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Time is the only weapon mankind holds. Time decides everything — the amount of experience one has, the amount of coins one should receive in exchange for work. Youth and adulthood, they are but a trick of the clock, a distortion of the soul and a curse on the mind. Sometimes, time never passes; some other times, it lasts as long as the flicker of a flame. To murder means to get rid of a person’s time.
To love means to sacrifice time and give it to another being.
Sherlock was fine with giving William as much time as he requested. He would wait for him to wake up from his coma, he would do so diligently. His days were filled with the picture of his friend resting upon that hospital bed. His golder hair fell elegant on his slim face, his skin as pale as fresh milk.
“Liam, please,” Holmes had prayed, “please…”
He selfishly grabbed the other man’s cold hands and brought them towards his face.
“How long has it been, since I last heard your voice…?”
Sherlock let go and fished for a cigarette. He stared once more at William, before walking out of the room and moving to the rooftop. There was a bench and many drying racks.
The sight was beautifully melancholic.
He lit the cigarette with a match. He had been smoking quite a lot, recently. It was all he had left, the comfort of nicotine and heavy lungs, and it was what he needed to avoid falling into past habits. He heard some rustling behind him. The sound reminded him of a heavy skirt, one only a maid would wear.
If he had been a little more naive, he would’ve turned around with an expectant smile on his face. And then he’d see William’s delicate features, and he’d feel the warmth of an embrace.
Before him, as he’d deduced, stood a young nurse. Her brunette hair were held together in a strong bun, her robe slightly stained with spurts of blood and a few drops of spilled coffee.
She averted her gaze and quickly got to taking the dry clothes off the racks.
“Need any help?” Sherlock said, suddenly.
“There is no need for it, Sir,”
He shrugged and helped her. He needed something to keep him busy anyway.
As Holmes picked out the last hung sheet, the woman began to speak.
“Forgive my improper question, Sir,” she said, “but aren’t you tired?”
“… What?”
“What I’m trying to say, Sir, is that you’re always in this place. You must be one of the most familiar faces of the hospital.”
She did not wait for Holmes to answer, “I have met a lot of struggling people in my career, and I can assure you, taking some time off won’t hurt you.”
Sherlock blinked, the words she had just uttered reminding him of something Watson had told him back then. The nurse felt suddenly guilty, afraid of having said something way out of her field.
“Sir, forgive me,” she grabbed the clean clothing from Sherlock’s hands, “and thank you for your help, I—”
“This is all I can do for him, right in this very moment,” Holmes replied.
“Eh? Pardon?”
“To give him my time is all I can do, so I’ll do it.”
The nurse showed off a timid smile. She walked away, content with the answer she received but not confident enough to reply to her interlocutor. Holmes stared as her figure disappeared. He followed shortly after, as he went once more to William’s room. He grabbed a wooden chair, positioned it near the bed. He sat down, his hands rested upon the white covers.
“Liam, seems like today I don’t have anything to work on…”
“Quite lucky, if ya ask me. Now I get to spend my day next to you.”
“I wonder if you’ll ever remember the time we spent like this.”
“I’m gonna ask ya about it as soon as you wake up, ‘kay?”
When WIlliam came out of his coma, Sherlock had completely discarded the question he had meant to ask him. His thoughts were stuck on their conversation on the rooftop — Liam’s tears, his torn smile, his fidgety hands.
He had been broken all over.
“Liam, c’mon, it’s best if you get back inside,” Holmes had said, the fresh wind scraping their faces.
“Mhm,” William had replied, not fully convinced, “It’d be a shame, though. You’ve waited for so long, and I barely can keep myself awake.”
Sherlock shook his head, “There’s time ahead of us, innit right?”
Then he reached for William, helping him to get up from the bench by letting his friend’s weight fall onto his arm.
“Sherly,” the newfound nickname was something he had to address, sooner or later, “thank you.”
The last stair was quite the feat for a trained man who had taken countless lives. Sherlock noticed how William winced at every abrupt movement, his body probably aching from the pressure. They reached the bed and Sherlock tucked him into the covers.
“Now rest, Liam.” William nodded faintly, “What will you do, Sherly?”
“Ah, I’ll stick ‘round here. You’ll be sure to find me when ya wake up.”
“You should be resting, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the dark circles under your eyes.”
