Work Text:
Sherlock walked through London like a man with nothing to lose and far too much to win.
From the outside he had the respectable version of himself on: hands in his pockets, cigarette between his lips, face set to uninterested. The kind of composure people mistook for indifference, because it saved them the trouble of looking closer.
Inside, he was a ridiculous creature. He had to keep his stride normal so he wouldn’t start doing something catastrophic, like smiling at strangers or hugging a lamppost out of gratitude that it existed.
He didn’t.
London would talk.
His fingers found the chocolate again, hidden in his coat like a confession wrapped in gold foil. It would melt if he kept it pressed to his warmth. An undignified end for evidence. Or a romantic gesture, depending on how charitable one was feeling.
He passed pub after pub. Yellow light, noise, cheap laughter, expensive regret. Fourteen of them within minutes — London’s way of ensuring nobody ever had to be sober on purpose.
This one was different.
Sherlock slipped in. He slid around drunks like they were furniture, ducked an arm that tried to claim him as a friend, and let the room’s heat fold over him. It took him less than a heartbeat to find the still point in all of it.
Blond hair. Straight back. Calm like a blade.
A pocket watch glinted on the table as Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite. William looked up and smiled — polite, empty, flawless. The kind of smile that said I’m behaving and meant I’m armed.
“Twenty-seven minutes,” William said pleasantly. “You were in a hurry.”
Sherlock sat down and placed the chocolate precisely in the middle of the table.
“I prefer the term efficient.”
“Others might call it impatience.”
“They usually walk very slowly.”
William examined the chocolate as though it might testify against him. He did not touch it.
“And this would be?” Flat lie. He knew exactly.
“A peace offering.” And so did Sherlock.
“From you?” William smiled. “That’s alarming.”
“You should always find me alarming.”
William crossed his legs with careful grace.
“Then at least we agree on something.”
Sherlock leaned back. “I’m here by coincidence.”
“Of course you are.”
“London is small.”
“Only for men who are either hunting or being hunted.”
“Sometimes both.”
William’s smile held. “And what are you hunting tonight, Mister Holmes?”
“Praise. Whisky. And someone who can convincingly pretend this meeting wasn’t planned.”
“I am pretending,” William replied calmly. “Convincingly is another matter.”
“That hurts.”
“It was meant to.”
Sherlock grinned. “Successful day.”
“By your standards?”
“A corpse, a solution, and remarkably little interference from people paid to interfere.”
“How efficient.” William's foot brushed Sherlock's knee; he adjusted in his seat.
“So you were successful today, Mister Holmes?”
William raised his voice, public now, smooth as glass.
“Well, as you know, Lord Moriarty— you do know, right? Honestly, where were we last time?”
Sherlock lowered his voice again, dropping the performance.
“You informed me about your field of work, Mister Holmes.”
“Ah. Right. Of course. I knew that.”
A pause. “Stop mocking me.”
William’s eyes glinted, but he waited.
Sherlock got lost in those eyes for a moment before he got his act together.
“A boutique owner,” Sherlock continued. “Very wealthy. Very dead.”
William let a few seconds pass. Deliberately.
“Oh no. How dreadful. How are you holding up after such a sight, Mister Holmes?”
“Which one exactly?”
William looked almost angelic in the lamplight — until the grin ruined it.
“Either the twisted arm or the knife in his head. You decide.”
“I’ve seen worse. And I already know the murderer.”
Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on William. “The Lord of Crime. Signature work. Though…”
He tilted his head. “This one felt restrained.”
William’s smile faltered. Just barely.
“Restrained.”
“Quick. Almost humane. Compared to earlier efforts.”
“Perhaps,” William said lightly, “there were more pressing matters.”
“More pressing than a carefully planned murder?”
“There is always something more substantial.”
William shifted, lowering his leg back to the floor.
“The arm was unnecessary,” Sherlock added. “The joint popped out immediately.”
“Self-defence,” William replied smoothly. “Perhaps he was attacked first.”
Sherlock studied him, then leaned back.
“Either way, it’s another hour of paperwork. I solved it quickly. Now I’m drinking. Care to join me?” And his eyes were clearly stating don't you dare pick up any drink you lightweight.
William ignored the offer - and the warning glances - and nudged the chocolate with one finger.
“Scotland Yard doesn’t mind you stealing evidence?”
Sherlock retrieved it and slipped it back into his pocket, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Thanks for the souvenir, Liam.”
