Chapter Text
A lot of men compare their lovers to the sun.
Their wife smiles, and suddenly, it's like the soft sunlight of an April morning has chased the grey of winter away. Their love is light, soft, and warm to the touch. It heals what the world has hurt.
Sherlock could see that kind of love in John and Mary. She would bring him tea in between appointments, cook him dinner and bring it to his late-night paperwork sessions. She would heal the spots where the world had trodden on him.
She's a good person, that Mary. He would never admit it to John, but he'd found himself a wonderful wife.
But Sherlock?
His love wasn't soft and gentle like Mary's.
His sun was an explosion in the sky, an unfathomable distance away, so far that he feared he'd never traverse the space between them. His sun burst with passion and agony that would burn him long before he could touch him.
But oh, how he craved that intimate destruction.
Sherlock paused, tapping his pen to the paper until he splattered ink across his writing. He cursed, tossed it in the rubbish bin, and strode away to grab a cup of tea.
To his horror, when he returned, John was standing by the waste basket, paper in hand, reading it with an unusually bright expression.
"Ha! To think my hunch was right all this time," he exclaimed.
To say Sherlock was aghast was an understatement. All color left his expression as he darted forward to snatch the paper out of John's hands.
"John! Why are you reading that?"
"I didn't think my partner was a writer like myself," John said, grinning. "You have a real talent, Sherlock."
"I don't care what you think of my writing! Why are you rummaging through my personal belongings?"
"Why were your personal belongings in the rubbish bin? I thought only trash ought to be there. Items you've discarded are fair game."
Sherlock ripped the paper to shreds and tossed it in the bin, dragging his hands down his face. "I fear I may never recover from this embarrassment."
"Please, Sherlock. I've known for half a year now."
Sherlock's heart stopped. "I'm sorry?"
"I've known for half a year n—"
"No, you fool, I mean—!" Sherlock's voice strangled itself, and he forgot how to speak. It was as if saying it out loud would alert the reaper to his appointed time, and he'd be struck by his blade the moment the words left his mouth.
John's face softened. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"We've been working together for a while now, Sherlock. You think I wouldn't notice?"
"...Well, I was hoping you wouldn't."
John laughed. "It's normal for men to fall in love. Even a man as abnormal as you isn't immune to the trials of the heart."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock snapped.
"Normal men lose every waking hour of their day to thoughts of their lover. They shower her with gifts, take her on dates, and busy themselves in their private time with all manner of surprises and gestures of love."
"And? I've done nothing of the sort."
"As I've said, you aren't normal, Sherlock."
"Are you calling me mad?"
"Not quite," John said, smirking. "Instead, this man happens to be a detective of great renown, one who gets so wrapped up in his deductions that he forgets he's a human who needs to eat and drink."
"I haven't forgotten THAT many times," Sherlock muttered.
"Whatever the case," John continued, shooting him a look, "this detective surpassed even his extreme routine to to allow himself to be strung along by the fabled Lord of Crime, chasing his purposeful leads at every hour of day and night. For any other case, he would have demanded to get ahead of the curve. But for this one, he was content, enraptured, even, by this game the Lord of Crime had set out for him."
Sherlock felt a bit of color return to his expression. He abruptly turned away from John.
"So? What's that supposed to say about me?"
"I think this detective needs to take a good look at him heart and make the decision befitting of its contents."
A shudder ran through Sherlock, chillier than the wind in the middle of January.
Tomorrow, William's plan would come to fruition.
Tomorrow, a great tragedy would befall London.
Tomorrow, the nobles would assist the commoners to save their beautiful city from ruin.
Tomorrow, William would present himself as the Lord of Crime—and Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, would end his life, bringing his reign of terror to a dramatic close.
Sherlock glanced at the letter on his desk. John followed his eyes, and he picked up the letter.
"What's this?"
Sherlock's chest tightened. "A letter."
"I have eyes, Sherlock. It's from William, isn't it?"
Now, he couldn't breathe. He only nodded. He didn't stop John when he took the contents from the envelope and read them over.
"This is an address in the slums. It's obvious—there's something here he wants you to discover. You should go there and find out what it is."
"John...I want you to go there with me."
Sherlock's grip tightened around his wrist until he was sure it would bruise. He had recomposed his face, but there was no point—John could see right through him. He was practically begging John to help him.
Help him do what, though? Not lose his mind? Avoid the truth, laid bare before his eyes? He knew that whatever William wanted him to go and find here, he wouldn't like it. Best case scenario, it was his final wishes. Worst case scenario...well, Sherlock didn't want to think about that.