“Never had a proper sleep schedule once in my life, Liam, I wouldn’t sleep either way.”
“You’re lucky I’m still hospitalized.”
“Hah! Then get better as soon as possible, we’ll see who’ll fix whose sleep first.”
A heartfelt smile. Sherlock considered himself satisfied. William was exhausted, his lids fell quickly, akin to the red curtains of a theater. After the play had been done, and with it the tragedies that it brought, Moriarty had now time to retire from the scene and wipe off his blood-stained footsteps.
Their stay at the hospital was almost due, Sherlock clearly deduced. It was easy to notice how understaffed that place was; the few nurses ran left and right, from one room to the other, their complexion worsened by the fatigue. On the other hand, the patients were many — William had described such situation as “inversely proportional”.
One morning, they even had that uncomfortable chair taken from them. It was needed somewhere else, and it was merely a piece of cheap wood. Still, to Sherlock it was the end of an era. He could sit on the floor anyway, and if William was awake enough to retreat his legs, he could even sit on the edge of the bed.
“No biggie,” Holmes replied to his friend’s worried glance.
“Sherly, by the by,” William then said, “what’s to come?”
Sherlock smirked, a wave of pride swam through his veins, his cheeks slightly tainted pink.
“Thanks to Billy I have found a nice place we can stay in,” a pause “it ain’t a manor, that much is for sure. And there’s no curtains.” William matched his expression, “You know I don’t mind.”
Notwithstanding his years spent as a noble, William was born in the slums. A roof was well enough for the both of them, with or without curtains. They could adapt just fine.
“I know, I know. Just felt like telling you prior.”
His friend hummed, as his gaze was fixed on the candid sheets. Sherlock considered pressing him; he read people’s minds like the they were his newspapers, that was a part of his previous job, but with the way things evolved, this was complex territory. If only he could cut the thorns that threatened William. He’d use a shear, or even some sort of modified fire-weapon.
A buried memory of a fairy tale Mycroft had mentioned to him when they were younger attempted to resurface.
He needed a smoke.
“What’s on your mind?” William said, one step ahead of him.
Holmes shook his head, “Nah, nothing worth mentioning.”
“Too cumbersome to put it in your mental attic?” his friend was not fooled.
“Bingo!”
“I see,” William replied “so if I were to sense… a worrisome feeling, would I be wrong?”
His single red eye shone like a ruby amidst moonlight.
“And If I were to sense that you were about to pass out, would I be wrong?”
“Touché.”
“Hah!” Sherlock got closed to the bed, “what’s wrong, then?”
His caring voice prickled William’s ears.
“Oh, it’s just my eye, it’s — ”
As the confession begun, a doctor busted into their room.
“Sirs, good morning, good morning!”
He was a young man, around their age, and he smelled of soap and a striking sweet perfume that probably — no, surely — belonged to one of the nurses. Some sort of affair, considering Holmes had never seen them together in the light of day, and young couples, they seemed to love attention; those who were privileged enough to appear before the public, that is. So maybe the doctor had another lover, a wife, even, but Sherlock didn’t know much about marriages in America. Were they as rigged as the ones in England? Not that it mattered, the odor was too strong, so he had met with the wearer recently. And his chemise was crumpled! His face a bit too perky, a trace of pink makeup poorly smudged on his cheeks. Furthermore, he — Sherlock was digressing.
“Good morning, doctor,” Moriarty’s polite voice replied, but his gaze seemed to follow another train of thought.
“Sir, it seems your recovery has reached, how do you say?, stability! Yes, great stability!”
Sherlock looked at William, perplexed, and made as to open his mouth to object. However his friend, quick in his reflexes, or maybe a bit too aware of Holmes’ ways, interrupted him before he could utter a sound.
“I agree, doctor. Would that be meaning that I am to be released?”
“Yes, good man! That’s exactly the case,” the doctor then proceeded to bring out a small flask from his pocket, shaking it lightly in front of them, “use this twice a day, apply it on your scars, so that they won’t get an infection.”
Holmes nodded vehemently, as if the instructions were destined to him. The doctor put the balm in the patient’s hands.
“You might need a bit more time to get adjusted to monocular vision, Sir, a few physical issues can be expected, too,” the doctor continued, “you need to rest and avoid getting cold. I think you’re free to leave in the afternoon. A few nurses will check on you and gather some of the things in your room.”