He breathed it just for him — barely air, barely restraint — and then got up to fetch the drinks. Of course he would still get Liam a drink, ignoring his own threat from barely seconds ago. Lucky him: Scotland Yard remained a masterpiece of functional incompetence. Reliable in its unreliability. Lestrade had copied a few of Sherlock’s habits over the years, like a student memorizing the wrong parts of a formula, but never the logic behind them. He saw patterns. Sherlock saw the splinters sticking out of them.
That was why he had found the chocolate.
Tucked inside a tampered pocket watch, wrapped in the manufacturer’s paper from the shop directly across the street. A tidy little circle. Neat enough to be insulting. Anyone else would have called it coincidence and congratulated themselves for noticing anything at all.
Sherlock preferred rewards.
It wasn’t even the first piece of evidence he’d smuggled home. Merely the most edible.
With two glasses in hand, he threaded his way back. William was still there. Of course he was. For a blink — a single, unguarded moment — the role slipped. Not the posture, not the polish. Just the weight underneath. Tired in a way sleep didn’t fix. Grief with excellent manners.
Being the Lord of Crime wasn’t a title. It was an ongoing inconvenience.
Sherlock knew exactly what it cost William to carry it. He lived somewhere between concern and relief — relief only because William never forgot that the dead had once been alive. A murderer, yes. And still the most important person in Sherlock’s world. They had talked it to death. Revived it. Killed it again. William liked to call it making room for another perspective. Sherlock called it shouting. Mostly his own. He wasn’t proud of that, but he was honest about it.
When it mattered, William came first. Not principles. Not other people’s virtue. William. Always. They had agreed not to touch the subject anymore. Otherwise, this secret would implode spectacularly. William’s safety depended on Sherlock’s ability to shut up at the right moment.
He inhaled and sat down.
William's mask was back in place. Hands still. One briefly pressed to his face, hair faintly disordered where restraint had failed for half a second. Sherlock took his place.
He said nothing.
The glasses landed. A small bowl followed. William thanked him, tasted the scotch, then regarded the bowl like it had crawled there on its own.
“Ah,” Sherlock said, pleased. “I thought you’d like a snack.”
He offered a fork. Already had the spare ready. Optimism, thy name is Holmes.
Liam stared. Then took the fork anyway. His eyes lifted, cool and warning, while Sherlock attempted innocence and failed beautifully.
“If this were an actual date,” Liam said, voice level, “and you dared to serve me this, I would throw my drink in your face and leave.”
“Why?” Sherlock asked. “Oysters are perfectly respectable.”
“They’re indecisive.”
“You like things from the sea.”
“I like them when they don’t look back.”
“And,” Sherlock added, leaning in, “this is an actual date. Regardless of the costumes.”
“You dress like a crime scene.”
“You eat like one.”
Liam snorted despite himself and speared an oyster. Ate it with the kind of grace that made even chewing look intentional.
Sherlock watched. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Making me feel underdressed.”
“You should try harder.”
The bowl emptied faster than it should have. The drinks followed. Leaving felt inevitable. Rules were rules. The corner of the street was waiting. They're parting point.
Sherlock rebelled.
He caught Liam’s coat as he turned down the wrong street.
“Come with me.”
“Ah,” Liam said pleasantly, “no. I have no interest in surviving an assassination attempt.”
“What—” Sherlock tightened his grip. He knew exactly what Liam meant and hated that it landed. “That’s unfair.”
“Again,” Liam said, patient as ever, “I’m relieved you’re not an actor.”
“Do you actually believe that oyster nonsense?”
The eyes answered for him. Red. Amused. Guilty.
Sherlock grinned and let go, smoothing the coat at Liam’s hip like he had every right to be there.
“I don’t want you wandering around at this hour,” he said. “London is dangerous at night.”
A pause.
“Oh,” Sherlock realised too late. “Right. You.”
He rubbed his neck, embarrassed. Just remembered who he was talking to. Liam laughed quietly, disguised it with a cough, then gestured.
Fine. He’d follow.
Sherlock brightened instantly. “Walk beside me. I don’t want anyone grabbing you from behind.”
“How heroic, Mr. Holmes.”
“And this is the seventh time we’ve met,” Sherlock added lightly. “You may call me Sherlock.”
Liam laughed — real, unguarded — and stepped into place beside him.
-
The door of 221b waited in front of them like an accusation, and Sherlock stalled. The key lay in his hand, turned over often enough to deserve rent. His eyes stayed on Liam. Liam, meanwhile, stood perfectly still, both hands resting on the knob of his cane, looking like a man with nowhere urgent to be and no intention of fixing that.
“Liam, come in,” Sherlock said, too quickly. “You can have the bed, I’ll take the floor or the couch. I just want you with me, it’s not ab—”
“Unlock the door,” Liam interrupted. “We can talk upstairs. Privately.”
