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Sherlock hated this time as the bells chimed on a distant clock. It was often the time when Liam would awaken with nightmares: sweat upon his brow, hands clenched deep into the sheets, face scrunched up as if in pain. Sherlock hated the whimpers that left Liam’s lips, the screams that sometimes scarred his throat.
But tonight, Liam slept. Likely a dreamless sleep as a fit of exhaustion took him earlier in the night, his body slumped over in a child-like way as Sherlock caught him before he fell to the floor.
Sherlock would always catch him. He vowed he would do so that night on the Tower Bridge and likely before. He had intended to catch him on the train. He had intended to catch him even on the Noahtic after their first meeting of minds. Liam had caught him from the beginning, hadn’t he?
Sherlock brushed the hair from Liam’s face as he sat beside him in their shared bed. His brows were unfurrowed, the skin on his face smooth aside from the raised scars around his eye, a soft part to his lips. Perhaps there would be more nights like this as Liam came to terms with his new chance at life. Perhaps Sherlock would then like the midnight hour after all.