Said things being the gifts that Sherlock had given to him during those months: a copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, dry petals from a rose Moriarty used as bookmarks, a new coat he had bought with his first proper paycheck.
William thanked the man, who left the second he was excused to.
They were alone, now, an abrupt silence dancing between them.
“It seems he had… a pleasant encounter before arriving here, wouldn’t you say?” Moriarty said, in an attempt to suppress something.
“Yeah. Poor bloke smelled like a dollhouse,” Sherlock was not surprised that his friend had caught on that deduction. No, he was much more interested in what was being hidden from him.
“I don’t know if he would’ve called himself ‘poor bloke’, Sherl—”
“Liam, why didn’t you tell him about your pain? The man’s a doctor, Christ, he’s gettin’ paid for this.”
The nervousness in his tone was palpable.
“It’s fine, it doesn’t even ache that much, and you heard him too, it’s only natural for me to experience this.”
Sherlock scooted closer and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
“Yet another migraine?” Holmes insisted.
“Maybe.”
“Wry neck?”
“Maybe that, too.”
“Are ya up for negotiations? One more day ‘s all I ask.”
“Absolutely not.”
William’s face appeared as serious as ever. He was convinced, and there was no way to distract him from his decision. Besides, Sherlock had been defined by Billy as an ‘apprehensive wife’, and maybe he wasn’t too far from that role. The injures his friend had sustained from the fall were major, and it was only natural for him to feel pain even after resting. Hospitals needed space, because the sick were many and many didn’t have enough money to spare for house treatments. He was sure William had pondered about this, too.
Holmes sighed.
“I’ll be out for a smoke.”
That cigarette lasted longer than usual. There were no clothing or sheets disheveled by the wind — everything appeared exceptionally calm. But calmness was a concept that one had to fight for, in this world, in their conditions. He wanted to keep William alive, he wanted to because he loved him. He loved him dearly, and a genius wasn’t necessary to reach that conclusion. He loved him to the point of leaving behind the only friend he ever had, the older brother who had raised him, for better and for worse. Hell, he even left behind the poor woman who let him live under her roof even with no money to cover the rent.
But William had thrilled him from the very start, their minds were just too alike for them to depart from one another.
One more puff, the still-lit cigarette butt almost burned his index finger.
Three weeks into their apartment, and Sherlock was tired of sleeping on the divan.
It was something he insisted on doing — there was no space for another room, and he couldn’t just invite himself on the only bed in the flat. It would’ve been awkward and maybe a bit too much for William, who still had to adapt himself to the concept of being taken care of. But he would’ve lied if he said that his bones weren’t hurting from the incredibly uncomfortable constitution of the sofa. His legs were too long for that crumpled surface, and the pillow too hard to even be considered useful. Ah, even closing his eyes seemed like an arduous venture. In moments like these, he missed his Stradivarius. It had been his most prized possession, the only object he had ever established a proper place for, the only piece of inanimate matter that he considered to be a part of him. Hollow hours were filled with the melody of its strings.
He would’ve liked to play the violin for William.
His face would be brimming with confidence, but his heart would race just a bit more than usual. He’d probably feel timid, at some point, knowing that the other man had his expectations set on him. Sherlock would surely close his eyes, tearing them away from William’s graceful figure and delicate features, as the music progressed, getting faster and faster and louder than it should’ve been. Eventually, the symphony would be spent, and sweat would fall upon his forehead and neck. Sherlock smiled at the thought; in that little fantasy of his, William appeared delighted. Glowing with beauty, his friend seemed utterly content with the show Holmes had put on. Would William embrace him right after that? Or was it Sherlock’s role to fulfill? And then, would their hands be joined, too? And wh —
A loud crash interrupted that delirious reverie.
Sherlock arose from the divan and rushed towards the noise. He reached the door to the bedroom and impulsively opened it.
“Liam?!”
He found William on the ground, his left hand was injured and shards of glass were scattered around him.
Upon further glance, Holmes saw the broken balm flask.
“Liam, are ya alright?!” his preoccupied words were met with silence, “…here, let me help ya.”
He helped his friend to his feet, the previously noticed scar tainting Holmes’ arm with blood.
Moriarty stayed silent as his gaze fell to the ground, mortified.
