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When William woke up, he felt like he’d fallen off the London Bridge face first. His entire body ached and had sunk deep into the mattress below him. Though it felt like his every muscle was against it, William forced himself into the waking world.
As if sewn shut by a deep sleep, his left eye refused to open. With his hand, he touched the eyelid but only felt scar tissue. Softer and.. rawer, than usual…
His mind, usually always frighteningly clear and fast working, felt dulled and eager to rest again. His head was heavy, and so were his muscles. Still, the strange sensations and dullness set into motion a system of underlying panic in his body as he strained his single eye to adjust to the room's light.
Even without both of his eyes, he could easily tell he was in a hospital.
The bed he sat upon was old and rickety. Each time he moved, it creaked and the texture of the blanket he was under was scratchy. The white wallpaper was starting to peel off the walls and the ceiling was full of cracks.
Next to his bed was a closed window, which sunlight shone through; when he looked out, he didn't recognise the city’s buildings. It wasn't London or Durham, nor any other city he was familiar with. He felt himself growing uneasy and restless…
But then, the left side of the bed shifted in weight and William turned his head. There he saw none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. He was sat on a chair, and the upper half of his body collapsed and stretched across the bed, almost reaching toward William. He rested his head on his crossed arms.
Finally, panic broke out like a deadly throat puncture, exploding out of him all at once.
The last thing William remembered was the incident that happened back at Milverton's villa.
His heart rate began to pick up, and he unconsciously straightened his back, clutching the sheets.
Was that why Holmes was here? To arrest him? He couldn't let that happen. Not yet. The Moriarty plan was far from being finished.
William needed to escape and he needed to find out where he was. If he can just get back to the London estate, he can articulate his thoughts properly.
But how?
He couldn’t just get up and leave, chances were that there were bobbies outside, and he couldn’t risk waking Sherlock either. If Sherlock were to wake up, there’s no doubt he’d interrogate William and lock him up, limiting his chances of escape.
He couldn’t escape through the window; he’d have to survive a three-story fall.
Maybe he could-
Sherlock shifted again and turned his head to look at William. The bags under his eyes were a deep purple and his skin looked paler than usual. He slowly opened his eyes.
“Yer awake,” he said drowsily and stretched out one of his arms to gently caress William’s calf “M’ glad.”
Like this, Sherlock looked like a beautiful, depressed and melancholic painting. He looked like that to William most times.
Sherlock’s hair had gotten significantly longer, William realised. It surely hadn’t been that long since he last saw Sherlock.
Sherlock’s head drooped and he fell right back asleep.
William was stunned, to say the least.
Perhaps this was all a dream. A cruel and tempting echo of all the things he could not have, and tried to keep hidden from everyone around him, and above all, from himself.
‘If this is a dream’ he outstretched his left arm and brushed a few strands of hair out of Sherlock’s face, ‘I might as well enjoy it while it lasts’.
William’s heart, and thoughts, were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. In came a man with startling blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair framing his face, and a basket of fruit in his arms.
His eyes lit up when they landed on William.
“Oh thank the lord,” He set the basket on a nearby table. “You’re awake! Mister Ponytail was worryin’ that you’d be in another six-month coma. I reckon he can rest easy now that you’re up.”
William stiffened and narrowed his eyes at the man.
“Hm? Do I have somethin’ on my face or what?” The man questioned.
William wasn’t sure what to make of him. He wasn’t from Scotland Yard, his accent was telling enough. He was an American.
“Are you one of Holmes’ associates?” William asked.
The man stared at him, wide-eyed. Then he just laughed “Haaa, good one Mister William. Almost had me there,”
The man’s laughter eventually died down and his gaze settled back on a seriously unamused William.
“Wait, are you… are you serious?” He asked, all the joy fading from his face. “You don’t know who I am?”
William gripped the bed sheets and looked down at his knees. This man seemed friendly enough with him, but William was still weary.
The man started muttering to himself. William couldn't hear much of what he was saying, but all he did hear was something along the heavily accented lines of: “The doctors didn’t tell me about this…”
The American took a deep breath and composed himself.
“Alright…” The man leaned himself against the wall. “What do you remember? Do you know who you are?”
