Archive of Our Own

By the time the sun came through the windows, bathing, with a golden mantle, the room that lay in fraternity with the shadows, William thought that the mornings in New York were too bright.

As an English man born in a country that lived embraced by the rains and the mirages of the citadels impregnated by the damp cold that sent the drowsiness of the flooded streets, it was difficult for him to get used to whole days with the sun besieging the cornices.

He and Sherlock had discussed buying heavier curtains so they could enjoy a little of the shadows even when they wanted to hide from the world, or at least for their room, but they had always postponed it for purchases of more urgent needs. That day they would definitely go to the window shop to buy some curtains, because he couldn't stand waking up like that again.

A figure moved beside him, slightly alerting the silence of that room that was too bright for his sleepy eyes, which William found himself tearing off his sleepy expression to form the first smile of the day as he watched Sherlock fight against the clutches of sleep.

He heard him let out a moan.

"How horrible the mornings are here..." Sherlock murmured in a tired voice, barely above a whisper.

William softened his gaze, agreeing, understanding that it was a struggle for both of them to get used to a country that wasn't theirs. To an accent that still didn't fit their dialect ​​and to the general epithet that they would always be classified as foreigners.

"The Englishmen on the tenth floor."

They had both gotten used to it to a certain extent, but there was still that stench of nostalgia that sent memories back to the motherland.

"I have to teach in a couple of hours, what are you doing today, Sherly?"

The question bounces and slips in an almost imperceptible echo, because the room was still half-finished and they hadn't finished sorting the moving boxes. Fighting the cobwebs and dust towers, which had built their kingdom for so long, required several days of arduous cleaning before they could begin to occupy it properly.

"Sherly, honey, wake up." William moved him a little, feeling the comfort of the warmth of Sherlock's body against his and that counterweight at his side that has turned a bed that was infinitely cold into a love nest. "It's almost ten o'clock."

"I'll make breakfast," he anticipated any dialogue that William would use as an excuse to get them both out of bed, and although he was right, that morning he was driven by other reasons a little more personal.

"No, it's not just that. I just want you to see me for a few moments," he requested in a velvety voice, brushing back his curly hair, he revealed a sun-dried face with two-day-old stubble and dark circles under his eyes that never left his pale skin from his nocturnal wandering

Responding to the request, Sherlock opened one eye, clouded by the tiredness and lethargy that darkened the cerulean light that was able to conquer the wastelands of his heart, and it was enough for William to remember the reasons that now had them trapped in that place so far from everyone; but that the presence of his love attenuated all displays of pain.

"It's going to be our anniversary soon, so I wanted to know—" And the words floundered on his tongue, as the smile that spread across Sherlock's lips made his heart skip a beat. "I wanted to know…"

And he didn't know what he wanted to know anymore, unable to resist the impulse to lean over to Sherlock to have an encounter with that mouth that still had traces of nicotine on his breath. He swayed on his lower lip and then tilted his head so he could drink the residue of the whiskey as well, making it clear that Sherlock had indeed just arrived. He quieted himself with a prodigious effort of will, because it was the moment of the reprimand that was coming in the frown of his brow, and that Sherlock guessed even before it manifested itself, because he said:

"I was planning to go earlier, but I got caught up in a curious discussion about the hilarious seduction of lungs with a couple of classmates, and we ended up staying a bit longer at the university." Sherlock finally sat up with a yawn, stretching his arms and still wearing half-buttoned pajamas, a sign of his lack of care when he left the bed and later the room. Raising his voice, he added, "Besides, I had to finish the last chapters of my thesis."  

William leaned back on his pillows, combing his hair a little and mentally counting how long it would take Sherlock to return; until he saw him peek in the doorway, with two cups of coffee freshly warmed from the microwave.

"So, you're leaving me all night to go drink and smoke with your friends, in this cold winter of this room that still haunts the voices of its previous owners?" William asked as he received the cup with a smile and a floral kiss on the lips that was the start of the day.

Since they started living together, just a few weeks ago, Sherlock set his only rule, unlike him, who made a list of things he would like his bedmate to avoid. Sherlock's was simple and it was a cut to his serene expression, setting his cheeks on fire when he left the order that the first coffee that William drank in the morning had to be prepared by him.

"For starters, it's not winter; Secondly, you told me that you had to correct some exams, so I decided to stay outside for a while longer so I wouldn't bother you; thirdly, echoes are the voices that erode your thoughts because I can't hear anything." Sherlock chuckled, listing each argument casually but with just enough of a smug air that could be seen in the blue of his eyes: "And one more thing, if you missed me, you just had to send me a message and you know I'd be there. I could know a lot of things about your mind, Liam; but I'd like you to be more honest with me. You still need to improve that.”

The last part was a blow that tore through the rebuttals he had prepared to counter Sherlock's response, as it soon left him with a feeling of guilt, similar to the black shadow of nostalgia that had haunted him since he was a child, as if he was born only to miss and suffer for something he still didn't know. He always wondered what future his many faces and disguises held, to protect himself, when he had been raised in the bosom of a good family, anchored by loving siblings who became independent as soon as they came of age, leaving behind the rigors of absent parents who were to find death in a traffic accident weeks after they left home.