"No, you're the one he delegated this to, not me. This man...you're going to save him, yes? I know you'll do whatever you believe is right."
Sherlock stared at him, surprise freezing his expression. John wasn't planning to spare him this torment, but not because he wanted him to suffer; no, it was because he was certain that Sherlock would save William's life. Of course he would do the right thing, because he was Sherlock, and he always pulled off the most impossible of things.
But this impossible thing felt like an insurmountable task.
William planned to meet him atop a broken bridge, at least one hundred meters over the Thames. If they fell, there was no guarantee they would survive. And if William was as determined to end his life as he seemed, he surely had backup plans stored in that beautiful brain of his.
You can think of every way to ensure the destruction of the class system, but you can't think of a plan that can save your life?
Sherlock didn't buy it. He finally cracked a smile.
"Of course. I'll make sure he makes it out of this alive."
———————————————————————————————
***Possible trigger warning!!! This is the chapter of The Final Problem involving the bridge incident, which is William's suicide attempt to end his plan. It follows canon, but just in case you weren't aware, be forewarned!
Sherlock arrived at the address exactly one hour before the appointed time of his final showdown with Liam. He took in the building in front of him, noting its ramshackle appearance. It was an address in the slums, just as he said, but he didn’t expect a building crumbling at its very foundation to be the location of Liam’s final wishes.
Or, at least, what he assumed to be Liam’s final wishes. He wasn’t clear in his intentions, but he hadn’t made anything easy for him to ascertain yet, had he?
“The game continues, Liam,” Sherlock whispered.
He followed the instructions in his letter, turning this way and that through the building. Each hallway was in worse shape than the last until he came upon the cellar at the very end of the building, which had a door hanging onto the wall by a single rusty nail. In fact, the moment Sherlock pushed it aside, it finally collapsed onto the floor and shattered into a thousand tiny splinters.
“How poetic,” he muttered.
He glanced about the cellar, hoping for a miraculous answer to his current dilemma, but he found nothing of the sort. Instead, there was a hole in the wall, and inside, he found a treasure trove of rolled-up parchments and papers. Sherlock extracted them all carefully, his hands trembling as he unraveled the countless artifacts.
The Hope incident.
The Noahtic building plans.
A map of the slums.
Scattered notes, some clearly crumpled then flattened out once more.
A museum of Liam’s criminal genius, all left explicitly for Sherlock’s taking.
“You bloody genius. Of course I was always a step behind you,” Sherlock whispered, tracing his fingers across the careworn notes. He didn’t dare to hold them in his grasp for long, lest he tarnish them with his hands, damp from anxiety or excitement, he wasn’t sure which.
While setting aside the notes, a red envelope fell out of the pile of papers. Sherlock scrambled to catch it before it hit the floor. He turned it over, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of a single, painstakingly-written name:
Mr. Sherlock
This was more elegant and beautiful than the handwriting on the directions he’d been given, but it was still unmistakably Liam’s work. He must have taken great care to create such a lavish calligraphy of his name, paying close attention to the curvature of the capital S and the final loop of the k that ended his name. It was the finest work of penmanship that Sherlock had seen to date.
“You waste your talents on me, Liam,” Sherlock muttered.
He opened the envelope, lit a candle on the table, and began to read the letter inside.
Dear Sherlock Holmes,
Once more, the calligraphy of his name stole his breath away. Sherlock forced a deep breath through his lungs before he could manage another sentence.
First, allow me to thank you for reading this letter. Though, according to my profiling, the chances of you choosing not to read it are vanishingly small. So that was never a concern.
“You got me there, Lord of Crime,” Sherlock said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Let me get straight to the point. As I'm sure you've already deduced, I intend to take full responsibility for everything we've done.
I've received word of the condition you extracted from her majesty and Parliament in exchange for solving the case. Thank you. I believe my plan was sufficient, but your negotiations will direct the world in an even better direction. I'm confident that my plan will succeed. Slowly but surely, the hearts of everyone in this country will change...although I won't be able to see the results with my own eyes.
That's why I must make this request of no one other than you, Sherlock Holmes:
Take care of the world for me.
While the largest pieces of the world move, there will still be small voices crying for help. I hope you will rescue them for me.
Sherlock suddenly slammed the letter on the table. His whole body was wracked with a shuddering that he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Rescue them for you?” Sherlock scoffed. “I’m not a bloody hero, Liam. You should be rescuing those small voices with me, my dear Robin Hood.”
He forced himself to continue.
