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There is something inherently terrifying about coming face to face with possible death, no matter how prepared you might think you are to welcome it.
Yet, as it is, Sherlock finds he is not afraid for his own person. No, at this moment, his primary concern is making sure the man in his arms survives.
He's already shielding William's body as much as he can. The rest is up to fate, really, even if he hates the idea of leaving something as important as this to destiny.
The impact with the Thames rattles him to the very core, rendering his body numb and leaving the only thought in his mind be that of pain. There is a moment in which everything around him seems blurry, where the corners of his vision turn black and he thinks he is close to losing consciousness. The water weighing against him doesn't help one bit. He's almost tempted to just let himself sink, sink deeper in that promise of a—
William stirring in his arms gives his thoughts pause and remind him of his single goal.
He forces himself to ignore his body's scream of protest as he finds the strength to push through, and he manages to move lead-heavy limbs to swim towards the surface. William mutters something that Sherlock decides he didn't hear the moment the words register in his mind. Let go of me.
It's completely, undoubtedly out of the question. He refuses to lose him. Through their bond, Sherlock senses William is too weak to swim on his own, and even if he would be able to, Sherlock has a horrifying suspicion that he wouldn't even try to.
He takes care to gently lay the man down on the sand, then collapses next to him. He knows he can't afford to waste much time, since people will surely be looking for proof of their respective death and survival, but he decides that he can offer his body a moment to rest.
Laughter bubbles out of his chest as he looks up at the unfinished, partially destroyed bridge. He can't believe they have survived.
His glee doesn't last very long.
Fear comes next and courses through him as he feels the red thread flickering.
He rises as fast as he can, ignoring the way his head is pounding, and kneels over William's body.
"Liam," he whispers, that sacred nickname sounding both like a prayer and a plea. His panic only intensifies when no response is given, and he cups William's cheeks to turn his face towards himself. His eyes are closed, and even Sherlock is fooled for a moment into thinking he is asleep. "Hey, Liam..."
But it's then that he sees the bleeding deep gash on the left side of his head, and the color of the sand around it. An unnatural, dark maroon. Soaked through with crimson, just like the beautiful blond hair around the wound.
The red thread binding them flickers again, and a sob escapes Sherlock's lips before he can prevent it due to the pain he feels through the connection.
He doesn't need John Watson to know there's nothing he can do now.
Except maybe for one thing.
He tastes salt on his lips, but he ignores the tears running down his cheeks as he begins to pour every ounce of comfort he can muster into the connection and send it to William. He brushes William's hair out of his face and presses a kiss to the blond's forehead.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
Foreheads pressed together and fingers entwined, he closes his eyes and envisions the red thread. Its glow has dulled, and it keeps flickering as the color keeps fading.
He presses a kiss to the back of William's hand before an agonising, pained scream tears out of his throat.
The once red thread is now a mere white, cut-off string fluttering into nothingness.
Sherlock jolts awake, pushing the blankets away from himself and breathing frantically. The fear he feels in the pit of his stomach lingering from his nightmare is almost nauseating. He's sweating, and yet the room feels colder than ever. He looks at the spot on his left purely out of instinct, even though he knows it's empty.
Just as empty as it's been for the past months.
He heaves a sigh as he runs a hand through his damp bangs, messing them up even further. The sunlight pouring through the window stings his eyes. Right. It's morning. Billy would come knocking again if he's not at work on time.
Yet he closes his eyes for a moment. Calls up the red thread, just to make sure, just to assure himself that William hasn't—
It's still glowing fiercely, its scarlet color reminding Sherlock of the beautiful ruby eyes of the person standing on the other side of the thread.
Eye, his mind involuntarily reminds him, and a pang of guilt follows that thought.
Suddenly he doesn't care if he is late for work. Billy will understand, just like any other time. A detour is necessary.
He needs to see him.
The nurses no longer ask questions when they take notice of him. They've become accustomed to his presence by now. He absentmindedly greets them, his mind solely focused on his objective.
His view has not changed one bit since the day Billy had gotten them to this hospital, roughly half a year ago. William is still unmoving, covered in bandages, his damaged eye protected by white cloth. Everything is the same—the only thing that may prove how much time has passed is the length of William's hair; it's slightly longer than it was that night on the bridge.
Morning sunlight filters through the window by the bed and a gentle breeze sways the curtains.
Sherlock takes his designated place on the little stool next to the bed, a familiar place by now simply because he spent every day since their arrival in New York on it. He watches William, in silence—the slow rise and fall of his chest soothes his fear, even if the slightest bit.