The inheritance was to be taken by his older brother, Albert, who received that mansion that seemed to conceive bad omens of a somewhat tormented childhood and sold it as soon as he was given the property papers.

William never considered that his upbringing would twist his character to weaker extremes, although few believed that this was possible, considering that he had taken the leadership of the remains of the lineage abandoned to its fate since ancient times. He had amassed a good opportunity to multiply the fortune and today his surname had shaken off the thorny vines of the bad reputation that it carried for years. It was some time later when he understood that he could not connect with anyone in the large family that soon began to fill the corners of the mansion too large for three brothers, and that it did not weigh on his thoughts because he knew that being a genius seemed more like a punishment than a benevolence of life. However, he tried not to shepherd blame towards himself in case there was something wrong with him; reducing everything to the fact that it was only his solitary and melancholic nature, which found refuge in the torn pages and in the heart of ancient words, because the earth had not engendered a person who could read the unique language of his soul.

Until he met Sherlock.

Many events had happened that led them to the present in which they lived, surviving on salaries that barely helped them make ends meet, but happy with what they were building based on what they themselves wanted.

If he took his mind to the past, he could evoke that summer night where the portals were suffocated by the heat, when William had his twentieth birthday. Back then, those days were nothing more than routine and boring, overwhelmed by the nocturnal exaltation, believing that he was aging without feeling any passion other than teaching in schools, he found himself in the foothills of the dawn chasing answers that had no questions.

The walk had no destination, his feet pushed by the mere act of fleeing from ghosts, who had their voices too loud and told him that he was adrift on a train with no return. At that point, he was chained to boredom, perhaps since birth. There was no remedy for that evil, because he was not a person enthusiastic to seek other ends outside of his habits, that he had no choice but to succumb in the mud of resignation.

He did not know how to get the words stuck in his chest out and find a meaning to his life that was more than getting rid of conformism.

He pursued the way back, knowing that his younger brother Louis would notice his absence and without a state of mind to explain the thorns that were stuck in his chest that were inhabiting his heart as the days became unbearable, when he heard the whistling of a humming in the corner that surrounded the walls of the mansion.

That made him pause, considering it was late enough for someone to be on the streets. Spurred on by curiosity, he listened carefully to the sound of his footsteps when he spotted a man between the edges of a hedge, swaying his hips as if he were living the naturalness of the world, holding a spray bottle that he was shaking at face level. He was chewing on the edge of an unfinished cigarette, smiling and with his cheeks flushed despite the scratches of a hot afternoon, releasing dancing curls of smoke as he seemed to calculate the size of that white wall that Albert had recently ordered to be painted. If he were to find out, there was no doubt that he would at least carry a sigh all morning, because he was not a man to hold on to anger for too long and without solving it as much as possible.

William savored the scene with a hint of amusement, studying the young man from head to toe, as was his inveterate habit developed by so many pedagogy books he read in order to have better oratory skills when giving classes. He couldn't have been older than twenty, and he would even venture to make a perhaps more daring deduction that they could be the same age; with his hair tied back in a messy ponytail that let some strands escape, and frayed pants with tears that could be attributed to the fashion of the moment, if it weren't for the small green wisps attached to them, silent witnesses of a journey through deserted and abandoned lands, typical of someone who prefers to be stealthy; in addition to that appearance, his entire right arm was bathed in ink, in a lush tattoo that intertwines with so many whimsical shapes that he could barely make out through the darkness and the yellowish light of the street light bulb. When the young man turned around, he could see that he had piercings in his right ear.

He soon realized that this was the eager young man who had besieged the prestigious walls of that area known for its opulent houses and wealthy owners. If it were simple graffiti, people would not have enough motivation to encourage the police, other than placing an occasional guard who would fall asleep watching the ten o'clock soap opera; however, it was precisely the message that he brought to the scandalized area, by such a nuisance and public shame, that every day the neighbors looked out to check if they had not been victims of that daring delinquent.

The last one William knew was a poem by Alfonsina Storni that quoted the following text:

“I saw you coming from afar...

Your lying steps

Treading the path of the afternoon…”

And added in the diction of a personalized composition:

“Your wrinkled and disheveled skirt

Soiled by the hands of betrayal

From the closest friend of the association…”

At first it didn't seem to make any sense, until Dr. Coram discovered, thanks to his divine providence to study, that this poem recounted infidelity and that the last was more a message that his wife was unfaithful to him with his best friend. The truth was not long in coming to light, because the suspicion had already been unfounded, creating a swarm of gossip when more and more poems began to embroider the high walls, exhibiting the dust that was hidden under the carpet.

There were already two marriages in conflict, a revelation of a son who was not the father's, the location and identity of an aunt who had stolen a necklace from her sister, the verification of a falsified will and an outraged inheritance... Many did not know whether to call him a criminal or a hero. In the end, that character reveled in those graffiti with curved and elegant letters, he took the trouble to study his victims and fleece them with the truth.