One more thing. When I visit you in a short while, I expect you'll ask me a question: Why did I choose you?
Was I able to give you that answer? I imagine that, face-to-face with you, I couldn't find the words to speak the truth. It's difficult to explain succinctly, but when I met you, just for a moment, I enjoyed myself so much that I forgot my blood-stained plan. For the first time, it felt like I found someone who understood me. If our social positions had allowed, I could've chatted with you for hours. I even indulged in a fantasy where I gave up everything and spent my days solving mysteries with you.
A tightness in his chest started up, and before long, it became difficult to breathe. Sherlock clutched at his chest, balling his shirt up into a white-knuckled fist over his heart. It became physically painful to continue reading, but Sherlock set himself to the task like it was the last thing he’d ever do.
I'm well aware that feeling this way toward the detective that's pursuing me is odd...but since the moment we met, for some strange reason, you felt like a friend of many years. That's why I want you, and no one else, to be there for my final moments. That's why it has to be you. If there's some truth to spiritualism, and the two of us can be reborn into new lives in this new world that we're creating, I hope this time we can stand side by side…as true friends.
"It was the same,” Sherlock choked out. “This whole time, I've felt the same way about you!”
He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no good; he remembered the moment Liam was talking about, and in vivid detail.
A spiral staircase.
Golden hair.
Shining red eyes.
A beautiful mind behind them.
All the logic in the world could not explain why the world felt as if it had fallen out from under his feet in that moment—and why he was enjoying the fall. Liam defied all conclusions he could surmise. He was a mathematician, but nothing about him added up to a clear answer. He was dealing with imaginary numbers in the real world.
Liam was always one step ahead. He was always one agonizing pace behind.
But now, as he stood on the same ground as him, he saw him. All of him. All the wretchedly human parts of him that he wasn’t paying any mind to. All the pieces of him that he’d left behind to assume the necessary evil that society demanded. All the beautiful, unrefined shards of a mosaic that had yet to be polished and placed, a project abandoned for the benefit of society.
And now, he was going to destroy it all—every last piece of that unfinished mosaic, long before he had the chance to envision the finished masterpiece.
“If we're reborn into new lives?!” Sherlock shouted. “TO HELL WITH THAT!”
He folded up the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope, leaving it on the table with the rest of Liam’s crime museum. He sprinted down the hall and jumped straight out a broken window, feeling its jagged edges scrape across his skin as he went. But it did not deter him in his progress; if anything, it only encouraged him to run faster.
“You idiot...there's still time now!"
Sherlock ran through the streets of the slums, analyzing the quickest route to the address Liam had appointed for their final battle. If he somehow managed to get there before him, maybe he could stop this entire charade. Maybe, if he played his cards right, and he managed to say the right things, he could coax him down from that ledge before he ever walked onto it.
Louis had asked him to save Liam’s life, but the truth was, he’d never intended to let Liam die. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t live with himself if he did.
The truth was, losing Liam was not an option. There were so many things he still didn’t understand about him. There were so many conversations yet to be had, discoveries to be made, and feelings to sort out before he was capable of letting him go.
I think this detective needs to take a good look at his heart and make the decision befitting of its contents.
Sherlock cursed. He should have known better; the decision had already been made before he came to this place. He knew the contents of his heart. He didn’t need to conduct a thorough investigation to know what every bit of it was screaming at him. The desperation in his sorry sprint through London spoke for itself.
An unnatural glow suddenly appeared over the horizon. Sherlock cast his gaze aside for a moment, and his eyes widened at a hellish sight: the whole of London, engulfed in flames. From the looks of it, the entirety of the slums would be consumed in a matter of minutes. Soon, even the precious estates of the nobility would be threatened by the blaze. Sherlock cursed under his breath as he picked up speed.
I see you, Liam. I can only hope this asinine plan of yours works.
Sherlock put the whole matter behind him. He put all his effort into running as fast as he could toward the riverbank. The shrieks of the panicked citizens almost drowned out the screaming in his own mind. The fire was gaining on him at an incredible speed. He wished to shout at them to make for the riverbank, but he desperately wanted to avoid being followed. The last thing he needed was a civilian interrupting his final chat with Liam.
No, not a final chat—the first of many.
The bridge finally came into view. Only two blocks stood between him and Liam now. He gazed up at the bridge, desperately hoping to find it empty, but to his horror, Liam was already there—and he was standing on the very edge of an already rickety structure.
“Damn it all!”
Sherlock ran to the base of the bridge, then climbed the spiral staircase at top speed, dizzying himself, he ran so many circles in such a short time. By the time he arrived at the top of the bridge, his breath came in great gasps, and his whole body shook from the effort.
