. The word sounds like a promise, and Sherlock can’t help but smile at the thought. “Yes,” he says, grinning, and begins to pack up. Good lord. It was nearly eight o’clock. Ah, shit, Miss Hudson’s corner store would’ve closed by now. What should he eat? There should be some halal food carts nearby, and at this hour he could probably get a whole plate on discount -

“There’s one more thing.”

Sherlock pauses in the middle of loosening his bow strings. Something about Liam’s voice throws him off. The hesitance, perhaps. Why would he hesitate?

“One more song,” he clarifies.

Sherlock recalls the flyers he’d seen of the event. They’d been aggressively plastered to the billboards out front. He says cautiously, “Yes... There will be a duet, which is this fun bit of Schubert we’ve got picked out, and then a piano solo. Right?”

Liam nods. “Right. But I’d like for the second piece to also be a duet.”

Sherlock pauses as the words sink in. Is he being asked to play… a second song? “As long as it’s not another Schubert,” he says half-jokingly.

“It’s not.” Liam’s scarlet eyes stare straight into his. They’re beautiful, glowing like gems. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. “I want to play your song.”

What? Sherlock stares, processing. Seconds pass. Then, again, aloud - “What? Is that - is that even allowed? Aren’t you worried we’ll be booed off the stage, or disowned by the Carnegie Hall gods, or - or, more likely, suplexed by Louis? Or something?”

Liam shrugs. “It’s my call.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes, then does that again. He frowns. “I…”

Liam waits patiently.

“I… I guess we could. But why? I mean - you have all these classics to pick from, or contemporaries, really, I heard you’re good at those too - and I can spin up a mean Chopin y’know, so it’s not like you have to, uh, compromise to make me feel better or anything -”

“I’d like to.” Liam interrupts. He turns slightly pink. “It’s a beautiful song. I liked it the first time I heard you play it. At the park.”

At this, Sherlock has no response. Logically, he knows that must have been the case. Liam must have heard him play and liked it enough to approach him, and to pick him out of a crowd of highly qualified violinists. But he’d never really internalized that Liam - this Liam, this very famous, very talented, and very pretty Liam sitting in front of him - liked his song.

Wow, yeah, that feels really good.

Sherlock still hasn’t said anything yet, so Liam continues, “I can write the piano part, if you’ll allow it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock finally croaks. “Of course.”

~~~

On the first Friday after Sherlock and William started practicing together, Louis enters the rehearsal hall with a fourth-hand Stradivarius. Sherlock nearly wets himself with excitement. 

“Can’t have you playing on that old thing,” Louis grumbles. “Consider it a loaner. We want it back after the performance.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nods rapidly, eyes getting teary. He holds the instrument reverently. This was the Strad that Niccolò Paganini last played on a concert tour in Vienna. He doesn’t even want to think about how much it costs. Probably millions.

“A loaner,” Louis says again, which Sherlock barely hears as he’s already picked up the Stradivarius and begun to play.

~~~

In their second week of practicing together, and after four consecutive days of forgetting to get dinner until past ten o’clock in the evening, Sherlock makes it his mission to bring Liam’s favorite foods to practice. That way they could practice until late and not starve. 

“What does he like to eat?” he asks Louis, while Liam is in the restroom.

Louis sniffs. “Anything I cook.”

That was decidedly unhelpful. Sherlock frowns. “Can’t you give me a bit more to work with? Like cuisine, or meal, any dietary restrictions, hot or cold, sweet or savory…” 

But Louis remains stubbornly tight-lipped, and, with a huff, Sherlock is determined to find out on his own. 

So that day after practice, he invites Liam out for dinner. Liam is puzzled at first. 

“It’s only seven,” he says. “Would you like to stop for the day?”

Sherlock sighs. “No, we’re coming back after. But I’d like to take you out to a meal. As a break. And because I’m interested in getting to know you better. Y’know, as a person.”

Liam’s voice is teasing. “Are you asking me out, Sherly?”

The nickname, for some reason, makes Sherlock’s ears heat up. He’s used a nickname for Liam from the start - so why should it be any different the other way around?

“Yeah, I am.” 

Liam blinks at the straightforward answer, perhaps expecting denial, and then his eyes curve in delight. “Well then. Yes, I’d love to.”

Sherlock lets Liam pick the spot. In what may have been the last place Sherlock expected, they end up at the pizza joint on the corner of 55th and Broadway.