The police began to make rounds every two hours and questioned all the young people who lived there, as well as those who were unlucky enough to pass by the road for mere walks.

Apparently, William had found the culprit without looking for him. He could call the patrol that was two blocks away, but he was overcome by curiosity about what that young man would write on his wall. They had no infidelities nor were they corrupt. Perhaps he could mention Moran's turbulent past, although he almost never left the house and no one could say with certainty who the man was who left his name in the dust of the road.

So he crossed his arms, hiding better in a nearby tree to see which of the Moriartys would be the victim of the truth. He saw him place the spray on the wall and trace curves with decorative ornaments. It was just a line and William was almost disappointed, since he did not feel that it would be something revealing.

Only when the young man began to clean up did William read what he wrote:

“Third book read in the week, page 10. Line 16.”

His eyes opened wide with that revelation and his mind assaulted precisely the collection of poems that he had searched to find the references of the graffiti he borrowed from the library.

He had a photographic memory and remembered the order of the poems he had read, which he felt as if they were pushed to him when he understood the message. The worst thing was precisely that one that he left marked and open in his room, because of the revelation and similarity of his life, plunging him into the anguish of the revelation of finally giving a name to his sadness.

It was a poem by Luis Cernuda, whose name at that moment was slipping from his grasp, but he could recreate the text that had touched him the most and that the young man pointed out:

“And at the end of his life,

When death comes,

He will know that he has not lived,

That he passed without touching himself,

Without enjoying, without feeling himself”

He felt as if a wave had hit the barriers of his heart, offended by the truth that someone noticed the silence of his soul, that he felt himself drawn to pursue that ghost; but by the time he stopped thinking, he had already disappeared from his sight.

He crossed the street in two leaps and did not even find footprints on the cobblestones. The young man left no marks on the ground and, wherever he had gone, he had cleaned his trail. Clearly he had experience in escaping.

Overcome and shaken by the frantic beating of his heart, feeling his breathing quicken, it was only when he looked at the graffiti more closely that he noticed something else written. It was just a short message, scribbled in red marker, the same color he used to correct exams, in small letters, which he could only read with one hand covering his mouth:

“Happy twentieth birthday.”

"Liam?" Sherlock's voice rescues him from the vaporous images of the past, dragging a smile to his lips.

William wrapped his arms around Sherlock and drew him to his lips as usual between two objects that attract each other, losing himself for a few seconds in the rails of Sherlock's mischievous tongue, who still had that piercing and used it to play and tickle, until it left his mind blank.

He felt strong arms surround his waist, open his legs and enter them while he let him fall on his body. At that closeness, when he had no underwear under his open shirt and his insides were throbbing with a claim from a king who was already rising between Sherlock's legs, William said:

"I remembered how we met."

The answer came without asking for it, but it didn't provoke a reaction in his partner who seemed to predict the thoughts even before they manifested.

"Do you still remember the poem?" Sherlock wanted to know, taking his leg and lifting it up to rest part of his ankle on his shoulder, while he kissed his calf.

"I still have the book, in fact, and also… the other poems you left me.

"It's been a long time since then… Four years? We were twenty at the time.”

But William was no longer in the mood to think about the past, wanting to enjoy the present, drawing a smile as he said:

"Will you make me breakfast or should I?"

Sherlock, using his hands to trace the soft belly, awakening the shivers that curl up his spine and burst in his lower part, chuckled in such a way that he squinted his eyes, opening his mouth slightly.

"But I'm going to have breakfast now..." And he lowered his silk pants, revealing that skin that William already knew by heart and that made him remember that paradise existed: "I hope you don't mind what's on the menu this morning, Liam."

William closed his eyes and let himself go, laughing as he gave himself over to the waters of the consummate pleasure of a warm morning that had not yet finished awakening.

Well, breakfast could wait.

[Four years ago]

Wiliam had not been able to sleep since that time he read the inscription. Albert had not seemed surprised by the drawing on his wall, it should be remembered, freshly painted, and that same morning he asked for it to be cleaned. Nobody understood the message that was left in the Moriarty neighborhood and there were no revealing details like the previous ones; but that was a fallacy. Louis could see that the message had indeed made its stab inside his home and he cursed the bad moment that, precisely on William's birthday, he saw that message.

They called a private detective for the investigations, that graffiti was definitely going to be the last, and both Albert and Louis were determined to find the identity of that subject who mercilessly attacked hearts. However, as much as George Lestrade and company's efforts were, they found nothing that led them to the culprit. Even so, William had seen the inspector's reaction when they showed him the photograph of the graffiti and he hid a smile. William already knew who he was, or at least he had a name thanks to the library register.

He approached Lestrade when he was out of the focus of his brothers, finding him in a bar with his shoulders slumped, lost in the vapor of a barely-smoked cigar. He sat down next to him with that helpful smile that was his best weapon when he wanted to question.

"Mr. Moriarty." Lestrade was surprised, but quickly recovered. "I'm sorry I can't do anything for you. I promise to find the culprit."

William ordered a Patterson and barely took a sip when he turned to face the inspector.

"If it's not too much to ask, I want you to tell him a message from me."