Five months, and he has not missed a single day. Five months, three weeks and six days, and he has yet to hear William's melodious voice or see the scarlet of his beautiful eye or feel his touch again.
He fights against the tears stinging his eyes and drops his head on the mattress, next to William's limp hand.
"When will you come back to me?" he whispers, grief lacing every syllable, even though he knows he will receive no answer. "It's unbearable, having to suffer through the same nightmare every night and waking up to a cold bed, knowing you are here caught between life and death. I used to find solace in dreams—in knowing that my soulmate was somewhere, waiting for me."
He still remembers the first time he had dreamt of breaking into Milverton's villa and pointing the gun at his back, of how the dream always ended with Milverton stepping aside to reveal the person in front of him, the words "The Lord of Crime—" echoing in the depths of Sherlock's mind as he woke, shivering, confused, and conflicted. He had gained an alias, and then, years later, when the people have given a criminal that same name, he knew he couldn't stay away from the case.
Back then, he had no idea he would stain his hands with blood. Now, he would choose to kill Milverton again and again if it meant William has less on his own.
He had wanted William to be the Lord of Crime, if only it meant he would be Sherlock's soulmate. He felt it in his heart it had to be him. No one else could have caught his attention like that.
"But now," he continues, voice quiet so as to not disturb the eerie silence, "they feel an awful lot like a prediction, and one I'm not yet ready to face. You are right here in front of me, and yet you feel so damn far away... How much longer, Liam? The loneliness I feel in your absence is suffocating me."
Just then, he feels a small, weak tug at the red thread. He immediately perks up, eyes carefully searching William's face for the barest change in his features.
But he sees nothing.
A few months ago, he wouldn't have doubted his mind. It would never play with him.
Now, though? After everything that has happened, after agonising months? He is not so sure he can say that with such certainty anymore.
This is why he always believed emotions to be dangerous.
Before he can let himself further sink into that thought, the door opens and Sherlock immediately recognises the footsteps.
"Thought I might find ya here when you didn't answer the door," Billy says, coming to stand next to Sherlock. "How is he?"
Billy never fails to ask that question, whether he has been to the hospital himself or just asks Sherlock when he arrives at work.
"Same as ever," Sherlock huffs bitterly. He knows Billy has good intentions, but today, of all days, he really can't handle tip-toeing the sensitive subject of William never waking up, and he would much rather listen to the usual cheery pitch of Billy's voice.
True enough, Billy doesn't take offense with the snarky tone Sherlock had answered him in, and instead sets a hand on the detective's shoulder. "Bad day, I take it?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath as he nods. He reaches for William's wrist, fingers settling over the pulse point. His heartbeat is steady, and Sherlock allows a relieved sigh to leave his mouth.
He takes William's hand in his own, holding it with utmost care and reverence, and lifts it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. Billy's witnessed it too many times now for Sherlock to feel embarrassed about it.
"He will come back to you. I know it. He wouldn't leave you, not after what you did for him. So wait for him."
I will always wait for him, he wants to say, but the words die in his throat when he sees Billy turn towards the door.
"Come on, Mr Ponytail. We have a lot of work to do today."
He doesn't want to leave William's side, but, logically, he knows he has to in order to continue affording to pay for William's treatment and the rent of that damnable, small flat.
Sherlock places one more kiss on William's hand before muttering, "I'll be back. I promise," and gently placing it back on the bed.
He stops at the door for a moment for one last glance.
The last time... Let this be the last time I see him like this. Please.
Through some twisted miracle of fate, his prayers are answered.
Billy allows him to leave early, saying he will finish for the both of them, and there's around an hour left before sunset when Sherlock steps foot onto the pavement outside Pinkerton's. He says his goodnights rather half-heartedly though, itching to get to the hospital faster, prepared to sit by William's bed again and tell him about his day in hopes that the blond can hear him.
But what welcomes him is an empty bed, with a piece of gauze left on it.
His footsteps thunder across the wooden floorboards as he starts running.
Surely the room isn't empty because William has died. He didn't feel the connection flickering, which means he must still be alive.
Is he awake then? Or was he just moved to another room?
His search brings him to the common room first. He catches sight of a few blond heads, but none of them are the right shade, so he turns and continues running through the halls.
Where are you, Liam? Where are you...
Eventually, one of the nurses who recognise him stops him at the end of the hall, and Sherlock is panting as he gives her the number of the room William was in and asks about the patient inside.