He smiled, soft and entirely unhelpful. The street felt suddenly very long, the houses pressed together like spectators. No alleys. No convenient shadows. Sherlock knew — with a clarity he disliked — that he wouldn’t chase him if Liam decided to keep walking. The thought lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable.
“You unlock it,” he added.
Sherlock handed over the key. Liam rolled his eyes, but took it. Their shoulders brushed as the door swung open.
“We really need to address your fear of abandonment, Sherly.”
“That sounds expensive,” Sherlock muttered. “Come upstairs. It'll be my late-night therapy.”
Liam smiled again, clearly enjoying himself, and Sherlock immediately ruined the moment by grabbing his wrist and dragging him inside. The door shut behind them and the tension drained out of him so fast it almost felt indecent. He raised a finger to his lips — quiet, quiet — because Watson wasn’t the only person in the building and explanations were not on tonight’s schedule.
They crept upstairs. Sherlock pointed out the treacherous step by habit, then shoved Liam straight into the living room he shared with John. Another tap of the cane against his leg. Sherlock swallowed a swear and decided to count that as personal growth.
The door closed.
His relief manifested in violence against his own shoes.
“Dear Lord,” he sighed, kicking them off. “The last time I had to sneak into my own room was when Mycroft babysat me. Nearly fifteen years ago.”
“And?” Liam asked, shrugging out of his coat, amused already. “Were you successful?”
“Absolutely not. It was Mycroft.” Sherlock scrunched his nose and flung his jacket toward the sofa with questionable aim.
Liam kept his coat over his arm and took in the room. John’s absence was obvious. Sherlock’s chaos thrived without witnesses.
Sherlock stepped closer — far too close — and took the coat. Red eyes warned him off. He complied and hung it up, still staring. Liam smiled. Sherlock smiled back and leaned in to finally kiss him.
Liam turned his head and walked away.
Sherlock groaned quietly and followed.
“Why is there a ship’s wheel?”
“Saving for a boat.”
“That explains nothing.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
Sherlock wasn’t ashamed of his decorating philosophy. John would tidy up eventually if things reached critical mass.
Liam changed direction, passed him, and brushed his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand. It sent an entirely unreasonable shiver up his spine. Liam’s smile said he knew exactly what he’d done.
He drifted on, inspected the plants, then stopped at the violins. One was stuffed with an alarming amount of cigarette butts; the other lay neatly on the desk. Liam’s fingers traced the dark wood.
“Would you play for me someday?”
“Mhm. Of course. Sit.”
“Not now,” Liam said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Sherlock shrugged, pushed him down onto the couch with minimal ceremony, and picked up the violin and bow. Liam sat there stiffly, unimpressed.
“You’ll wake your landlady.”
“I know,” Sherlock said cheerfully. “But she never comes upstairs for violin music. I’m doing wonders for her circulation. It’s very healthy to scream my name into a pillow and regret one’s life choices.”
He grinned. Liam remained unconvinced, but it was Sherlock’s flat, and the decision had already been made. Sometimes it helped when Sherlock took over. Liam relaxed more easily that way.
And after two weeks of playing along, Sherlock felt entitled to a reward.
Just a small one.
The violin started playing, and the tension slid off William’s shoulders as if it had finally been given permission. His body sank into the couch, yielding without protest, while Sherlock played an unfamiliar melody. It had to be one of his own — nobody else would dare write something that self-indulgent and get away with it. William watched him, openly now. Sherlock stood there with his eyes closed, absorbed, stubborn as ever, entirely at the mercy of the next note. William knew he’d scold himself for days if he missed one.
Ridiculous man.
He loved him anyway. From that infuriating curl of hair that never behaved to the way he planted his feet when he played, as if the floor might argue otherwise. It was strange, really. William had never thought of himself as someone capable of deep, physical affection. Not like this. Not without calculation. And yet here he was, undone by a violin and a man who refused to sit properly.
The music smoothed him out, pressed the sharp edges flat. William closed his eyes, fighting the pull of exhaustion. He yawned, quietly, like it might offend someone if he didn’t. Falling asleep now would be a crime. Sherlock was playing for him — for him — and that deserved consciousness. Still, his body betrayed him, tipping slightly, forcing him to correct himself like a poorly stacked tower.
When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was suddenly kneeling in front of him.
William startled hard enough to jerk back into the couch, staring into those infuriatingly blue eyes. Sherlock looked pleased. Not angry. That was something.
“So dull, aye?”
“What? No — of course not, I—”
Sherlock laughed, bright and unbothered, and offered him his hand. William took it, because he always did, and let himself be pulled up, following without comment.