Lestrade blinked and when understanding traveled across his face, he stammered some conjectures of a poorly crafted explanation, but William cut them off with a gentle gesture.

"Send him this letter from me, if it's not too much to ask." With that, he got up and left a bill that paid the bills for both of them: "And don't worry, your secret is safe with me. Just try to hide your reactions and don't be so obvious that you know him, and that you can't find a way to control him."

He winked at him and left the establishment, leaving Lestrade holding a glass of whiskey with a trembling hand.

From the moment he read the message, William felt that his heart had no rest. He thought about that person from the moment the dawn touched his window until he took refuge in the comfort of the sheets, drawing that memory ever more clear and concise, trying to weave how a person whose identity was unknown, who managed to know the dark secrets of his heart.

He set himself the task of chasing him, just as he had to do that character to find his name.

Thanks to the poetry book, William went the next day to look for the history of exits and entrances, with the benefit that he was a close friend of the librarian. It was useless to ask a retired woman who spent her afternoons reading the same classics for details about a person because she said that current reading was the greatest crime of the century and fateful romanticism had been lost in the dusty pages of the past. However, when she showed him the list of people who had come in since the day before and three days later when he had asked for the book of poems, it was easy to separate the names by gender. He had a list of twenty men and stayed up that night searching on the Internet. It was at number thirteen that the name John Watson led him to some interesting photographs with the character he had seen from behind but could recognize from the front if shown to him.

The tattoo on his arm was the final success when he saw the photograph of a recent graduation, in which John Watson quoted in the footnote:

“Thank you for being by my side, Sherlock Holmes. Without your support, I would not have succeeded.”

William never gave John Watson a charitable glance, he was only on the way to his goal, because his greatest interest was always in the face that smiled halfway and had a ponytail.

Sherlock Holmes…

"I found you, my dear delinquent, Sherlock Holmes.”

[In the present]

William moaned in pleasure as Sherlock took his hips in both hands and guided him into the heavenly threads of silky currents that climbed up his spine, making him arch his back.

Sherlock's kisses danced across his body, opening flowers on his flushed skin, while his entire entity floated within him, brushing points with each thrust that whispered broken words. He raised his hands and his fingers too launched themselves into a pilgrimage down Sherlock's arms where his fingertips already knew the grooves that traced the tattoo that he later discovered wrote the story of a ghostly dog ​​that he once dreamed of and so as not to forget it, he left it marked on his skin. Today he had another new tattoo on the edge of his hip. The coiled shapes reminded him of a skull but it was deeper than that. When Sherlock had come to him on his first anniversary with that freshly made tattoo and irritated skin, William wished he had the voice to complain. He asked him if it had hurt, what he had been prescribed for the swelling and also how to avoid infection. In the end, the mists around the tattoo told his story. From the first graffiti to the last; the important dates and the chases; the moments in London and the escape, linking everything to the discovery of the new world that was New York. All in the skull shape there were letters that could only be read up close, in French, and only by someone like William when he passed his lips over the memory of how his adventure began. An event that has marked him for life and today he found himself in a bed for two, in a shared apartment, having warm breakfasts under the light of a window without curtains, while they laughed at the trivialities of the day with their ankles touching.

William raised his trembling thighs and seized Sherlock's hips. He uses his heel to signal him to speed up the pace because these were the times when he needed Sherlock to split his body in two. The times when he needed Sherlock to drive his nerves wild, to turn his throat into raw flesh because he could barely contain his moans, while his fingers tightened, gripping the sheets under his hand.

Sherlock lifted him up and stole the breath from his open mouth in a longing kiss. He linked his hands with his and his hips were as energetic as his character. William might have more stamina when it came to exercise but in bed he was at a disadvantage. He melted at the caresses, at the husky voice in his ear, at Sherlock's hands that left marks on his thighs, and bit the erect nipples that made him utter a name. The most beautiful name he ever heard and said.

"Sherly..." he said it an octave higher and he doesn't know if it was a claim or a plea. Maybe both. But William liked to play on equal terms, even in bed, and he sat up a little to put his arms around Sherlock's neck as he spun them around in the bed.

It was a mess of tangled skin, of broken laughter, loving kicks, and ending up on his knees on the bed with his entrance exposed when Sherlock entered him again. William liked that position, although it was hard for him to get fond of it, because he rarely liked to turn his back on Sherlock in those hours where the bed was his world and his moans were the language to speak. However, in exploring his tastes, he discovered that he liked the way his beloved kissed his back and traced his spine and spoke to him in French. He only did it during sex and when he was angry, and William knew the language but did not practice it. He knew what he said and, what he did not, he interpreted by how Sherlock's emotions crossed his sweaty face.

Sherlock used to utter a lot of expletives while he was in the midst of the tangles of their blatant dance of skin, but William was the opposite. He would end up using phrases like: God! Heavens! And that was the funniest thing about the two of them.

It was a meeting of heaven and hell in each other's mouths, in perfect harmony of how they could be equal souls as well as opposites. What really separated them was how eager they became when they found a hilarious position. The bed hummed against the wall and matched their breathing.