William scanned the American, suspicion filling his eyes. He still wasn’t sure if he could trust this man.
“Right, yeah. ‘Course you’re not goin’ to trust me,” The man said and sighed, but not with disdain. Then his eyes landed on Sherlock. “Do you… know who he is?”
William hesitated and pulled back for a second, but nodded.
The American’s shoulders relaxed at his reply and he walked towards William’s bed, standing next to where Sherlock was sitting.
“Good, we’re gettin’ somewhere. Do you remember-”
“God Billy, would you shut up? I’m trying to sleep,” Sherlock grumbled and slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“We have more pressin’ matters right now,” Billy retorted and poked Sherlock’s neck. “Can I talk to you outside real quick?”
Sherlock looked at Billy, then at William, then back at Billy.
William watched the two leave, bewildered. This didn’t seem like a dream anymore.
His anxiety was running rapidly through his veins. He tried to still it, or at least slow it, by focusing his attention on what Billy and Sherlock were discussing. The walls were thin enough to hear some parts of their muffled conversation.
“What do you mean he doesn’t remember!?” He could hear Sherlock retort in a barely contained voice.
“That hit to the head, it must’ve been a bit more serious than we thought and done a bit of a number on his memories,” Billy tried to hush back, though in an equally raised voice.
There was a quiet pause. Then, there was a dull thud through the wall as if somebody had slumped against it.
“…What does he remember?” Sherlock replied, quieter.
“That’s what I was tryin’ to figure out… He seems to know who you are.”
William almost imagined he had heard a sigh full of relief from Sherlock. Almost.
After that, William’s head tuned them out. Hit to the head? What ‘hit to the head’? Although, if he had been hit, it would help explain that throb at the back of his head. Even so, why did they keep talking as if he had forgotten something? As far as he’s concerned, his memory is immaculate. He still remembered all of the mathematical formulas he had taught to his university students three years before now and all of the books he and Louis used to read as children.
However…
All this talk about not remembering paired with the fact that he might have taken a blow to the head… It wasn’t hard to connect the dots.
He had amnesia.
The question now was, how much has he forgotten?
Surely he couldn’t have forgotten that much.
Right?
Two years.
William had lost two years' worth of memories.
Sherlock and Billy had given him a summary of all that had happened.
He had finished the Moriarty Plan, he was in a different country and he lost sight in one eye. Needless to say, William was struggling to take it all in.
Apparently, two weeks ago, William and Billy were given a mission by Pinkerton and they ended up having to fight a group of men. One of the men took advantage of William’s blind spot and knocked him out. Billy was able to get William and himself out of the situation fairly quickly and got him to a local hospital.
William felt his eyes burn, his chest clenched and his throat caught. One tear slipped, then another, then he could no longer contain them, and they streamed relentlessly down his face.
He can’t remember the last time he felt this helpless. Probably when he was an orphan, when he had to protect Louis and himself from the harshness of the world.
His breath hitched at that thought.
Louis.
Louis and Albert. His brothers.
Along with everyone he has left behind.
William’s heart ached at the fact that there was no way of knowing what could’ve happened to them. No way of knowing if they were alright. No way of knowing if he’d ever see them again. The thought terrified him.
There was a small voice in the back of his head that told him he was being selfish. He had always planned to leave everyone behind at the end of his plan. He shouldn’t feel this anguish, it was his own fault anyhow.
Sherlock and Billy didn’t say anything, and let William try to process all of the information they gave him.
Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn’t affected too.
For a little over two years, he has helped William to rebuild his strength, both physically and mentally. It took a while but over time, Sherlock could see William was starting to forgive himself. Allowing himself to be happy.
But now he was back to square one. He would need to do all of it again.
Sherlock didn’t mind. He’d do it millions of times over if it meant William could finally be happy.
After a week, William had been discharged from the hospital, which was a relief.
William wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand being in that crumbling room. The bleak whites and grey of the room only dampened his mood, and there was only so much he could see from outside the small window.
Once they had left, Sherlock told him they had a flat nearby and suggested they walk instead of taking a carriage. “The exercise will be good for your legs” Sherlock said.
