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Sherlock wound a strand of blond hair around his finger. He couldn’t see the colour; the room still lay in a kind of half-light. Outside came the familiar sounds of early risers, willing or not, and of those whose distorted sleep rhythms had carried them through the night and were now finally retreating to bed.
They did that often enough themselves, Sherlock thought. Only William and he frequently skipped the restorative daytime sleep as well, as long as they were both still productive and mentally receptive. Time was a construct that didn’t suit their lives. Working for Pinkerton meant not watching the clock. There were no weekly hours, no shifts. They were there when needed, and they acted. Sometimes there was no work at all and they could spend valuable days together, and sometimes they didn’t see each other for long stretches. The last time had been months, and Sherlock had decided it would never happen again. Communication via telegram had been limited, since William technically wasn’t allowed to contact anyone at all. At present, he was effectively on loan from the American government, acting as long as the agency deemed it appropriate. But Sherlock wasn’t going to let him go alone again, wasn’t going to keep his distance for that long anymore. If that meant crossing the damned ocean on a damned ship every two weeks for several days, then so be it.
He let his eyes wander. The room was pragmatically furnished. A bookcase, because there was no room in which William James Moriarty was expected to sleep that wouldn’t also contain a few distracting volumes designed to prevent exactly that. A small bedside table, presumably empty. A wardrobe. A narrow table, a chair, and the bed William currently occupied. The curtains weren’t opaque, but the room was bathed in a dark grey. And from very recent personal experience, Sherlock knew the four-point locking mechanism on the window was a bad joke. It had taken him less than thirty seconds to pry it open from the outside and break in.
His finger stayed hooked in the pale strand of hair; his thumb slid over it. Soft, just as he remembered. Sherlock slid one knee onto the bed, nudged off his shoe in the process, and lay down slowly beside the sleeping William. His coat hung carelessly over the chair, and he didn’t mind being in bed in his street clothes. Sherlock slipped an arm under William’s neck, bridged the remaining distance, and pressed a kiss to his temple. Once settled beside him, he adjusted the blanket again and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. He couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep here. The door was locked from the inside, but Sherlock knew Louis by now. Behind the polite façade lurked a cold, calculating watchdog, and his sole focus was still William. He had no particular desire to be caught by William’s younger brother lying in bed with him.
Minutes passed before William stirred. His knee bumped against Sherlock’s thigh, and William slowly opened his eyes. Tired, pleasantly disoriented. Instead of panicking, he tilted his head back and looked up, but in this light…
“Sherly? If you’re not Sherly, I’ll break your neck… wait… are you Sherly? You smell like him…”
William murmured and promptly dropped his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock laughed softly and ran a hand through his hair from behind.
“I’m not sure whether that was meant as an insult. What exactly do I smell like?”
“Like you… cigarettes and… other things.” William’s voice was heavy, on the brink of sleep again. Sherlock seized the moment and tipped his chin up to kiss him. Not brief, not hard or demanding. He pressed his lips to William’s and tested whether he’d drift back into the sleep of the nearly dead, but William’s lips moved against his. Sherlock pulled away only to follow it with a second kiss to the corner of his mouth.
William yawned softly and stretched his legs.
“Who let you in…?”
“Your window.”
The brief silence amused Sherlock as he slid his fingers under William’s shirt and stroked the warm skin there. Good. It was good that he hadn’t been cold.
“I’m on the second floor…”
“Yes. And the building has plenty of ledges you can stand on and climb. Really, the window lock is a joke. You should fix that.”
“Before some shady character breaks in and climbs into my bed?”
“Exactly. He might do all sorts of things to you.”
Sherlock’s fingers lingered on William’s skin and drifted slowly over his stomach. They hadn’t had time for this in half a year. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried since they were back in London. But guard-dog Louis did his job remarkably well.
“I’m not here for sex.”
“Good. You’re not getting any.” William rubbed one eye; his free hand rested on Sherlock’s chest, stroking there automatically.
“There are only light sleepers in this building. If anyone hears us, I’ll have to kill my friends and family first, and then the two of us.”
“Very melodramatic for someone who knows Shakespeare by heart.”
William yawned again, cut it off halfway with a snort. His fingers resumed their path over Sherlock’s chest, as though following a familiar guide. He fell quiet for a moment in the darkness, then Sherlock heard him sigh softly. “Damn it… I want to so badly.”