Just then, a great blast of light flashed overhead, temporarily blinding him. A searing pain started up behind his eyes. He snapped his gaze away, then by the time his vision cleared, Liam was facing him, a smile painted on his face.
"I'm glad to see you're punctual, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock suddenly caught up with the situation. He glanced down at the people hundreds of meters below, finding every pair of eyes now glued to their location. He straightened up, facing Liam with a stern frown.
"You used the evacuation as an excuse to gather thousands of people to the riverbank, then grabbed their attention with that flash. It was an elegant plan. Nobles and commoners working together to protect their homes from the blaze...tearing down the barrier between classes...and now, everyone in London has their hate and anger focused squarely on the Lord of Crime. You—to them, you are the Devil himself."
Liam said nothing. Instead, his smile became pained, to the point Sherlock could see the slight tremor behind his facade. His fists automatically clenched at his sides.
"But there's still time! No one in this world is so far gone that they're entirely irredeemable!"
He reached out his hand, feeling his pride slip away as he did.
“Take my hand, Liam!”
Whatever dignity he’d mustered was gone now. The Great Detective came here to arrest the Lord of Crime, but that was what Liam wanted. He, Sherlock Holmes, came here to save a friend—a dear friend, one that meant more to him than his own life. And if that meant he had to beg and plead and grovel at his feet, he’d do it until sunrise.
Whatever it took to save Liam’s life. It was a small price to pay for a lifetime of utter joy.
"What a pity. To think that even you would tempt me like this. Tempt me to cling to life."
Liam’s expression darkened. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, and his voice became dangerously soft.
"I will not take your hand. I am not wrong."
Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat as Liam unsheathed his sword and brandished it at him. He felt Liam’s words long before he heard them, and the force of them had him bracing prematurely.
"YOU ARE THE DEVIL, NOT I, SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Liam shouted.
His eyes flashed as he leapt at Sherlock. Sherlock was forced to defend himself, but he had nothing with him aside from his gun. He danced out of the way at the last second, then charged Liam and grabbed his arms before he could swing at him again.
"Liam!" he pleaded.
"SHERLOCK!" Liam roared.
Sherlock jumped back to avoid a sweep at his legs. Liam came at him again, and again, and again, and Sherlock continued to fight for his lift. Liam was truly trying to fend him off, and although he clearly didn’t intend to kill him, he had no quarrels with cutting him. Soon, Liam got in a blow to his face, and the fiery burn of the open wound nearly distracted him from Liam’s next move.
But worse than all of it was Liam’s face.
God, Sherlock couldn’t take it. The sight of it was enough to break him.
His eyes were fragile as glace. His expression was red and tight with anger, but it was nothing more than a carefully constructed mask to hide the enormity of his anguish. Every swing of the sword was a cry for help, every advance was one step away from tears; for the first time since meeting him, Sherlock could see right through him.
But this was the one and only time he wished he couldn’t.
Because that face made him want to hurl himself over the side of this bridge, if only it would be enough to make Liam choose to live again.
Liam’s eyes suddenly locked onto the blood dripping down Sherlock’s cheek, and his face blanched. He quickly covered up the expression, but still, he hopped backward and stopped, holding his sword out at Sherlock.
"Stop. That's enough. The Lord of Crime and the Greatest Detective have fought long enough for the crowd.” Liam tried to cover up the waver in his voice, but Sherlock could still hear it. “The play is over. Let me bring down the curtain."
Sherlock practically jumped at him. Steadying his stance as he eyed the mere meter between Liam and a hundred-meter fall, he shouted, "Is dying really your idea of atonement? Don't make me laugh, Liam.”
He played it off well, but Sherlock still saw the wince behind the mask. His voice came out roaring before he could stop it.
“DON'T USE DEATH AS AN ESCAPE!” he yelled. “You aren't atoning for anything! You're just running from your pain!"
Sherlock watched carefully as Liam struggled to hold his expression. His mask was crumbling. It was working. His heart raced as he continued, "If you truly mean to repent for your sins, don't run! Don't take the easy way out!"
Liam appeared as though he was about to cave, but suddenly, he retreated into himself again. He glanced at the river below, then back at Sherlock, determination gathering in him once again. Sherlock panicked and started grasping at anything he had left in his arsenal.
"When I shot and killed Milverton, I became a criminal, same as you. If we've both sinned, we can both atone together. There are dozens of ways we can do that, don't you agree?"