—
The bedroom was unmistakably Sherlock’s. Same chaos, just condensed. A narrow bed sat in the corner, clearly decorative at this point, while books and newspapers claimed every other surface with imperial confidence. William’s attention went straight to the wall opposite the bed. He slipped his hand free and stepped closer. Sherlock followed, close enough to be a problem, a presence at his back that felt deliberate.
He’s got me, William thought distantly. Entirely.
Faces stared back at him. Familiar ones. Dead ones. Newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, red thread stretched into obsessive geometry. Maps, crime scene photographs, sketches. Too many connections. Not enough order.
“Sherly…”
“Mhm?”
Sherlock’s hands slid under his arms, settling at his stomach, pulling him back against his chest. He lowered his face to William’s neck and breathed in, deep, like he’d been holding it for weeks.
“Why aren’t they connected properly?” William asked quietly.
He knew the answer. That was the problem. This was Sherlock Holmes — precision incarnate, obsessed with structure. The man who had accused him once with nothing but instinct and a fondness for dangerous ideas. And yet there was no photograph of William James Moriarty at the centre of it all. No red thread pointing inward. As if omission itself were a form of order.
“My bedroom isn’t exactly private,” Sherlock said lightly. “Mrs Hudson would throw me out personally if she saw this, John wakes me if I sleep past noon, and Mycroft considers privacy a suggestion. Take a guess why.” He paused. “I can’t take it down either. I was far too invested in the Lord of Crime business. So I compromise. I let it exist.”
William kept staring. The weight in his stomach twisted tighter. He couldn’t sleep here. Not with all of this watching him. He tried to ease Sherlock’s hands away.
Sherlock only tightened his grip.
“I thought you wanted to stay.”
William didn’t answer. His hands rested on Sherlock’s, eyes still on the wall. Sherlock tilted his head, studied him from the side — then, without another word, let go. He crossed the room, rummaged through the wardrobe, and came back with a bedsheet. He pinned it carefully over the wall, neat, thorough, methodical. When he finished, he turned back, a question left deliberately unspoken.
William understood. Someone would get hurt tonight. It had to be one of them.
Good thing it wasn't Sherlock.
He closed the distance, lifted his hands to Sherlock’s face, and kissed him.
Sherlock’s hands snapped to William’s hips, gripping hard, like he was making sure he was still real. William leaned into him with a quiet sound, resigned and pleased all at once. Two weeks didn’t vanish so easily. Pretending not to know each other took effort. This felt like relief.
They broke apart only because Sherlock started laughing, head thrown back, hands hovering at William’s back like he couldn’t decide what to do with them.
“So,” he said, breathless, “the oysters did work after all?”
William raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps you’re just impossible to resist.”
“Ah,” Sherlock replied, delighted. “That’s my favourite theory.”
“Nah,” William said lightly, voice close enough to be a promise. “I don’t know, Sherly. Maybe you just can’t get any closer to me — even if you try crawling inside.”
Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant suggestion. Let me just—”
He stole one kiss. Then another. Somewhere around eight, he stopped counting, hands dragging away reluctantly as he turned to the bed with sudden, ruthless efficiency. Books and newspapers were scraped aside in a hurry that suggested long practice. William started undressing in the meantime, but Sherlock was back far too quickly; two buttons were all he managed before hands were on him again.
Sherlock shoved him onto the bed.
William sat down and immediately pushed himself up again, because Sherlock was already crawling over him, no hesitation, no patience, collapsing against him and pinning him to the mattress like this was where he’d always meant to land.
William laughed and caught Sherlock’s face, steering his kisses, knocking their lips together on purpose. He liked the way Sherlock kissed his neck — slow, careful, almost reverent — but not enough to surrender completely.
He slipped the hair tie free, let it snap onto his wrist, and threaded his fingers through dark curls. His nails scratched lightly at Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock made a quiet, pleased sound and rewarded him with more kisses along his throat. The tie was removed next and tossed somewhere into the room. William noted the general direction. He would never see it again otherwise.
The next button went flying like a projectile.
William slapped Sherlock’s hand.
“Stop destroying my clothes.”
“Have you ever considered,” Sherlock asked, already reaching for the next button, “wearing something that doesn’t require a negotiation?”
“All my shirts are like this.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said fervently. “And I hate every single one.”
They bickered, hands everywhere, pushing and swatting, until William caught both of Sherlock’s wrists and took a steadying breath. One of them needed to behave like an adult.
“Compromise,” William said. “I open the buttons. You watch.”
Sherlock frowned, sulked, then lifted his hands in surrender. “Acceptable.”
He realised his mistake a second too late.