Sherlock leaned over him slightly and pressed a kiss to William’s cheek. “I know… I do too.” He felt William’s perpetually cold fingers against his face, felt the gentle stroking, and leaned into the touch. “And if we’re very quiet? And I lie on my back like a starfish?”
“The latter is nothing but sheer laziness, Professor.”
“By no means, Detective.” He paused, then conceded, “All right. Perhaps a little.” His fingers were still at Sherlock’s cheeks, tracing slow, soothing circles. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s palm. “There are stains you really don’t want to explain.”
“Then climb out another window and steal us a towel.”
“Certainly. And if I’m caught, I’ll simply explain to your brother that I engage in compulsive theft to keep my mind sharp.”
William made a soft, strained sound and pulled Sherlock closer to kiss him again. Sherlock gave in and let half his weight sink onto him. William’s legs opened automatically, as though months of abstinence had never existed between them. And Sherlock, loyal, besotted lapdog that he was, slid willingly between them. He barely registered how immediately his body pressed against William’s. He had to break the kiss just to breathe, to allow something resembling a coherent thought to surface.
He stared down, saw William only in blurred outlines, and knew exactly how thoroughly he had already lost. Cold fingers returned to his cheeks.
“Sherly… on the carpet.”
He nodded, remembered the light, and forgot to clear his throat. His “Yes” came out rough and a little hoarse.
—
William’s fingers scraped restlessly through Sherlock’s hair. He wasn’t trying to hurt him; there simply wasn’t enough purchase to keep himself steady. Sherlock had gone through these phases with him in moments, because they’d granted themselves a grace period of roughly thirty seconds. And still Sherlock had seen the necessity of starting with his mouth. He’d barely given William time to reach the carpet before tugging at his waistband and freeing him partway. William didn’t protest; any stimulation was welcome, and he’d have settled for a hand that wasn’t his own if necessary. He sank back as quietly as he could onto the thick carpet and watched in the half-light as Sherlock moved between his legs and lowered his head.
When William’s hand slid into his hair and repeatedly claimed new strands, Sherlock guided his hand up William’s body and threaded their fingers together. The gesture was accepted immediately, accompanied by controlled breathing. This wasn’t the place to writhe and moan, even if several layers of high-quality carpet absorbed some sound. Being heard simply wasn’t an option.
And yet Sherlock couldn’t pull away. It felt like returning to a drug. An addiction he’d suppressed successfully for a long time, only to fling himself back into its intoxicating embrace. He couldn’t name the decisive moment; it was many small things adding up. The sensation in his mouth, unlike anything else. The warmth, the texture of skin, the faintly salty taste. The veins, the occasional twitch, trivial details. And then the one crucial factor: it was Liam. Not just any man. That held no interest for Sherlock. But he heard Liam breathe heavily, heard him murmur softly that it was good right there, and it was Liam’s perpetually cold fingers seeking purchase in him. That was what made it a drug, and he couldn’t help starting this way.
The pull on his hair grew firmer, and Sherlock knew the gesture too well. He drew back slowly, even though everything in him screamed to close his lips again. A brief look at William made him smile despite himself. Still indistinct, but the approaching day was sketching clearer outlines. Sherlock vaguely made out his eyes. He lowered his head and kissed the raised leg just below the knee.
“Kneel.”
“Wait — what happens to my starfish theory?”
“Kneeling is quieter. You can visit me in Baker Street and play starfish as often as you like. But I’m not waking your brothers, your sniper, or your former soldier just because you’re too tired to contribute. Kneel.”
“You monster…”
Sherlock kissed the knee again and undid his belt while William, with a sigh, first sat up and only turned once he was close enough to give Sherlock a condemning look. Once on his knees, sleep trousers bunched behind them, Sherlock shifted in behind him, careful to keep friction against the floor to a minimum.
“I can be a starfish for you too, darling.”
His belt clinked softly as he drew it from the buckle and started unbuttoning his trousers.
“Oh, you will be. I plan to visit. You’re not the only one who can break into other people’s houses.”
“Or you could knock and I’ll open the door, Mr. Scott.”
He positioned himself behind William and leaned forward far enough to place his fingers at William’s lips.
“Be so kind and make them wet. I don’t have any oil.”
William snorted quietly, but opened his mouth, caught Sherlock’s hand, and ran his tongue over index and middle finger. He closed his lips around the fingertips and sucked once, firmly, which tied a small knot in Sherlock’s stomach. His leg twitched. When William released him again, Sherlock leaned his forehead briefly against the back of William’s head.