William arched and lifted himself up with the help of Sherlock's hands, while the latter perfumed his neck with more kisses and light bites. William reached out and masturbated when he predicted that they would touch the edges of the end, feeling the liquid spill inside him.

When they fell on the bed, exhausted and panting, William found the strength to climb on Sherlock and sit on his belly. He settles himself as best he can, fighting off lethargy and final shivers, as he leans down to kiss his chest. His lips trail down to his navel, his fingers tracing the outline of his side.

When he speaks, he does so in French, the language Sherlock loved, and recites a line from an old poem.

"One day with you, is a thousand autumns”.

And because the true sunset was being with Sherlock, who gave him the pleasure of being able to have a companion for life, removing the ice dust from his sheets. The last thought that crossed his mind was that he never slept alone again since he stopped being a virgin. The loneliness and perennial boredom were blurred by Sherlock's smile. The day he met him was also his birthday, and really the day he was born again, receiving the best gift.

It was not more than three days before William received a reply to his letter. During those days he had been hiding in his room, fleeing even from the sunlight that was blocked by the curtain, without the courage to get up and with his mind too restless to control it.

He found no refuge in anything else. The evenings arrived wrapped in a feverish wait, as if time itself surrendered to his anxiety. Every commitment, every obligation, was blurred with confused ramblings, forgetting his agenda and even what he had to read; only Sherlock remained, unshakeable, at the center of his world. He thought of Sherlock in a way he could not conceive of understanding. He thought of how he could hear the murmurs of his heart hidden behind the sepulchral silence of an unpremeditated resignation. He wondered if he had studied it from the library or days before, if perhaps he had investigated his victims before dropping the sharp words on the walls, but since the last message in his residence, no more were found.

He already knew where he lived, but he had resisted the attacks of his impulses to go find him and demand an answer. Patience was a weapon to be wielded for when the bait had been thrown. And finally, it fell on his own when a few small knocks were heard on the window of his room.

He was startled, sitting up in bed while still wearing pajamas and only wrapped himself in a silk robe when he took a deep breath and walked with dignity until he reached the closed curtain, drawing it aside to glimpse a man behind the glass with a smile on his lips.

It was him. It was Sherlock Holmes. William had no change of expression, artificer of hiding his real emotions, taming the lines of his face, for when he opened the latch to open the balcony doors.

"So you finally appear," William said slowly.

"From the way you say it, I have to assume you were waiting for me," Sherlock replied, and it was the first time he heard his voice. It was thicker than he expected. "I'm not here because of your threat..."

"Oh, is that how you interpreted it?" William placed a hand under his chin with a sardonic smile. "I wasn't threatening you. If I wanted to put you in jail, I would have already done so." Sherlock shrugged.

"I would get out in a few days because vandalism is not punishable by years of jail in this country and community service is just child's play." He raised William's letter to his face and then, his lips parted in a smile that showed a slightly yellowed line of teeth that must have been nothing more than a trace from the cigarette, in addition to the smell of his breath. "If you want to fight the truth with another, then come see me and let's see which one is sharper." If that is not a threat, then what is?

William gestured for him to enter his room and the gesture written on his lips spoke of something more unfathomable.

"An invitation to tea."

"I prefer a beer."

"I have, luckily, variety."

And Sherlock followed him chuckling, with his hands in his pockets and with his back slightly hunched that seemed more like a bad habit than a damage to his spine. William used his eyes to see everything. He wanted to know more.

He sat down at his desk and called Jack, his butler, to bring some snacks. The old man didn't ask questions about the guest who never came through the door.

"Well, Professor? What do you want to talk about?" Sherlock asked, sitting down in the chair and crossing his legs. "Didn't you like my birthday present?"

"A bit forward of you, Mr. Holmes. Considering you don't know me."

Sherlock raised a finger that had a skull ring on it and on the ring finger he had another tattoo of a simple molecular structure, while raising an eyebrow that already hinted at William's answer.

"You don't know me. I know you."

Now, it was William's turn to laugh.

"Your mistake, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man wanted for minor crimes in France and deported, but who was rescued by his elder brother when he was imprisoned at the border; I assure you that right now I know you better than you know me. Do you still like the epithets with which people refer to you: Holmes, the implacable; Holmes, the bloodhound; Holmes, the cunning and infallible enemy of lies?”

As expected, Sherlock didn't look surprised, but a sparkle seemed to light up in his eyes and a flame of curiosity that had been burning inside William since he read the graffiti on the wall. The visitor regained his composure and simply drew a smile on his face.

"You're interesting, William James Moriarty."

"And I'm just getting started, Mr. Holmes." William folded his hands in his lap. "How long have you been following me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Do you see me with enough time to do that?"

"Enough time, yes. More so with all the irreverent situation that has sunk my area."

"Well, you're wrong. But it's not personal, if that's what you think."

"It would be unfortunate if it were like that, because I don't remember having problems with you and you seem more like the enemy of the people. I have to believe you have a reason."