Walking through the streets of New York was… different. The streets weren't as busy as London’s but were still bustling with life. There were stalls selling a variety of things on almost every corner. Small children could be seen playing with each other, their mothers following them close behind and telling them to be careful and to slow down.
The weather was also different to that of his home; it was a sunny day, with no clouds in sight.
William, despite feeling homesick, found himself liking New York.
But his joy soon dissipated once they arrived at Sherlock’s flat.
Their flat. William would need to get used to saying that.
He felt a sudden wave of nervousness. Beyond the front door was his new home, a home he had no memories of.
Sherlock placed a hand on William’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
“Are you ready to go in?” Sherlock asked.
William nodded, sucking in a breath and bracing himself as Sherlock unlocked the door.
Scents of camomile and lavender whirled as he walked into the flat. The lounging area was fairly big, with a beige couch layered in differing quilts and a small oak coffee table in front of it. There was a small table by one of the windows with only two chairs, and a vase of irises and easter lilies sat on top of it.
There were clear signs that both Sherlock and William lived here.
For example, the messy table full of vials and testing tubes in the corner of the room that unmistakably belonged to Sherlock.
There were also many bookshelves filled to the brim with some of William’s favourite books, including ‘A Study In Scarlet’
Or how on the kitchen counter lay a crumpled-up note written in William’s neat handwriting, instructing Sherlock to buy eggs and milk.
William slowly looked and wandered around the rest of the flat—the kitchen, the bathroom, and… the bedroom.
There was only one bedroom. Of course there was.
William wasn’t oblivious. Back in London, Sherlock and William were both keenly aware of their mutual interest in each other, but William rejected any of Sherlock’s advances. Well, rejected most of his advances. William couldn’t go off galavanting with the same detective who was supposed to kill him, now could he?
But, after falling into the Thames, after William had completed his goal, of course he and Sherlock would probably form some sort of an established relationship.
William would be lying if he said his heart didn’t slightly accelerate at the thought.
Sherlock so far had been cautious not to mention their relationship's status; he wouldn’t want to force William into anything he wasn’t ready for. William found it rather endearing.
From the kitchen, Sherlock called out: “Do you want coffee?”
His question took William out of his own head, and he replied affirmatively.
William returned to the lounge from his wander and sat down at the table by the window as Sherlock waited for the coffee to brew.
“You know, when we first came here, the place was hardly furnished. We barely had any cutlery,” Sherlock started quietly, picking up the kettle and pouring it into a filter. “We didn’t have any coffee filters either. So the first time I made us coffee, I had to use a linen cloth.”
Sherlock poured the filtered coffee into two mugs and brought them to the table. “And a month later, once we furnished the place, Billy gave me a bunch of coffee filters. He said they were a ‘housewarming gift’,” Sherlock took a seat across from William and shook his head fondly. “I still remember how smug he looked.”
William picked up one of the cups and toyed with the handle. “You and Billy seem close.”
“I guess we are. I mean, he saved our lives and I’ve been working with him for almost three years. I think it’d be unfair to call us otherwise.” Sherlock grabbed the other cup and took a sip. “You two were also close. I think Billy has always respected you, and you him.”
William didn’t know how to reply, so he just hummed and sipped his coffee.
“So? How’s the coffee?” Sherlock asked, tapping the rim of his cup.
“It’s lovely. Thank you… Sherlock.” William responded and took another sip. It was the first time he had called Sherlock by his name since he had woken up.
Sherlock’s eyes dilated and he looked somewhat dazed. “Glad you like it, Liam.”
They fell into silence after that. William wouldn’t describe the quietness as awkward, but it certainly wasn’t comfortable. It was just silent.
After finishing their coffee, Sherlock took their cups to the sink and washed them. William watched Sherlock with mild amusement, he would never have thought he’d see the great detective doing simple chores so compliantly.
“I’m off to the market, I shouldn’t take long,” Sherlock stated as he wiped his soapy hands on his pants. “I just need a few things for supper.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” William offered.
“It’s fine; you’ve done a lot of walking today. I don’t want you to over-exert yourself,” Sherlock had already taken the keys and unlocked the front door.
“Well, safe travels then,” William bid farewell before Sherlock left.