“Devil mine.”
William chuckled softly, and Sherlock slid the first finger inside. Saliva wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.
“Ten, fifteen seconds. That’s all I can give you.”
“That’s eight to thirteen more than I expected.”
Sherlock grunted, took his free hand, and squeezed William’s butt cheek once in irritation. “I’d quite like to smack that right now, you impertinent little menace…”
“But we’re being quiet.”
“That we are. What a tragedy.”
He added the second finger and waited a moment before moving. It was nearly unbearable not to throw all caution aside and take him properly, but Sherlock knew they would regret that immediately. He stretched, spread his fingers, moved them in and out, forcing himself into patience. Every second was a strain, every swallowed, broken sound from William pushed him closer to blackout. Only when William slowly folded forward and found purchase at the edge of the carpet did Sherlock withdraw his fingers. He licked his palm once more, then spread saliva along himself. In one smooth motion, he guided the tip inside William. For a moment he forgot how to breathe; every thought, every coherent word vanished. Only instinct kept him from thrusting with full force as he moved slowly instead. There was barely any buildup; the pressure was there from the start. William’s prediction of two seconds didn’t seem entirely inaccurate, but Sherlock still managed to hold himself together. He placed his hands on William’s hips and let the warmth of skin distract him for a moment.
Sherlock stuck rigidly to the pace they’d agreed on. Every movement was deliberately small, controlled, necessity rather than impulse. The carpet absorbed enough sound to maintain the illusion of safety, even if he knew how fragile it was. William’s breathing was shallow, uneven, but he said nothing. His hands had found purchase somewhere on the floor, firm enough to keep him still.
“That’s good,” came quietly.
Sherlock nodded, even though William couldn’t see it. He shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, just enough not to stop altogether.
A few minutes passed.
The pressure was nearly unbearable, and Sherlock’s fingers dug harder into William’s skin. He could only go as fast as silence allowed. Harder would mean betraying sounds drifting through the room.
“Liam—”
“I know. Do it.” His voice was a thin whisper; his torso was almost flat against the carpet, one arm stretched far forward. Sherlock leaned over him, slid his fingers along William’s arm, and pressed their hands together. They closed immediately, anchoring themselves. Sherlock heard William breathe heavily, was close to his face, and couldn’t help turning his head to kiss his neck again and again. He’d shifted forward until he was fully inside him. He’d stopped thrusting, because the moment was inevitable anyway, and Sherlock wanted to spend the last two or three seconds covering William in affection. Then his climax rolled over him. It was tight, warm, and he heard William breathe in that particular way. Sherlock tensed his shoulders and jaw to keep from ruining everything with an ill-timed sound. He pressed his forehead to William’s back as he spilled inside him in small, involuntary pulses. The first breath afterward was shaky and deep, and it took a moment to process it. Sitting back up and finding a clear thought was the difficult part, but this wasn’t only about Sherlock. He pressed small kisses to William’s nape, then withdrew with obvious reluctance. It wouldn’t be fair to make him wait, just because Sherlock couldn’t let go.
“Lie down again,” he whispered deliberately, offering a steadying hand so William could ease back onto the carpet. Sherlock didn’t linger or work his way down him; he immediately closed his lips around him again. Both hands slid up William’s body and settled at his ribs. He felt fingers hook behind them and granted the support, took both of William’s hands in his, and traced his tongue along the shaft. William tightened his grip, lifted his hips, and tipped his head back. Sherlock heard the soft, broken sound. He wouldn’t remind him to be quiet. This was only for his ears.
It took seconds before William’s erection hardened in his mouth, before the twitching began and the first spill ran over his tongue. Sherlock adjusted the pressure, then held still until William’s tense body sagged beneath him. He breathed steadily through his nose, already regaining control. Sherlock waited another moment, but it was over. He swallowed before letting him slip from his mouth, then brushed his thumbs over the backs of William’s hands. By now he could see him much more clearly, and he could tell that red-rimmed eyes were studying him with tired focus.
“God. We’re animals. On the floor, honestly.”
“Whose idea was that?” Sherlock asked mildly.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
Sherlock laughed softly, crawled back up, and bent down to kiss William.
“Looks very starfish-like, the way you’re lying there.”
William smiled faintly. “I’ve entered my Asteroidea phase.”
“Of course.” Another kiss, a little longer.
“Good morning, Liam.”
“Good morning, Sherly.”