Sherlock quickly inspected the room once more.
Ah, there it was.
Holmes’ chamois shoulder bag was located in the corner between the closet and the door. Usually, he left it in the small space between the closet and the wall. He must have been too tired when he’d returned that evening and he’d mindlessly shoved it and pretended it landed right where he wanted it to be.
William was probably about to go to the bathroom to apply the medication on his skin, but he had tripped in the bag’s baldric.
“Ah, shit, Liam, ‘m sorry,” Sherlock said, now it was his turn to feel mortified, “I’ll sanitize the cut.”
He gently grabbed his friend’s wrist. However, the both of them did not move an inch.
“What are you even apologizing for?”
Moriarty’s voice was cold, detached, even a bit scary.
“You know why, Liam, I shouldn’t have left that damned bag —”
“I was trained since I was a child, Sherlock,”a broken sound, “I should not be in this state over a misplacement.”
“You were not trained for this, Liam, you know it well,” it was hard to face William when he was in such state, “c’mon, let us go to —”
“We had recently bought it,” Moriarty shook his head, “No, you had recently bought it.”
“What, the flask? I’ll buy another one tomorrow, now we gotta focus on this cut.”
Resistance.
“With the money you gained, and the time you spent earning them.”
Sherlock sighed: “Liam, there’s no better use for those nickels. And there’s no better use for my time.”
“Pray, what?”
“I like taking care of you. It’s not a waste of anything.”
That left William speechless, a tinge of red colored his cheeks. Holmes guided him towards the bathroom, but instead of grabbing his wrist, he took his bloodied hand.
William was now seated on a stool near the sink, while Sherlock, on his knees, applied some alcohol to his injury in a carefully pressured motion. After he was done, he wrapped a bandage around the other man’s hand and he caressed it with his fingers. He did so for a few minutes — they were not even properly looking at each other.
“You’re so cruel, Sherly.”
“Liam?” as he heard that phrase, Holmes stopped and retracted his hand. However William immediately reached to bring it back.
“When you say things like that, you make me trust you blindly,” a long, thoughtful pause, “and when you do things like these, I don’t know what to make of myself.”
Sherlock felt warm all over as his fingers laced with his friend’s.
“You don’t have to figure it all out now, Liam.”
William smiled.
He looked as beautiful as Holmes had imagined him just prior.
“But you don’t make this any better, Sherly, you make it so hard to wait.”
“Liam —”
“I would have never thought I’d live past this age,” barely a whisper, hidden under newfound tears, “Sometimes, it feels like I’m dreaming. Then, I suddenly realize and…”
He cut himself short, as if he’d been afraid of revealing the truth out loud. Sherlock stared at him, waiting patiently, dragging his thumb across the other’s palm.
“… and I don’t know how you manage to do all of this, Sherly.”
As if Holmes knew, but that was quite the unnecessary response. He knew why he did all of this; but how? ‘How’ is a question one poses in an investigation. How was the victim killed? How did the murderer escape?
But their relationship wasn’t merely a case of cops and robbers.
“I know why I do it, Liam. ‘How’ is a consequence to ‘why’.”
“So, Sherlock, why?”
The worst inquiry William could pose, and yet the most natural to make.
Because I love you.
“Because we’ve only ever understood each other.”
Wasn’t that the meaning of love?
“I, I see,” Moriarty uttered, as strong as the turning of a book’s pages when the wind hits them.
Holmes smiled, patted on the other’s injured hand, and proceeded to say: “Liam, ‘m gonna get ya soon, I’ll be pickin’ up those glass shards.”
His heart was beating so loud, he couldn’t even hear his own words. He wondered if his friend’s heart was just as vicious.
The bedroom’s stillness was palpable. Sherlock cleaned everything up; no more pointy pieces scattered around, no more carcasses of skin balms and such, even that accursed bag was in its rightful place.
He checked again, for good measure, cowering to reach the ground.
A faint laugh behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“Dunno, talkin’ to dust particles?”
“Mh, and are they compelling?”
“Maybe a tad too shy.”
“Oh?” William mused as he got closer to Holmes and mimicked his position, slightly tilting to the side and brushing over the other man’s shoulder.
“There’s another shard there,” Moriarty then said, his finger pointing at a spot.