Now that Sherlock was gone, William took the time to properly explore the bedroom; it wasn’t anything special. There was a large bed covered with a simple linen sheet, next to it were two bedside tables. The left bedside table was littered with newspaper clippings and atop that lay a violin. The table on the right was barren and had nothing on it; the only thing that indicated that this was William’s side of the bed was the walking cane that leaned against the side table, the same one he used in Britain.
William walked to the right side of the bed and opened the bedside table’s drawer. Inside there were a few manila files stacked neatly and a few pens, but what really caught William’s eye was a red leather handbook.
He gingerly picked it up and read the first page.
It has been a week since I have awoken from my coma. Dr. Martin assures me that I am recovering rapidly, which puts my mind at ease.
Sherlock has been helping me with my physical recovery; we stroll along the hospital garden every afternoon and have lunch in the canteen afterwards.
Today in particular was interesting. Over luncheon, Sherlock told me that he had bought a new flat, one that we could both live in. He told me he’d take me there once I was discharged from the hospital.
Although Sherlock and our flat won’t resemble the house in Durham, I’m sure we’ll make it feel like home in no time.
As William continued skimming through the pages, reading all the escapades that he, Sherlock and Billy went on, he began to lose track of time and soon the day’s bright blue sky quickly bled into orange and purple. One by one, stars littered the sky.
Only the click of the front door brought William out from the pages. He shut the book and put it back in the drawer before he quickly left the room.
“I’m back,” Sherlock called from the door.
William stepped back into the lounge and greeted him. “Evening. Do you want me to help you?” William asked, referring to the five paper bags Sherlock was carrying. He reached out to take one but Sherlock avoided his grip and slipped past him.
“No need,” Sherlock placed the bags on the countertop. “For supper, I just bought stargazy pie, since it’s your favourite. I would have made it myself, but it would have taken too long,”
William was stunned to silence; it was such a simple gesture, yet it made his heart swell up.
“Thank you,” William finally managed to mutter. To show his appreciation, he helped set the table while Sherlock prepared the food.
The pie didn’t taste as good as Louis’, but William appreciated the sentiment no less.
“You’ve been busy today. You should rest, Sherlock,” William spoke after finishing dinner, taking the dishes off the table before Sherlock had the chance to.
Sherlock was about to protest but sighed instead. There was never any arguing with William.
“If you insist then,” Sherlock stretched out his arms, his bones popping as he did so; he stood from his seat, only to immediately plop down onto the couch.
“What are you doing?” William asked, washing the dishes and placing them one by one on the drying rack.
Sherlock placed his hands behind his head. “Resting, as you said.”
“On the couch?”
“Yes.”
“Surely that can’t be comfortable, go sleep on the bed,” William told him, drying his hands with a cloth.
Sherlock sat up and looked at him. “Where will you sleep then? Since you’re still recovering, you should take the bed,”
“You act as if we can’t both share the bed,”
Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, surprised by William’s words. “Would you be alright… with that?”
“I don’t see why I wouldn’t be. However, if you’re uncomfortable with it, then I don’t mind sleeping elsewhere.” William stated, now feeling somewhat uncertain of his own suggestion.
“I’m fine with it.” Sherlock was quick to reply.
For a moment, the two just stared at each other. William felt nervous adrenaline coursing through his body, and his hands suddenly restless. He folded the drying cloth he used to keep them from fidgeting.
“Well then, you should go to bed. I will join you soon,” William eventually said.
“Yeah, see you then,” Sherlock cringed at himself, but pushed off of the couch and strode casually into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
The tension in William’s shoulders loosened slightly and he let out a short breath, akin to a sigh of relief.
Now that he was thinking about it clearly, perhaps it was a bad idea to suggest sharing a bed. William, everso calm and calculated, threw logic out of the window when it came to Sherlock.
It was going to be a long night.
William tried to organise the flat to busy himself. He scrubbed the kitchen counter until it was spotless, and he replaced the water in the vase full of flowers. He made sure all of the bookshelves were categorised properly and that none of the books were covered in dust.
After sufficiently cleaning the flat, even the tucked-away crevices, William could no longer avoid the bedroom.