He heard a giggle and Sherlock tilted his head, shaking his ponytail. “My life is consumed by a prolonged effort to escape the vulgarities of existence. I need entertainment. Besides, the days are a web of coincidences with obvious truths that people don’t even notice by chance. I’ve taken some pleasure in revealing it,” he revealed, shifting in his chair, leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair, “but something intrigued me about you when I was in the library. Seeing such a pretty face being a caged bird.”

William was not bothered by the compliment and merely smiled. His gaze grew darker.

“I must say the same of you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stood up, patting his trousers, and walked past him, before leaning over and whispering in his ear:

“At least I am not withering away in the mire of my own regrets.”

With that he walked away, heading for the balcony. William laughed softly.

"I don't think your methods are the best way to get out of the cage of being a misunderstood person."

Pausing in the doorway, Sherlock licked his lips thoughtfully before smiling.

"I thought so, until I discovered you. I think we'll get along very well. My message wasn't a threat either. Depression has taken so many lives and people still underestimate it. I just wanted to open your eyes a little."

"I'm aware of my situation."

"And doing nothing is even worse; but that's on your conscience, William James Moriarty. If you want to distract yourself for a while, you already know where I live. You should already know my routine, just as I know yours. And if you want to talk, next time, we'll do it while we look at the painted murals. My apologies to your brother, by the way. That freshly painted wall was very appetizing." And he jumped from the balcony into the bushes, disappearing into the mist of the night, leaving his room alone with its resident and the noise of thoughts.

Jack appeared with the tray a few minutes later and noticed only the open window.

"I think I arrived too late, little Will."

William continued to look at the window.

"The one who arrived late, perhaps, was me."

Or so he thought, because as the days passed and their encounters wove together a friendship that had no equal in this world, they soon took giant steps in which their relationship gave way to love, kissing in dark doorways, hugging each other under the dream promise of swearing to love each other until death. However, the problems of vandalism from drawing on the walls soon reached Sherlock, making him leave the country for a few months at Mycroft's request when his relationship was in full swing with William, who found out two days later that his boyfriend had taken the plane. There was no time for messages or dramatic farewells, as Sherlock was sure he would return, and he had accustomed William to his prolonged disappearances when he was in prison or simply moving away to keep a low profile.

William did not like this pastime, but he had ended up succumbing to the designs that had made him meet Sherlock and there was no way to change him with the lightness of a secret courtship. It only increased his clandestine activities and if he wanted to put Sherlock's feet on the ground, he would have to do the same.

That morning, when Sherlock had already gone two days without sending him a message and the calls were sent to voicemail, he revealed to his family that he had fallen in love with a ghost who lives behind bars. Albert had taken it as a joke at first, Louis not so much; and when they saw the determination in his gaze, the smiles disappeared.

“Since when?” asked Louis, his younger brother.

It was true, William never gave any indication of anything and the only one who had seen Sherlock had been Jack that time in the room.

“Since months ago. His name is Sherlock Holmes,” William revealed, drinking tea and wrapping himself in an aura of passivity, knowing that he would receive an unexpected visitor who would soon knock on the door. “And he was the one who painted our wall. Now his brother must come and, please, Jack, let him in.”

There was no time to respond or absorb the truth that the mural poet had captured his brother's heart when the roar of a hooded car engine with black windows faded harmoniously in front of his residence.

Mycroft had arrived at the Moriarty house with a friendly smile and an apology, asking to speak alone with William, in which he let him know the truth about Sherlock. A family had hired some gangs to find Sherlock because of his notorious verses on the walls that were getting more and more crude, and he preferred to keep him out of the country for a couple of weeks while he cleaned the weeds.

He promised him that if Sherlock didn't warn him before it was because he confiscated all his mobile devices, because they had intercepted his lines and with the GPS they had found his location. They had found his house destroyed, with the walls covered in excrement, and many death oaths.

Sherlock was more than used to it and had wanted to face them, however, he already knew that this family was dangerous and that his stupid younger brother never paid attention to warnings.

"Can I go with him?" William had asked after that information overwhelmed him and that he had also predicted when Sherlock was making a profile of the nobleman of that family with his pockets full of blood. "I will go, even if he denies it. And I will find him if he doesn't tell me." Albert chuckled at his comment and Mycroft did the same with a look.

“I figured that answer. And of course, this is his address. Do you know if you were ever seen with him?”

William shook his head.

“I am very aware of my surroundings, so if there was someone following me, I would have noticed.”

Narrowing his eyes, Mycroft sighed in relief and William smiled to himself at how much he resembled Sherlock. The man stood up and bowed gently in apology for the inconvenience caused. Two days later, having a long talk with his brothers to keep them from worrying, William found himself soaring through the skies towards New York, where he never imagined he would have to stay and perhaps forever.

In this way, what was an occasional escape of just a few weeks, ended up extending to a few years when Sherlock decided to finish a university degree in order to be worthy of a relationship with William who had honors even for dressing well. It was his own resolution, deciding that he always had the talent for studying, but not the desire, establishing the goal that would not make William suffer an irrational fear again when they met for the first time at the airport and he told him that it would be the first and last time he would look for him because of the consequences of his own actions.