"Oh, he woke up a few hours ago when you were away. He asked to be taken to the roof for some fresh air."
He barely remembers to say "thank you" in his frenzy to get to the man he loves.
He takes the steps three at a time and nearly falls after he pushes through the door. His vision is restricted by the white linen sheets hung all around him as he scans what little he can see of the rooftop in search of William.
The sheets sway aside when a stronger breeze blows, and Sherlock finally glimpses him.
Sitting on a bench a few paces in front of him, William, cream-coloured blanket draped across his shoulders, watches the skyline and the oncoming sunset.
Sherlock watches those shimmering golden tresses sway with the gentle early-spring breeze and feels the fond expression replacing the concerned one he'd worn until moments ago, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Liam," he breathes out, slowly walking towards the bench.
Said man doesn't move, but Sherlock sees the way he perks up almost imperceptibly at the nickname.
He sits down next to William on the right side of the bench—purposefully left empty for him, whenever he'd come, Sherlock realises now—and glances at the man next to him out of the corner of his eye. He finds the breath knocked out of him.
His face is mostly hidden by his hair, but even so, Sherlock's heart stutters at the sight. William has always been beautiful, almost ethereally so, but now, after months of seeing him unmoving and unresponsive, he looks all the more beautiful.
A relieved tear makes its way down Sherlock's cheek.
They sit in comfortable silence, watching the lowering sun paint the skyline in beautiful oranges and purples. It is a sight to behold, but Sherlock feels it all pales in comparison to the man next to him.
Still, he continues watching, waiting for William to speak and keeping his hands to himself, no matter how much he aches to reach out and touch, if only to reassure himself that William is truly there. He will respect William's boundaries and let him decide if he accepts the soulbond or not.
When William does finally speak up, it's so quiet Sherlock thinks he must have imagined it for a moment.
"The first time I read about soulmates, I was merely ten years old. Louis and I had just left an orphanage due to my arrogance after I had won a case against a noble—I am certain you know which one, and I have faith you have even found the records—, and were living on the streets."
Sherlock knew. Of course he knew. He had come across that record at Milverton's villa when he was destroying the evidence against Mary.
"We came across an abandoned bookstore that served as our home for a few weeks, and even though the broken roof offered little protection on rainy days, it was still manageable. Louis's illness had begun to manifest by that point, and I felt helpless as I watched my little brother fight against it. I often woke up to him, frightened, clutching at his chest because the pain his heart was causing him did not let him sleep. He often asked me to read to him after each episode, and I could only comply, not knowing how else I could help."
Sherlock feels the guilt and despair still buried in those memories through their connection, and he pours back as much comfort as he can muster, if only to lessen them a little bit.
William closes his eyes, no doubt feeling the gesture. Sherlock feels a flash of gratitude before it gets swallowed up by the other raging emotions he feels from the blond.
"It was during one of those nights that I came across a book about soulmates. It mainly spoke of identifying marks or dreams or names on wrists, but it still caught my attention nonetheless. It was so foolish, what with the whole situation we were in, but I remember feeling vaguely disappointed when I realised I must not have a soulmate. After all, there were no marks on my body, no name on my wrist, and no dreams tormenting me. So I simply assumed that there was not anyone out there who will save me, who will offer both Louis and I a better life.
"So I gave up on that idea—I kept focusing instead on trying to get Louis proper treatment, or, at least, get us to a new orphanage, which I eventually succeeded. The treatment came later, when Albert took us in, but I was grateful nonetheless. So grateful, that I was willing to endure no matter what the Countess and the real William were doing to me. So grateful, that I helped Albert to kill his own family."
Sherlock turns to him fully, then, knowing what's to come.
As expected, a tear slides down William's cheek, but he doesn't raise his hand to wipe it. Sherlock slowly reaches out and gently grasps William's hand, preventing it from fisting the material of his trousers.
"No soulmate meant no impediment in enforcing my plan," he continues, hand going limp in Sherlock's grip, "so I did not think much of it. Until one night, after a fated meeting on an intriguing night under a million gilded flecks."
Sherlock fights to catch his breath with those words, because William finally trains his mismatched eyes on the detective, and Sherlock knows which night the blond is referring to. How could he not, when it's the very same night that had led him to his other, better half?
William's scarlet eye is burning with a newfound fire as he says, "That night, I dreamt for the first time of a meeting on a train, and someone accusing me of being the Lord of Crime."