He steeled himself and slowly made his way towards the room. As he entered, he found Sherlock sitting on his side of the bed, hunched over a few newspaper clippings, the same ones William had seen on his bedside table earlier. The only sound in the room was the flickering flame of the candle on Sherlock’s side table, sitting dangerously close to his violin.
“I thought you were supposed to be sleeping?” William commented, silently closing the door behind him.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock replied without looking at him.
“Oh.”
“I heard you pacing around the flat, what were you doing?” Sherlock asked, finally looking at him.
“Cleaning.” William responded.
“Oh.”
William decided this conversation wasn’t going anywhere and went over to his side of the bed. He took his eyepatch off, set it on his bedside table, and lay on the bed. Finally, William realised just how tired he was. Despite doing nothing but resting, his body still felt heavy at the end of each day.
Although his body was tired, his mind couldn’t be more awake.
He tried to clear his mind and count his breaths but he still couldn’t fall asleep.
“Is the light bothering you?” Sherlock spoke quietly.
“No.”
“Is there something else bothering you?”
There was a brief pause.
“What are you reading?” William asked and turned his body around to face Sherlock.
Sherlock could tell he was avoiding the question but indulged him anyway. “Stuff for work, or as Billy calls it ‘homework’. I’ve been trying to get a profiling on this one criminal for days and-”
Sherlock continued to prattle on and William would give him his input every now and again. Talking about criminal profiling, while strange to most, helped ease the tension in the room.
Sherlock and William sat shoulder-to-shoulder, bouncing deductions off of each other. William found it almost terrifying how easily he was able to relax around Sherlock.
“God, I missed this.” Sherlock sighed contently as he placed the clippings on his lap and rested his head against the headboard.
William gave him a quizzical look.
“I missed getting your opinion on cases. Billy is a smart man, but he isn’t you. And he’s American.” Sherlock joked. Then he stopped, unsure if he wanted to continue his sentence. “And I missed talking to you. In general, I mean.”
Air got caught in William’s throat. He tried to make it seem like Sherlock’s words didn’t affect him.
“Although my memories don’t extend as far as yours, I must admit that I too have grown fond of our conversations.” William replied earnestly.
Sherlock stared into his eyes, looking as if he wanted to say something else but settled on asking: “What’s been upsetting you?”
William huffed and ever so slightly shifted away from Sherlock. “Why do you assume something is troubling me?”
“Because I know you, Liam. I can tell when you have something on your mind.”
"I guess I'm just preoccupied with many thoughts.” William tried to keep his voice levelled.
“Anything specific?”
William exhaled. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about this with Sherlock. Not right now.
But when Sherlock looked at him expectantly, he knew he’d talk regardless. “It always seems like you’re walking on eggshells whenever you’re talking to me.”
“That’s not true.” Sherlock retorted, avoiding William’s gaze.
Although the lighting was dim, William noticed how Sherlock’s pupils contracted. William also noticed how the candlelight made Sherlock’s eyes glow.
“Do I… Make you uncomfortable?” William asked, hesitant to know the answer.
At that, Sherlock frantically turned back to face William. “No! I just… Argh.” Sherlock rubbed his temples, trying to find the right words. “It’s nothing, I promise. You’d never make me uncomfortable, Liam.”
“Then why are you so hesitant around me?”
Sherlock didn’t reply.
William let out an irritated sigh. “If it’s because we were lovers, then there’s really no reason to be.”
Sherlock’s breath hitched and he froze on the spot.
“Sherlock, I’m not thick. I’m not sure why you’d even try to hide the fact from me in the first place.” William added.
“I wasn’t hiding it from you!” Sherlock spat. “I know a lot has happened and I’m sure it hasn’t been easy to take it all in. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me, I wasn’t even sure you’d even want that type of relationship with me anymore.” Sherlock quickly shifted his eyes away, embarrassed of what he said.
William’s annoyance quickly evaporated and was replaced with fondness that left a dull ache in his heart.
William placed a hand against Sherlock’s cheek.
“Sherlock, please look at me.” When that didn’t work, William tried: “Sherly.”
That seemed to work and Sherlock immediately did as told; deep sea blue crashed with fiery ruby red.
"Just because I've lost my memories of these past two years, doesn't mean I didn't love you before. I still love you now." William spoke gently and sincerely, strumming his thumb under Sherlock’s eye.