William shifted, hooked a leg, and used the momentum to flip Sherlock onto his back. Then he sat astride his thighs, smug enough to be illegal. Sherlock huffed, half-annoyed, half-delighted. William was never as fragile as he looked. They were evenly matched, and it showed.
William adjusted his position and deliberately dropped his weight onto Sherlock’s crotch.
Sherlock made a sound he would deny under oath.
William raised an eyebrow and toyed with the next button. “Is there anything I should know, detective?”
“You’re unfairly attractive.”
A draw.
Pink crept into William’s cheeks despite his best efforts. He shifted his hips — subtly, infuriatingly — just enough to make things worse. Sherlock refused to give in. He would not lose.
William continued to struggle with the button in a performance that was clearly deliberate, sighing in exaggerated disappointment. Sherlock’s leg started bouncing. A terrible idea. William compensated with small, rhythmic movements that had Sherlock dragging a hand down his face.
The button finally surrendered.
William laughed, pushed the rest open in one smooth motion, and slipped out of his shirt, letting it fall beside the bed without breaking eye contact. He caught Sherlock’s hand, kissed his palm, then pressed it against his chest. His hips rolled again, slow and deliberate. Sherlock muttered something incoherent, fingers sliding over warm skin — and then stopped.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing at William’s side.
William turned his face away with a small smile. “Just some internal bleeding. Nothing to worry about.”
It was a lie. Or at least an understatement. The bruise was impressive, blooming from hip to back. Sherlock said nothing, hands roaming again, this time more careful, moving straight for William’s trousers. William helped, fingers quick, buttons giving way easily now.
Sherlock flipped the fabric aside, intent on finishing the thought, but William leaned in and kissed him instead. Sherlock let him, hands hovering uselessly while William’s tongue stole all his attention. Touching became chaotic, simultaneous, unfocused. Eventually William rolled sideways, wedged between wall and man. The bed was narrow. They would make it work. The floor existed as a contingency plan.
Sherlock tried to undress all at once and failed spectacularly. Shirt stuck, trousers caught on enthusiasm. He kicked them away, socks following, and finally looked back.
William lay on his back, one arm behind his head, stroking himself with lazy confidence.
“Don’t mind me, Sherly,” he said. “Did you win the fight against your clothes?”
Sherlock huffed and knelt between his legs, tugging the last button free and pulling the trousers down.
“You know,” he said, “this bed is ruined for me forever. I can't close my eyes in here without the image of you masturbating popping up.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sherlock lay down beside him — because there was no other option — and nudged William’s hand away. He wanted to touch him. William allowed it, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, marking his neck with kisses and a very deliberate hickey, right where a collar would close.
“Did my little game bother you that much?” William murmured, fingers already sliding along Sherlock, voice warm against his ear.
“It was fun,” Sherlock said, kissing his temple. “But I prefer this.”
William giggled, then gasped softly as Sherlock moved again.
“You or me?” Sherlock asked.
“You,” William said, smiling. “Hand me the oil.”
Sherlock let go immediately and lunged for the drawer, rummaging with single-minded urgency. William leaned over his shoulder to watch.
“So,” William remarked, spotting a photograph tucked inside, “you do have a picture of me.”
“Hah?” Sherlock turned his head and kissed him. “Who said I didn’t?”
“There were none on your murder wall.”
“Different category.”
“I know, Sherly. I’m not dense. Why is this one in here?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Understanding settled, and William flopped back onto the bed, hands raised.
“What a filthy mind you have, detective.”
“What excellent material I work with.”
William hit his shoulder. Sherlock didn’t mind. He handed over the half-empty bottle. William closed his fingers around the cold glass as if it might keep him upright when Sherlock moved over him and sat between William's legs. He raised an eyebrow.
“Darling, you’re slipping.”
“Oh, no—no, no, Sweetheart. That wasn’t a power grab,” Sherlock said quickly. “I just wanted to try something. You’d still be calling the shots.”
“I always do.”
“You really don’t, darling.”
William’s mouth twitched. “I’m quite confident I do.”
“Whatever keeps you asleep,” Sherlock replied. “Though you do hallucinate occasionally. And you talk in your sleep. It’s… endearing.”
Sherlock’s hand rested on William’s knee, warm, deliberate. They held each other’s gaze, stubbornness meeting stubbornness, neither prepared to blink first.
William broke the standoff by shifting, propping himself on his elbows, expression smoothing into something measured. Strategic.
“So,” he asked calmly, “what exactly do you want to try?”
Sherlock kept staring a moment longer, then dragged his hand back over himself, slow and deliberate.
“Ever heard of docking?”
William frowned. “I’m fascinated by the mystery of where you picked that up.”