Liam’s expression darkened. Too late, Sherlock realized his mistake. Liam blamed himself for that incident, too.
Wait, that’s not what I meant!
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, but suddenly, Liam showed him a smile so sad, it nearly rendered his heart useless.
"Farewell...Sherlock."
With a swish of his cloak, Liam spread his arms and took one long step backward.
There were no boards to catch his foot.
He was falling.
Sherlock’s ears instantly started ringing. He leapt forward before he could even think.
"You bloody idiot!"
He scrambled to the edge and grabbed for Liam’s hand, catching it just in time. He cried out as his shoulder threatened to yank itself out of socket, but he managed to hold himself together in time to keep Liam from falling. Even all the way up here, he heard the shrieks of the people below.
The boards creaked threateningly under Sherlock’s feet, but he held strong. He was the only thing keeping Liam from falling to his death. He’d rather break every bone in his body hanging onto him than let him fall.
All of a sudden, he felt Liam shudder.
"Why? Why go this far?"
The brokenness in Liam’s voice cleaved Sherlock’s heart in two. He felt tears well up behind his eyes, but he aggressively shoved those feelings aside, trying to put on the upbeat, succinct personality he always showed people.
"Hah. Quit making me repeat myself. You're my friend. That's reason enough for me.”
Liam still refused to look at him. He dangled over the edge of that bridge, appearing more like a limp corpse than a living person. The image sent a sharp wave of panic through him. He abandoned the personality just as quickly as he picked it up. At this point, he didn’t care how much desperation showed through in his voice.
“Besides, I read your letter!”
Liam jolted. Slowly, he looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, a tender, timid look of horror and hope shattering his mask. The relief that coursed through Sherlock was just as shocking as it was powerful. The words suddenly came spilling out of his mouth without control.
“You never saw me as just some pawn for your plan. And it was the same for me! You weren't just some mystery for me to solve! I NEVER felt that way, not even at the beginning! This whole time, you and I have felt the same. And since that's the case, we ought to be there to see the same future! So, LIVE! LIVE, WILLIAM!
"Sure, living might feel like torture after all you've done, but you've changed the world! It'll become a place worth living in! I can guarantee it! I'm going to stick around to keep it safe! And you should, too!"
For a moment, Liam almost looked hopeful. That moment seemed to stretch out for minutes. Sherlock finally dared to let himself hope, too.
But suddenly, the mask flicked back into place, and Liam’s composure signaled the end of his fight. He went limp in Sherlock’s grip again.
"...Sherlock...tonight, you didn't come as a detective. You came as a friend. But...I've already lost.” He smiled sadly. "Sherlock...living and atoning for my sins, that may have been one way, yes. But it seems fate won't forgive me so easily. Those boards won't hold this weight much longer."
Panic seized Sherlock in an iron grip. He started screaming as loud as the voices in his head. "THEN DROP YOUR SWORD! GRAB ONTO ME WITH BOTH HANDS!"
"You, at least, should make it back alive,” Liam said. His eyes filled with tears, and his voice broke as he choked out one final line:
“You've bested me, Shirley."
All of a sudden, Liam slashed his sword at Sherlock. His shoulder shrieked in agony, and his hand automatically abandoned its grip on Liam’s wrist. To his horror, Liam fell, plummeting toward the Thames as if in slow motion. Sherlock nearly screamed.
But all of a sudden, a fiery wave of anger swept through him.
"You idiot...as if that would stop me! I WON'T LET YOU DIE ALONE!"
He jumped before he could even think about what he was doing. Not a thought was in his mind other than Liam, falling, too far below him to reach—but he was falling faster. He adjusted his trajectory, the wind shrieking in his ears so loudly that it drowned out the shrieking of the crowd on the riverbank. He reached out his arms, and centimeter by centimeter, he got closer to Liam…
Then, his hand caught his sleeve, and he pulled him into a hug, squeezing him so tightly, he had to have crushed his lungs in the process.
Liam’s eyes flew open. “Sherlock, what—?”
"Finally, I caught you,” Sherlock whispered.
He couldn’t tell whether it was splatter from the river or a tear flying from Liam’s cheek, but a droplet of water cascaded across Sherlock’s face, tempting him to finally smile. Despite the river rapidly closing in on them from below, promising certain death, Sherlock gently held his hand behind Liam’s head, drawing him in closer. He flipped his trajectory so that his back was facing the water now, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d protect Liam from the fall.
“Liam, let's live. Both of us, together..."
There was a violent collision with what felt like concrete, searing pain, the rush of water, and then sudden darkness.