It was a conversation without complaints or pointing fingers. William, as proud and plausible as he was, did not even raise his voice. The reason he had gone to look for him had more to do with making him see that this did not have to happen again. He would return to London on Monday, three days later.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and did not look up again during those three days of living together. It was the first time that a real slap without being one had hit him more than his face, but something inside him that he didn't know he still had. He became silent and William thought if he had offended him, categorizing him with such an insult, that he even considered apologizing. Even more when they said goodbye at the airport, Sherlock gave him a kiss on the cheek and not on the lips as they were used to, that William ended up dragging him to the bathroom and sitting him on the toilet, kneeling mercilessly because the floor was wet, pulling down his pants to drink even Sherlock's insecurities.

He had no experience in giving direct pleasure with his mouth, but he was a good apprentice, trying not to choke and to be able to provide more pleasure than the initial mistakes sometimes prevented. When Sherlock fell unconscious, with his head back and panting breathlessly, he climbed onto his lap, taking him by the cheeks to face him, after wiping the whitish residue from his face.

"I love you," William said, suddenly feeling angry. "I love what you are. You've made me a different man in a few months and I want to have a life with you. I love your essence, your character, but I have to ask you, if you want to have a future with me, will we run away all the time?"

Escaping from the numbness of lethargy after the release, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I hadn't thought about it until now." It was his real confession. "I didn't think this could affect us."

With the proximity of their faces, the blond locks caressing Sherlock's cheek and the intensity of the scarlet stabbing his thoughts.

"I did this to show you that I don't mind adapting to this pace of life, I just ask you to think about it and choose what to do." Sherlock smiled for the first time.

"From the moment you once ran away with me from the police, I knew you could do it."

Seeing his expression relax, William knew he had managed to get his words to the right course, so he ended that meeting in that small cloister, fixing his clothes and hair, to leave with a modest air and worthy of his category, that no one could think what he did in the bathroom. They said goodbye again, Sherlock laughing as he tasted himself, and William drinking a coffee to change the taste it left him.

It was a lesson that would be a whiplash that would mark Sherlock for life, and when William found out that he was going to start studying a career there in New York, he decided to support him with everything he had to give him. He moved in with him despite Sherlock having told him that he would visit him every weekend, and obviously, he flatly refused.

Thus they arrived, like shadows in the twilight, to that fragment of time with Sherlock already graduated but doing one last specialty, and William teaching at another university after graduating thanks to his generous streak that opened so many doors for him that he chose only the most convenient.

Now they lived in a paradise of having an apartment just for them, in which they had just moved because in the previous one the rent went up more than they thought it deserved. This one was more central, in a city that was too noisy, and it was just a matter of getting used to it.

At the beginning it had been a series of stumbles and slips the new coexistence, because both had different customs that had some clash, but that mutual understanding and love could overcome.

Sherlock left behind his life as a poet of the murals, and now he was in charge of painting his skin with kisses, reciting the poems that he continued reading now to dedicate them to him. The only thing that had remained an inveterate routine, and that did not bother William, unlike his neighbors, was that he would go up to the roof of the building and play the violin with such melodic and melancholic measures that he had moved more than one heart as well as exacerbated those who had to get up early.

They received complaints every so often and, luckily for them and unfortunately for others, the receptionist was in love with William and allowed such behavior. He had thought of telling Sherlock to stop doing it, to do it in their room, since he had always been a heavy sleeper so it would not bother him; but once, while they were both drinking tea before going to sleep, Sherlock confessed that sometimes he recited a song to the stars, because although he did not believe in religions, he wanted to thank someone for allowing him to meet the love of his life.

William lacked the words to stop him. Even so, it did not last long, it was only about fifteen days, until the melody stopped and he was not seen on the roof again if it was not to smoke. A habit that William was still struggling to break, although it seemed easier to tear off his arm. Even when Sherlock studied, he had found him submerged in a cloud of irritating smoke and that it was due to a tobacco so strong and so rough that it scratched the throat. Worse yet, as he found himself coughing, demanding an explanation, the one thing he saw coming, the one thing he liked most when Sherlock confirmed his suspicions, was that his boyfriend had so many strange habits to stimulate his brain. And as expected, Sherlock confirmed it, saying that a heavy aura helped him concentrate. He hadn't gone so far as to put himself in a box to think, although he didn't deny that the possibility still occurred to him from time to time.

"I have an exam tomorrow and I'm studying what I didn't do the previous days.

He had made him laugh and felt his forehead, opening the windows to release the atmosphere. He sat next to him and studied the printed sheets having some notion of what he was reading, so it would be easy to help him study. But he was wrong, because with Sherlock although he had his educational streak, he also had the one that he couldn't speak out loud, and when he saw him concentrated on studying he would awaken certain sinful ideas that he had to go to the bedroom to control himself. And Sherlock knew him so well that he didn't have to say anything, and he would chase him when he was on his way to the bathroom, tear off his clothes and spend hours in bed loving each other until exhaustion forced them to separate. William was aware that he was a distraction, so he had chosen to ask him questions that could go on the exam, while Sherlock dug inside him. Moaning and with his lips bruised by kisses, it became fun to study while they had sex.