Sherlock hummed, reaching for it, though its position was different from the one his friend had discovered.
“Seems pretty clear to me now, eh?”
“Seems so.”
Holmes stood up and offered his palm to William; the latter accepted, somewhat bashfully. They were eye-to-eye. A silence filled with trepidation befell between them.
“Sherly, say,”
“Y,yes!” Sherlock’s reply rushed out of his mouth.
“About the bed—”
“Ah, yeah! I’ve been looking for some good sales, ya know? To get us another mattress, but they cost a lot, ya know? Even asked Billy ‘bout it, if he knew someone who could make us some good deal, but —”
Another laugh, this time right before his face.
“You can sleep here, if you want.”
He must have heard it wrong.
“… and let you sleep on the couch?”
“No. Ah, this is embarrassing.”
He hadn’t heard it wrong.
Everything was better; the sheets, they were warmer and the pillows, they were softer, Sherlock’s whole body adapted to that novelty of comfort. He stared at the wall, white, but with yellow-ish stains all the same. William laid next to him, still awake. Between them rested numerous untold questions. They could feel it in each other’s uneven breathing, their need to talk and talk until they were too exhausted to continue.
Ah, damn it.
“Liam, please know that I want ya to live.”
“Sherlock.”
“I want you to rely on me.”
“Don’t you think I’ve been doing it a bit too much?”
“No, it never feels enough.”
“You’re shouldering a weight too heavy.”
“You’ve been shouldering heavy weights since you were a brat, please.”
“And look where this has led me to.”
“Liam.”
“Yes?”
“Can I hold you?”
“… hold me?”
“The last time I did, we were on the verge of death. I’d like to do it now.”
The sound of rustling covers, a movement perceived through sheets and nothing more. William had shifted his position. His arms on the bed supported some of the weight of his upper body. He was now staring, glaring, scraping at Holmes.
“Then hold me, please,” Moriarty begun, “hold me.”
Sherlock, who was now half sitting, obliged compliant. His limbs enveloped the other man, his left hand rested in golden locks. Their legs close enough to capture the warmth that had caught them both.
“Ah, Sherly… this is just like that time,” a sound akin to a whisper, “If I close my eyes, it seems like I’m about to reach the Thames.”
William tightened the embrace — it almost hurt, but Sherlock didn’t mind. They swayed, and Holmes took it as an opportunity to let the both of them fall on the mattress.
“Be careful, I might lose the only eye I have left.”
Sherlock laughed, “Nah, this ain’t anything like the icy cold water of that damned river.”
“Oh, but this is exactly what I felt.”
“So, are ya disappointed to find out that we’re here, now?”
“Disappointed? No, I wouldn’t say,” harsh honesty paved its way, “yet sometimes, I know it’d be easier if we weren’t.”
A hum.
“What about you, Sherly, are you disappointed?”
Moriarty had moved further away to stare at the other man’s face. He was searching for something — an answer, maybe, one that would dissipate his fear. Scarlet gaze pleaded, prayed and waited.
“Nah, Liam, not at all,” Sherlock had never been used to externalize, “I’ve never been disappointed with living together.”
Even if living together meant distance from his country, distance from his friends, distance from his role as great detective. Living together meant looking at his friend’s distraught expression, watching as he struggled to keep himself alive, knowing he could decide to leave, sooner or later.
Yet, this was all so worth it.
William smiled, gentle, careful, his hands fidgeting all over, shaken by his heartbeat. Sherlock caressed his companion, brushing aside his blond strands, then his thumb traveled along reddened cheeks — they were soft, and maybe he had been crossing a line.
A nod. A questioning tilt of the head. Yet another nod.
Sherlock kissed those chapped lips with great care, tiptoeing around them for a few more seconds.
“I would have never thought I’d live past this age.”
The echo of a cry for help.
William rolled on his back, Holmes following him proudly, cowering over him. Their hands met for the second time that night, a bit sweaty, so that the gauze Moriarty had on moved from the pressure.
“Look where this has led me to.”
Ah, Sherlock wanted to save William over and over again. He hoped replying to the other man’s wanton pleas was enough for that night. He hoped that smothering his composed face with fleeting pecks was enough.
“Sherly,” a breath.
“Liam, there’s time, we can have so much time,” Holmes said, almost desperate, “I promise you.”