He squeezes William's hand because God, he is actually William James Moriarty's soulmate. There was always a nagging fear in the corner of his mind, no matter how irrational and improbable he knew it was, that Liam was his soulmate, but it wasn't reciprocated. But now, hearing the confirmation?
William has always known, and yet he has not severed the connection. He has chosen to be Sherlock's soulmate, no matter how much hardship he knew it would bring onto his plans.
And a small part of him, he can admit, is a little irked. Of course he had to be a step behind and find out later than William. Truly, their game of cat and mouse was planned by fate from the start.
"I know you've been visiting every day for the past months. There were moments when I was closer to the surface than others, moments when I could hear the faint sound of your voice as you were speaking to me, telling me about your day. I felt the comfort you offered me, and how it pained you to see me in that state. I..." William buries his face in his palm, hiding his expression, but Sherlock hears the strain in his voice nonetheless when he continues, "I do not know if you felt it but... when I heard you telling me how your nightmares feel like I prediction, I wanted to show you that they weren't, I wanted to tell you to wait for me. So I forced a tug at the red thread out of me."
Sherlock startles and his heart starts racing because he did not imagine it. William really did tug at the red thread, no matter how weak that tug was.
"Say something, won't you? You're uncharestically quiet."
Sherlock thinks he feels rather uncharestically sheepish and overwhelmed, and he feels pink dusting his cheeks as he says, "I believe I said everything that needed to be said on top of that bridge. Liam, I would've waited for you for entire lifetimes, or however long it took you to come back. I know what I did was selfish—because yes, no matter how I look at it, it was my own selfish wish to keep you with me, to have us live together in this life, or die together to meet in the next—but I did not want to lose my soulmate. Liam, I accepted the connection long before I knew for certain that it is you at the other end of the red thread. And soulbond or not, I already love you too much to let you fall."
He averts his gaze on that last part, but not fast enough to miss the widening of William's eyes. There is a moment of silence, in which time itself seems to be frozen, before Sherlock starts to feel William's hand trembling in his own, and hears his breathing start to go uneven.
Sherlock feels only two things: uncertainty and fear, and neither of them are his own. No matter, he has broken through William's defenses once before, he can do it again.
He lifts William's hand to his lips and places a kiss to the back of it, much like he had done during the months he was unconscious. William almost goes to pull away, but Sherlock stops him with another kiss, this time to the palm.
"I know you are worried, I know," he whispers tenderly against the soft skin. "But you cannot taint me, not when my hands are already stained. If you see me as the light, then let me share my light with you. Let me save you and give you a better life now."
And then, he picks up William's left hand as well, and places a kiss on the inside of his wrist, right where his hand had been when he'd caught William to stop his descent. He briefly feels the blond's erratic pulse underneath his lips before he pulls away and gazes at William.
He is still not breathing quite evenly, but Sherlock sees there are tears in his eyes now, even if they're not meeting his own.
So Sherlock does the only rational thing and pulls his soulmate into his arms, lets him slump against him and hold onto Sherlock as tight as he wants to.
Eventually, when William calms down, he lifts his head and leans his forehead against Sherlock's own. "You are infuriatingly infallible sometimes."
In a fit of smugness, Sherlock boldly says, "But that's why you love me."
His answer has William tensing up for a moment, but it doesn't last long before he relaxes once again when he feels Sherlock's fingers carding through his hair.
He takes a deep breath before replying, "Yes, I do. Soulbond or not, I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
It's that particular answer that makes Sherlock tentatively lift his chin and press his lips to William's. It lasts for only a moment, before he pulls away and waits for a reaction.
It comes exactly six seconds later, when William moves closer and presses their lips together with more force. Sherlock stifles a chuckle as he feels the desperation behind it, even though he knows it mirrors the one in his heart.
William's lips are slightly chapped against his own after months spent in a coma, but he finds he couldn't care less as he wraps an arm around William's middle to draw him impossibly closer.
He groans into the kiss when William's hand finds his hair and wraps strands around his fingers, much like Sherlock is sure he would have done with the red thread.
When they finally pull apart, they are both panting, but Sherlock swears air returns to him when he sees the smile William gives him. To think that it took him almost six months to see it again, to hold William like this...
The comfort he feels pouring into him takes him by surprise, and when he glances back at William, the other gives him a regretful smile, instead of fond.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to come back to you..."
Sherlock gently runs his thumb over the entanglement of scars over William's left eye, gazes at the milky white for a moment before he leans in and presses his lips to it.
"I'm sorry too."