The cheese is cheap, the crust overbaked, and the tomato sauce applied with a stingy hand, but somehow, standing there in the cold autumn air, laughing as Liam attempts to eat his dripping slice directly off the plate, it tastes like some of the best damn pizza Sherlock’s ever had.

~~~

The new song - Sherlock’s song - is coming along well. 

Sherlock is simultaneously surprised and not surprised that it only takes Liam a few days after Sherlock shares the violin sheet music to come up with a perfectly complementary piano part. He really is a genius, Sherlock thinks. A true, bona fide genius. 

Liam’s rendition keeps almost all of Sherlock’s original, and only lengthens the sections between movements to allow for piano solos. The solo parts he’s inserted take a chromatic counterpoint to the violin part immediately prior, with a few variations: split sections into even smaller intervals, creative usage of linked ostinatos, bold reversals of the original melody.

Sherlock listens to Liam play through it once. It’s beautiful.

“Do you like it?” Liam asks, a little nervously.

Sherlock opens his eyes, meeting Liam’s scarlet gaze. “I’m honored,” he says quietly. Then he gives a wry smile. “The only problem I have now is that it sounds better than my original.” 

To which Liam smiles, warm and radiant, and then suggests that, to properly test the new sections, they swap instruments and try out each others’ parts. 

So they trade instruments. To Sherlock’s great delight, he finds that he knows the piano better than Liam can attempt the violin, and by a wide margin. Sherlock laughs for five minutes straight at Liam’s tuneless endeavor, clutching his sides while curled over on the floor. And Liam, too, can’t help but double over in laughter, all seriousness forgotten, the Stradivarius employed unceremoniously as a crutch.

~~~

In their fourth week of practicing together, Sherlock inconveniently remembers that he is a student with academic obligations.

It had been so easy to forget. By spending almost all of his evening time with Liam in preparation of the Christmas Eve performance, Sherlock had successfully avoided doing any more of his write-up, opened his textbooks zero times, and practiced for his live demo maybe once, as warm-up for one of their evening sessions.

“I’m so screwed,” Sherlock groans after a Thursday night rehearsal as he shuts the door to his and John’s shared flat. 

“You did this to yourself,” John reminds him without looking up from his note-taking. 

“I know,” Sherlock complains. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

So Sherlock texts Liam an apology, letting him know he’d need to take the next 48 hours to get his shit together, then promptly buries himself in a mountain of coffee, energy bars, and music.

Those two days pass by in a blur, during which Sherlock sleeps a combined four hours, churns out an entire 20-page treatise on the merits and demerits of applying various musical theories to non-classical composition, begs John for his notes for the two classes they share, and wings the rest of it.

Then, he promptly passes out for twenty hours. Sherlock wakes up to three texts from Liam, a missed call from Mycroft, and a sticky note next to his bedside from John that reads “Pasta in the fridge. You’re welcome.”

He immediately texts Liam back that yes, he’s fine, he’ll be back for rehearsal that night, and, after some consideration, texts Mycroft politely, “What do you want”. Then he checks the time, sets an alarm, and goes back to sleep.

Later, as Sherlock sits in his cramped kitchen, spaghetti rotating slowly in their countertop microwave, he thinks of the days ahead he gets to spend with Liam, what he’s managed to wrangle his way through to get to this point, and, soaking in the pure giddiness that accompanies a lack of any real obligations, Sherlock thinks that some moments in life can feel pretty perfect.

~~~

One evening, Louis calls Sherlock. It is so unexpected and so anxiety-inducing that, for a moment, Sherlock considers not picking up. Then, he reasons that Louis could simply be looking for Liam, who was already on his way home from rehearsal.

“Hi, Louis,” he says cautiously.

“Mr. Holmes.” 

Sherlock makes a face at no one in particular.

“So. My brother has informed me of the… update… to the program. And that he will no longer be performing Chopin’s Concerto No. 11.”

Ah.

Sherlock braces himself. “Erm… yes. About that - sorry, I know that’s probably not what you wanted, or signed up for - it really came out of nowhere, I’m totally fine if we need to switch back -”

“That’s not it.” The heavy sigh on the other end of the line is tinged with exasperation. “I just need to know the name of the song. So I can put it in the damn pamphlet.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how he feels about that. Surprise, at first. Then relief. And also… a bit flattered? 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Well?” Louis says impatiently.

Sherlock hadn’t named the song yet. He didn’t think he’d make it this far. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“A Study in Scarlet,” he says, and is grateful that Louis can’t see the pink that tinges his ears.