“I make conversation.”
William shifted, pushing himself closer on purpose. Sherlock approved immediately and pulled William’s legs over his own, settling in front of him. Their tips brushed—precise, intentional. Perfect.
“So do I,” William said.
“Yes, but your idea of conversation involves household advice and scary math lessons.”
“They ask.”
“You bring diagrams.”
William snapped forward and pinched his nipple.
Sherlock hissed. “Assault. Noted.”
“It wasn’t math,” William said coolly. “They asked for help.”
“And you had a blackboard.”
“And you couldn’t say hello without stalking me at my own house?”
Sherlock grinned and leaned in to kiss him again, as if that settled it.
“I’d pay good money to hear you discuss sex with strangers,” he said, then paused. “No—actually, I would not. Forget I said that.”
William laughed softly and stroked him again. “You’re painfully jealous. It’s endearing.”
Another kiss followed, slower this time. Then Sherlock’s hand slid to William’s cock, his eyes lifting in a silent question.
“So?”
“I still don’t know what you’re planning,” William said calmly, “but I’m willing to let you try. I trust you.”
He would, later, regret phrasing it that way.
Sherlock’s smile turned thoughtful. Dangerous. Pleased.
“Right,” he said. “Then I’ll need you to help me.”
He shifted closer, guiding William’s hand exactly where he wanted it.
“Hold that.”
William nearly snapped something sharp and clever back at him. Nearly.
Instead, he bit it down and let Sherlock guide his hand, fingers closing around his very own cock. That settled the discussion. Words had already overstayed their welcome.
Sherlock took himself in hand and brought them together, deliberate, exacting. He drew the skin forward, stretched it over both tips, grip tightening just enough to promise consequences. Then he moved.
Slow.
Controlled.
Cruel.
William sucked in a breath that had no intention of staying quiet. The sensation landed hard—hot, slick, indecently precise—every nerve lighting up at once. His fingers dug into Sherlock’s shoulder as he stared down, jaw tight, fighting the instinct to thrust. He knew better. One wrong move and it would hurt. Or end too fast. Or both.
They found a rhythm anyway. Careful. Shared. Ruinously intimate.
Soft sounds slipped out of them, breath stuttering, bodies pressed together with nowhere to retreat. William tipped his head back, a strained sound tearing loose as his nails scraped down Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock’s free hand slid to his lower back, firm, grounding—holding him exactly where he wanted him.
Then teeth grazed his neck.
That was it.
William came with a sharp, broken sound, folding forward, air stolen entirely as his fingers clenched hard. Sherlock followed moments later, breath shattering as he pressed close, a low, helpless noise caught in his throat when William slipped free.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Sherlock laughed quietly, breathless, and wrapped both arms around him, pulling William back against his chest. He kissed him—cheek, mouth, nose—too many to count, murmuring nonsense that meant everything and nothing. William answered with a soft laugh of his own, hands smoothing over Sherlock’s shoulders in something like apology as he glanced down at the sheets.
Completely ruined.
Sherlock didn’t even pretend to care.
“Maybe it’ll be me today,” William said lightly, fingers threading through Sherlock’s hair as he nudged them back onto the bed, Sherlock following without resistance.
“You sure you won’t fall asleep this time?”
“When have I ever—”
Sherlock said nothing.
William scowled. “Once.”
He shifted, breath finally evening out, eyes sharp again.
“Speaking of the last two weeks.”
“Oh, you mean the charming fortnight where using your name was forbidden,” Sherlock said, voice dry, “and touching your bare hand would’ve caused a collective faint among the nobility?”
William’s smile turned dangerous. Sherlock kissed the tip of his nose once, then stopped being polite. He shifted his weight and rolled William onto his stomach, settling over him with deliberate intent. William’s hands flexed, questioning. Sherlock ignored them. Tonight, in his flat, he’d already made up his mind.
The oil hit William’s lower back cold.
Sherlock’s hands followed immediately, warm and unapologetic. He touched like he was reclaiming territory—hips, spine, shoulders—thumbs digging in, hands greedy. A brief kiss at William’s neck, then a firm squeeze to his arse.
Sherlock hummed. Annoyingly pleased with himself.
He paused at the bruise, traced it once with a finger. Pressed himself deliberately against William’s thigh.
“You planning to tell me what did this,” he asked lightly, “or should I start making guesses?”
“I already told you—”
“—internal bleeding,” Sherlock cut in. “Yes. Riveting. What. Hit. You.”
William twisted his head, propped himself up on an elbow. Sherlock flattened him again without effort, hand firm between his shoulders.