That morning, after breakfast, they were at the table they had decided not to change despite how small it was for both of them with their long limbs, as it helped them to be closer to each other, when Sherlock said a sentence while drinking his last sip of coffee:

"I want us to spend your birthday in London. I already bought the plane tickets, so you can't refuse."

William had looked up from his food and then smiled.

"That's fine with me, Sherly, but I remind you that it's not just your birthday; it's also our anniversary."

"It's just the day you saw me and not the day we became a couple."

"For me it is," William refuted, without changing his sweet expression.

Sherlock chuckled.

"We celebrate both," he said, reaching across the table to hold his hand, making William feel the heat rise to his face.

At that moment, he noticed something on Sherlock's wrist, that familiar redness and turned it over to him quickly before seeing another tattoo that couldn't have been more than six hours old. He felt his heart drop when he read WJM.

He hadn't been able to control it and felt the tears come to his face, Sherlock laughing and coming around the table to hug him. To kiss his temple and tell him it was nothing. But it wasn't and William needed to answer that.

"You already have too much of me on your skin, Sherly.”

"It will never be enough.”

That's what he wanted to say.

When they returned to London, being greeted by his brothers and a warm welcome with a surprise party for his return, William found himself sneaking off to find a tattoo shop that Sherlock had taken him to before because it was the one he liked the most. The tattoo artist, was to his surprise, John Watson, that friend who was the link for them and it took him by surprise that such an innocent face was dedicating himself to that field. What was even more amusing was that he had tattoos all over his arms and shoulders with quotes from books that William all recognised.

“Oh, Mr Moriarty, what a pleasant surprise,” John said. “Sherlock isn’t in, I’m afraid, but he must come—”

“I didn’t come looking for him,” he interrupted softly with a smile. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to take your services?”

John blinked, locking himself in slight surprise before shaking his head with a laugh.

 “Of course not, please take a seat. What tattoo do you want to get and where?” He stood up in front of him and showed the image of a human body with marker markings on different areas. “In these areas, it hurts a lot, so I have to be careful. In these, it doesn’t, and I can recommend a place if you don’t have an idea. We also do custom designs.”

Pulling out his phone, William showed the photograph of Sherlock’s wrist with the tattoo. He had taken it when they were returning on the plane and Sherlock had fallen asleep the whole trip.

“I want a twin tattoo to this one, but instead of WJM, it’s SH. And I want to add a date to it.”

John blushed when he realized that it was his friend's hand, since Sherlock had been a test subject for his drawings more than once, but he had refused to mark his skin until he was an expert. And in the end he succeeded, leaving his medical degree on the wall, but dedicating himself to what truly delighted his heart. Even when they called him crazy for leaving a prestigious career to have a seedy place that only three customers came to per day. But Sherlock pushed him to follow his dreams and not be where social pressure wanted.

He took William's request, making him lie down on the bed, telling him more things about Sherlock about his youth and as the hours passed, both became accomplices of wanting, in different instances, the same man. William as his boyfriend and John as his best friend.

When he finished, John thanked him for the opportunity and William was delighted with his new acquisition, finding a certain pleasure in that pain of the needle, understanding why he liked Sherlock so much. That same night, when the celebration for his birthday was about to end, Sherlock asked him out and William felt his heart flutter when they went to the wall that had connected them.

There was a new phrase, a poem composed, made with that handwriting that seemed to write on the walls of his heart:

From the abyss I emerged, lost in the fire,

my soul in darkness, without direction or attachment.

But your eyes shone, a beacon in the storm,

and in them I found the peace that sustains.

Your firm hands, trembling with love,

calmed my hatred, healed my pain.

You took me out of hell, from the eternal void,

and showed me a pure and tender heaven.

In your arms, refuge, I found redemption,

sincere love, my new song.

You are my guide, my faith and my destiny,

the happiness that I walk in your steps.

Happy birthday, William James Moriarty .

Sherlock looked at his work on the wall, the last one forever, and took his hand to kneel in front of William, with the sky and the promise in his eyes:

"Liam, in this life of misfortune and loneliness, in this boredom that filled my life, you taught me to be a new person and I want to thank you all my life for it. For that reason, under the wall that linked our destinies, I want to ask you the honor of marrying me.

Kneeling in front of him too, William held out his hand with a smile.

"Until the end of my days, Sherly.”

And then, he turned his wrist, to show his new tattoo, pulling a surprise from Sherlock who even lost his balance on his heels and fell to a sitting position.

"Liam! Louis is going to kill me if he sees that on your skin!”

William laughed and even though they were on the street, with the breath of dawn on them, he leaned over Sherlock, going between his legs, chasing his mouth.

It was a kiss that sealed many things between them. It closed some doors and opened some windows, and more so with the new life that now awaited them.

"I hope he gets used to it soon, because I want to get a bigger tattoo. Any suggestions?"

"No Shakespeare."

"You just ruined half of my ideas."

And then, they laughed, kissing once, in front of the truth drawn on the wall that would have linked them forever.

Sherlock, more than painting a wall, painted the canvas of his head, giving it complete color.