~~~

A few days into their sixth week of practice, the results from Sherlock’s finals are released.

He passes. Barely. 

To celebrate, Sherlock treats himself to a full-priced sushi platter from Miss Hudson’s convenience store. 

“Big night, huh?” she says as he checks out.

“Hell yeah,” he says, beaming. “Actually, make that two.”

He isn’t sure if Liam even likes sushi, but somehow gets the feeling that Liam would at least eat it out of politeness. And besides, he could eat both if necessary.

It turns out that Liam likes sushi. 

“Big night, huh?” he says when Sherlock takes the boxes out of his paper bag.

“I passed!” Sherlock grins. 

Liam’s smile matches his. “Congratulations, Sherly.”

“Now Louis won’t have to take my title off the pamphlets,” Sherlock jokes. He’d seen a copy, with ‘Graduate student at The Juilliard School’ emblazoned next to his name. And then, as an afterthought: “Or kick me out of the program entirely.”

“I would never have let that happen,” Liam says, with finality, and proceeds to peel open his soy sauce packet.

Sherlock doesn’t quite know what it is, the warm, giddy feeling welling up in his chest at Liam’s words, but if he had to put a name to it, he might call it love.

~~~

By the seventh week, the two have all but memorized the entirety of their parts across all forty-seven minutes of runtime. It’s barely past eight, but they decide to wrap up for the day. 

“Is Albert picking you up again, Liam?”

“Hm,” Liam considers for a moment. “He’s probably not done yet. I think I’ll walk.”

“Mind if I come with you?” He hadn’t been to Liam’s place yet, but he knew they lived in some posh complex on the Upper West Side. “I’ll catch the train after.”

So they make the trek up Broadway, from Carnegie Hall all the way to 80th Street. Christmas lights cast a soft glow on the sidewalks, and colossal billboards alternate between urgent reminders of holiday sales and insistent holiday greetings. 

They’re just passing by Columbus Circle when Sherlock stops and calls, “Liam.”

Liam, who had been walking a few feet ahead, stops. “Yes?”

“Can I take a picture of you?”

Liam tilts his head in question. “I don’t mind. But what for?”

“I enjoy photography as a hobby. And you look lovely in this light. I don’t have my camera on me today, though.”

Liam tilts his head with a smile, his bangs sweeping gently across his eyes. “What do you like about photography?”

Sherlock hums, tugging out his phone to take the picture. Against a kaleidoscope of city lights, with his coat cutting a sharp silhouette and scarlet eyes glittering in warm amusement, William James Moriarty is a vision. 

“It’s a bit like music, yeah? Everyone has a different perspective, in music and in photography. And you can say quite a lot, through both, without saying anything at all.” 

He takes the picture.

“And what does this photo of me say?”

Sherlock stares at it. Everything, he thinks. “That you’re happy.”

Liam smiles. “I am.”

~~~

In the final week leading up to the concert, they begin practicing on stage. 

It’s not that different, Sherlock thinks. When the spotlights are on and the rows of theater seating are darkened from view and the world narrows down into just him, his violin, and Liam, Sherlock could imagine they were anywhere. Back in the rehearsal hall, perhaps, or it could have been in his apartment, or back in a Juilliard classroom, or in a different time, a different life.

By this point there’s not much more to prepare, so Sherlock and William spend the rest of their time playing through other songs in their repertoire, sharing bits and pieces of their favorites. 

Sherlock had thought he knew Liam inside-out by this point, but he’s surprised when Liam breaks out the Lord of the Rings theme song, somehow managing to mimic a dramatic rendition of the full orchestra on the piano, after which Sherlock responds in vigor with some good old country fiddle. 

“I’d bet that’s the first time anyone’s played Fisher’s Hornpipe on a Stradivarius,” he says with a grin.

“And on a Carnegie Hall stage, no less,” Liam says. “Setting records everywhere you go, I see.”

Sherlock takes a mock bow.

~~~

It’s the 23rd of December. The concert is tomorrow. It’s cold, truly winter now, and the weather forecast says it’s going to snow. “Think we’ll have a white Christmas?” Sherlock asks.

Liam’s lips twist into a smile. “We haven’t had one yet, since I’ve been in the city. But I’m hoping.”

~~~

[Interlude]

“Really? He’s the one? Ain’t he just a kid?”

The second figure shrugs. “Yeah, but a client’s a client, right?”

“What’d he even do anyway?”