“I said—”
“—that you got hit tonight,” Sherlock finished. “You’re very good at stating the obvious.”
“Sherly,” William warned, voice tight, “interrupt me one more time and I will shove my thumb—”
Sherlock leaned down and kissed him shut.
William met it immediately, all teeth and irritation, tongue biting back. Sherlock broke it first, shoved him down again, and rubbed himself along William’s leg slowly, deliberately.
William swore under his breath and gave up a fraction of ground, opening his legs just enough.
Sherlock took advantage shamelessly.
William still waited for an answer, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. The bruise said enough. Sherlock’s thumbs moved to William’s shoulders instead, circling, easing tension out of him despite himself.
William sighed, irritated by his own reaction.
“Oh, don’t relax,” Sherlock murmured. “That’s not permission.”
They would argue later. This subject came with blood on it.
Sherlock worked his way down again—neck, spine, hips—hands squeezing carefully, reverently, then not reverently at all. He lingered at William’s arse, squeezed, then squeezed again.
“God,” William muttered. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still here.”
More oil. Sherlock’s hand slid between William’s thighs, finding him half-hard.
“That’s disappointing,” Sherlock said. “I expected better cooperation.”
“Keep talking,” William snapped. “See how cooperative I get.”
Sherlock brushed him deliberately, once. Twice. Then pressed a finger in.
He waited.
Only when William’s breathing betrayed him did Sherlock move, slow and measured. A second finger followed, curling just right.
William bit down on a sound and clawed at the pillow.
Sherlock smiled.
“Turn over,” he said. “I want to see your face when you pretend you’re not enjoying this.”
“Oh, shut up.”
It took effort—Sherlock refused to withdraw—but William managed to roll onto his back, one leg thrown over Sherlock’s shoulder without shame. Sherlock kissed his calf and resumed, less patient now.
William arched immediately, teeth clenched, hands grabbing at Sherlock—arms, chest, anywhere.
“I distinctly remember you wanting to go home,” Sherlock said mildly. “Twice.”
He pressed deeper.
William kicked his shoulder in warning.
Sherlock stuck his tongue out and did it again.
Found it.
William swore, back bowing hard, fingers digging into Sherlock’s arm. He fought the urge to hit him. Barely.
“I could still leave,” William said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, please,” Sherlock replied. “Fourteen seconds. You’re improving.”
Another press earned him a strangled sound and a murderous glare. Sherlock ducked just in time.
“You wouldn’t get far,” he added. “You’re already distracted.”
“I own property nearby.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. William went back to stroking himself, eyes sharp, calculating. Sherlock considered provoking him further. Naturally, he did.
He reached for the oil again.
William sat up immediately, stole the bottle, slicked Sherlock with practiced efficiency, and hauled him into a messy kiss that ended in laughter and breathless swearing. Sherlock let himself be pushed onto the mattress, weight settling between them, hands everywhere again.
For a while, they forgot how to argue.
Which meant it wouldn’t last.
Sex was still on the table—just no longer the urgent centerpiece it had been minutes ago.
This time, William chose the direction.
His hand slid down between them and closed around Sherlock with purpose, not asking. He kissed him again and again, unhurried now, fingers combing through dark hair, smoothing along his jaw like he was tidying up loose thoughts. William tugged at him once, just enough to make the intention clear as he shifted closer.
Sherlock took the hint. Of course he did.
He removed William’s hand only to replace it with himself, guiding his way in without ceremony. William gasped, fingers skidding over Sherlock’s arms as his legs locked around his waist on instinct. The first stretch was always strange—annoying, even—but it eased quickly as Sherlock moved. Every thrust settled things into place, heartbeat by heartbeat.
William shut his eyes and let it happen. Sound, heat, the familiar scent of Sherlock—he let it all wash over him. The bed began to creak in protest as Sherlock picked up speed.
Then Sherlock shifted.
Hands grabbed William’s legs and hauled him closer, deeper. William cried out, surprised, breath breaking hard. Sherlock didn’t slow. If anything, he went faster, thrusting with intent now, no pauses, no mercy.
William swore at him—out loud and in his head. Called him names he’d stand by later. That infuriating smirk. Theoretically, he wished Sherlock a long, happy life. Practically, he wanted to hurt him a little for that face.
He pinched Sherlock’s nipple.
“Ey—!” Sherlock bent down, caught both of William’s wrists, and pulled him closer. Then he stopped pretending to be gentle.
Sherlock fucked him hard and without mercy. William loved it. He hadn’t planned for it to go this way, but letting Sherlock take control—really take it—had its uses.
At some point, clarity returned just long enough for embarrassment to set in.