“Dunno. I don’t ask questions. And who cares? Not like we’re gonna hurt him. Just nick his stuff.”

~~~

Sherlock is really, truly, and royally fucked.

He can’t find the Strad. He’d gone to grab some dinner after he and Liam had parted for the evening, ready to tuck in for a night of generous movie watching and composing. And then he’d gone back to the flat, and it was gone. 

Sherlock had left his unit unlocked, sure - and John wasn’t around as he’d already gone home for the holidays - but he usually does that, nobody ever bothers thinking there’s anything worth stealing in Washington Heights - and literally everything else is where it should be, including his laptop, wallet, and medicine box - which makes Sherlock think that maybe he’d just left it somewhere. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. There’s no way someone would come in, know the value of that violin, and take it. 

Heart hammering in his throat, Sherlock rewinds through his stops from that evening. Ok. Where did he go again? Right before this he was at the local diner grabbing a sandwich for dinner. He definitely did not have the Strad then, because he’d gone home to drop off all his stuff first. Had he put it down there? Or was it already missing? What was he carrying at the time? Before that, he’d stopped by Juilliard to grab some fresh bow rosin. And before that, he was on the train, and before that, he’d stopped by the park, since there had been a good quartet going and he’d listened to that for a bit. 

Sherlock retraces his steps frantically.

The diner is closed, the campus is empty, and the quartet is gone. The Stradivarius is not there, in any of the places he’d visited. Sherlock visits them all again, half out of desperation, half disbelief. And again. 

Hours pass. The train stops running. Frustration burns at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock is so tired, and so cold, and he’s thirsty and his feet hurt and his fingers are frozen, and all he can think is that he doesn’t know how he’s going to face Liam tomorrow. 

The moon is high, he doesn’t know what time it is, and all he can do is despair, despair, despair.

~~~

Sunday concerts are always matinees. It worked out perfectly this year, as most of Carnegie Hall’s usual patrons had indicated they’d prefer to spend Christmas Eve at home with their family. The entrance is decked out in lavish gold and green, and the foyer is dazzling and opulent, with millions of small lights adorning wreaths of mistletoe across all the columns. A buzz of excitement and anticipation warms the lobby.

William is getting ready for the concert backstage. He’s in a slim black tailcoat and perfectly tailored pants - the outfit he usually saves for his most formal performances - and his bangs have been pushed back. He adjusts his white bow-tie in the mirror.

Louis paces nervously. “Where is Mr. Holmes?” He stares at his watch. “He’s late.”

William hums, unperturbed. “He’ll be here.”

An hour later, Sherlock still hasn’t shown up. He hasn’t picked up his phone or responded to any texts, either. 

Louis’s agitation is palpable. The audience is mostly seated by now, the performance slated to have started fifteen minutes prior.

With nothing else in particular to do, William steps onto the stage, bows, and sits on the bench of his Steinway. He waits. 

The murmurs of the crowd are restless. William can pick out the words, even though he doesn’t care to - Did he get stood up? and Isn’t it that no-name from Juilliard? and Moriarty really should have gone with Macaulay, she wouldn’t have been this unprofessional…

“Brother,” Louis hisses from side stage. “Maybe you should just play something else? At least for now. The Chopin we’d originally discussed, for example, I know you practiced it last week…”

But Liam does not acknowledge his brother’s words. He is still, his back tall and proud, and he waits.

The disgruntled whispering gets louder, and some of the audience begins to leave.

It’s nearly an hour past the advertised start time when the doors to the Stern Auditorium fly open. The room goes quiet. 

Sherlock Holmes stands there, suit disheveled, looking windswept, harried, and sleep-deprived. He is clutching a violin in his hand. It’s the Holstein. 

“Sorry Liam,” he says from the back, making his way over to the stage. “Lent this to a friend a few weeks ago. Had to get it back. Damn kid wasn’t in his apartment.”

William smiles. “Hi, Sherly. You ready to play?”

Louis intakes a hiss of breath as he realizes what Sherlock is holding is not the Stradivarius. 

“Yeah. I am. I’ve kept you waiting, haven’t I?”

“You are worth the wait.”

Sherlock hops onto the stage, taking his station next to William. After a moment, a second spotlight turns on. The murmurs of the crowd have resumed. 