The bed was old. Loud. There was no chance the landlady couldn’t hear them. Under different circumstances, William might have spared her a thought—what she must be imagining right now—but the thought barely survived contact with reality. Sherlock Holmes was officially a bachelor, and William doubted overnight guests were on the approved list.
They’d been caught once before. Albert, bless him, had at least waited until they were alone to mock him for it.
William’s voice gave up any attempt at restraint. He heard Sherlock too—low, breathless sounds slipping out as his hands slid up William’s hips, carefully avoiding the bruise. William knew him too well not to feel the shift. Sherlock was close.
He reached down and took matters into his own hands, pumping himself in time with Sherlock’s thrusts. His legs were back on Sherlock’s shoulders, knees pressed high, the position brutal and perfect.
William was past coherence now. Head thrown back, breath shredded, the pressure unbearable. Sherlock’s rhythm broke—too fast, uneven—and that was the warning William needed.
He opened his mouth to complain.
Too late.
Sherlock tensed and came deep inside him with a broken sound, collapsing forward a second later. William followed almost immediately, body going loose as he spilled, legs shaking as they finally fell back down.
Sherlock slumped over him, face buried at William’s neck, breathing hard. William rubbed his back, equally wrecked.
They stayed like that until the world stopped ringing.
Eventually, Sherlock resurfaced, suddenly contrite, kissing William’s cheek, his mouth, his temple in quick succession.
“I couldn’t,” he muttered.
William lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock twisted a strand of blond hair around his finger, not looking up.
“Pull out. I’m sorry.”
William studied him for a second, then sighed. “You don’t have to be.”
Sherlock lifted his head, clearly shocked.
“The last time I did that,” he said, offended, “you threatened me.”
“Yes, because last time we were in an alley,” William replied calmly, “and I had to walk home for half an hour. I’m not leaving tonight, I can use your bath, and I’m not in the mood to be dramatic.”
Sherlock smiled helplessly.
William lay there, hair a mess, sheets soaked, entirely unapologetic—and Sherlock couldn’t have agreed more.
“Then go now. Unless you’re eager to explain suspicious dripping in the hallway. The bathroom’s right there. No one will come up.”
William raised an eyebrow, shoved Sherlock off him and sat up. He could have pulled his trousers on, paused instead. “…You don’t own a dressing gown, do you?”
“In the bathroom,” Sherlock said. “Go. I’ll follow.”
He got to his feet and offered William his hand with exaggerated gallantry. William accepted it with a theatrical sigh, playing the damsel for exactly one second.
Then the living-room door clicked.
Both of them froze. Voices. Laughter. Female. John Watson, unmistakably drunk. Something clattered to the floor.
“My measuring cup,” Sherlock whispered, aghast.
William clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him toward the door. Sherlock cracked it open an inch and peered out, his expression curdling. “On the table,” he muttered. “Disgusting.”
He glanced back at William. “You think this is my fault?”
“You said he wouldn’t be here.”
“He wasn’t. I did not invite him to shag a stranger on my table.”
“Well, now he is. Do something.”
“Like what? Politely ask him to remove his penis?”
They hissed at each other in whispers, hands flailing uselessly. William bounced on the balls of his feet, exasperated. Sherlock answered with an automatic, irritated “Shh.”
William’s eyes went incandescent. He stepped in, shoved Sherlock back against the wall and raised one finger in warning. “Listen carefully,” he said, deadly calm. “I am going to start dripping any second. Use that ridiculous brain. I cannot walk out there.”
Sherlock stared at the finger, briefly considered licking it, decided he valued his continued mobility. He saluted, opened the door and stepped out completely naked.
He might need therapy later to erase this image, but for now he flopped onto the sofa, fished through his violin ashtray, found a respectable stub and struck a match. The woman screamed. Loudly.
“Mrs. Hudson will wake,” Sherlock said conversationally, “and I know a certain doctor who’ll be living under a bridge by morning.”
Watson spun around. “She’hock! Whatcha doin’ ‘ere?”
Sherlock raised a hand. “Please don’t show me anything. I live here, John. As you do, temporarily. Would you kindly relocate whatever you’re doing to your bedroom?”
John squinted. “You’re naked.”
Sherlock uncrossed his legs and opened his arms. “And yet remarkably composed. Bedroom?”
The woman grabbed John’s arm and dragged him away. The door slammed shut. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. He had absolutely earned this.
William slipped out into the living room and headed for the hall. At the bathroom door, he paused and glanced back. “Thanks. I’ll go wash. And… Sherly?”
“Yes?”
William smiled and held out one hand. “Don’t you ever let anyone but me see you naked again. Understood?”
Sherlock swallowed. “Perfectly.”