From the side, Louis sighs, then steps forward, microphone in hand. “Esteemed guests and friends. Thank you for your patience. May I please introduce to you, William James Moriarty, winner of last year’s International Chopin Piano Competition, and his duet partner, Sherlock Holmes, graduate student at the Juilliard School. Today they will begin with Fantasy in C, by Franz Schubert, followed by A Study in Scarlet, by Sherlock Holmes.”

William raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t bothered looking at the lineup before, and hadn’t known that was the name of their song.

Sherlock winks.

William gives a half-smile, feeling warm to the tips of his fingers. Then, after a breath, a pause - they begin to play.

William and Sherlock play together like they’ve been duet partners for a lifetime. The Schubert is clean, perfectly executed, the two passing the melody back and forth in a well-rehearsed discourse. Sherlock’s violin part is raw, louder than usual, the Holstein not quite as refined as the Stradivarius, but it is bold and confident. They pace through the intro, verse, and refrain, an easy and natural harmony, and then they race through the bridge of the piece and into the conclusion, a series of dizzyingly fast sixteenth and thirty-second notes, ending with a sweeping scale.

Without missing a beat, Liam gives a nod and they go straight into A Study in Scarlet.  

They’ve played this song dozens of times. They know it - and each other - so well, that it is an effortless duet. Each phrase is a testament to their well-matched skills, each call and response a mirror of their usual interactions. The first section is a quick dance, primarily showcasing Sherlock’s technical skill. Between notes, William can hear murmurs of surprise from the crowd. 

The second movement is slower and even more dramatic than Sherlock’s original - something William had suggested, to enhance the contrast with the first section. It is a slice of solemnity, a chance for the audience to catch their breath, a space for the two of them to appreciate one another.

The last movement is both of their favorites. Sherlock is the most proud of it: a grand ascension of notes, the piano and violin harmonizing such that neither overtakes the other, both simultaneously leading and following. It summons themes from both the first and second movements - and even a bit of flavor from the Schubert - and climbs into a soaring and conclusive finale. 

With a flourish, they finish.

There’s a long silence. Then, the auditorium erupts into applause. 

William looks up from his piano, meeting the exuberant gaze of Sherlock. Sherlock holds out his hand, an invitation, and William takes it. In unison, the two give a bow as the audience continues to clap, many now standing in ovation. From the corner of his eye, William can see Louis watching them with a mixture of pride and relief.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs from next to him.

William gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I should be the one thanking you, Sherly.”

They rise from their bow. Sherlock doesn’t let go of William’s hand. “Thank you for waiting for me,” he clarifies.

“I will wait for you every time," William says. "And I knew you'd come."

The two exit the stage to meet up with Louis, standing next to Albert, who smiles knowingly at the two of them. And next to Albert is...

"Mycroft," Sherlock says. "You made it."

“Sorry, my dear little brother,” Mycroft says, with no detectable irony in his voice. “I had to miss the performance. But on the bright side, I found the violin.” 

He raises an arm to reveal that he's holding the Stradivarius. Sherlock wilts a little in relief.

Louis hadn't seen the instrument until this moment, and he gapes. "Where - how - what on earth happened?"

"There was a rat," Mycroft says. His lips twist in contempt. "No big deal. Someone who wasn't happy about my little brother claiming a spot on the stage next to Mr. Moriarty, and who was both foolish and classist enough to think that this type of trick would stop a Holmes from standing by his word."

Sherlock sighs. "I suppose I owe you one, Mycroft."

"More like eight million dollars," Louis mutters.

Sherlock's jaw falls open.

William smiles. "You didn't need it to shine, Sherly," he says, and he means it.

~~~

Later, after the audience has left, and Louis has gone check that the vendors have all properly packed up and been tipped, and Mycroft and Albert have taken their leave, and all that's left in the auditorium hall are stray flyers and forgotten jackets, Sherlock takes Liam's hand and tugs them both to the lobby, just the two of them.

Most of the lights have since been turned off, a few stray garlands twinkling quietly in the rafters, and they can hear the muted sounds of loud holiday music in the streets.

"Merry Christmas, Liam," Sherlock says.

Liam smiles at Sherlock. "Merry Christmas to you, too, Sherly."

Then he leans in and kisses Sherlock, mouth warm and soft. There's no hesitation in the way Sherlock's arm snakes around Liam's waist in return, pulling him closer. Their mouths and bodies slot perfectly against each other like they were always meant to be together, and they take their time to finally savor this moment that feels so right, so perfect.

When they pull away, Sherlock can see through the tall windows by the entrance, that snow has begun to fall.

~~~

fin.