Sherlock couldn’t convey what he wanted to say through words, so placed a kiss on the corner of William’s left eye. William understood, he always did.
A warm sensation spread through William’s chest. The corner of his eye felt like it was burning red, but not in an unpleasant way.
William’s fingertips brushed Sherlock’s cheek, guiding Sherlock’s lips to his own. The kiss was chaste and tender. Soft and sweet. William should have done this ages ago, their lips slotted perfectly together, like puzzle pieces.
As they parted, their eyes locked, sharing a silent conversation. It all felt so natural.
After that, Sherlock blew out the candle and huddled towards William, their limbs intertwined.
William was able to fall asleep after that.
Golden rays of light peeked through the curtains, hitting William’s back. The sunlight was warm against him and he was tempted to fall back asleep. He would have, if not for Sherlock’s snoring.
William fluttered open his eyes, he was facing Sherlock, whose brows were furrowed and was muttering some gibberish about how John Watson needed to clear the experimental pig’s fat from his chemistry table or else Toby would eat it. William found it incredibly endearing.
William brought his hand to Sherlock’s face, brushing his thumb under Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock’s eye bags were still prominent from the lack of sleep he’d been getting. Billy had told William that Sherlock would sleep beside William’s hospital bed every chance he’d get.
During his time in the hospital, William would often ask Billy things about his time in America since Sherlock was so closed-lipped about it.
Billy, though secretive about a few things, indulged William’s curiosity. He’d talk about cases that all three of them had gone on or mundane things such as when William taught Billy how to properly brew tea.
And although Billy’s insight was informative, he wasn’t able to tell William much of what happened after Milverton’s death.
William had tried to ask Sherlock before but he’s only ever described the events vaguely; he supposed after last night’s conversation he’d be able to coax Sherlock into sharing more details.
“Moning…” Sherlock’s sleep-heavy voice pulled William out of his thoughts.
Sherlock took William’s hand, the one resting on Sherlock’s cheek, and kissed the palm. “Sleep well? I did.”
“I can tell, you’ve been drooling.” William pointed out.
Sherlock smacked William’s hand away in faux irritation and wiped his mouth. “You look like you’ve been thinking about something.” he said.
“I’m always thinking.”
“Don’t be daft, you know what I mean.”
William hummed and brushed Sherlock’s hair out of his face. “What happened before we fell into the Thames? ”
“I already told you.” Sherlock huffed out.
“Sherlock, I don’t think we fell into the River Thames immediately after Milverton’s villa burnt down.” William deadpanned.
“Well, no one thing happened. Actually, wait. I might have something for you.” Sherlock sat up and turned away from William and rummaged through his side table drawer. He pulled out a hardcover book and handed it to William.
William, now sitting upright, gingerly took the book and brushed his fingertips across the surface. The cover had a silhouette of a man wearing a deer stalker cap and smoking a pipe. The title read: Sherlock Holmes, The Final Problem.
“I found it in the bookstore around the corner, it came out a while ago but I was finally able to find a copy. It’s not the most accurate retelling but it should suffice for now. You can read it while I make breakfast.”
And that he did. While Sherlock pottered away in the kitchen, William sat on the couch reading The Final Problem.
“Reichenbach Falls? An odd choice to chronicle our supposed deaths. Is there any particular reason why you think Doctor Watson chose Switzerland?” William asked without looking away from the book.
“Not sure,” Sherlock placed two plates of omelette on the coffee table alongside a cup of coffee for himself and a cup of Earl Grey tea for William. “I guess it’s just ‘exercising artistic freedom’, or whatever John calls it.”
Sherlock Sat down beside William and read over his shoulder. “You know, Louis and one of your friends, Fred, visited me. Asked me to save you. Bizarre, right? As if I wasn’t already planning to save you.”
William stopped his reading and turned to face Sherlock in disbelief. “Louis came to ask you for help?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” Sherlock furrowed his brows.
“Louis wasn’t exactly fond of you…”
“Well, when your brother decides he needs to kill himself to be absolved of his sins, I bet you’re willing to do anything to prevent it.”
“Would you feel the same way if it were you instead of Louis and Mycroft in place of me?”
“Mycroft can’t feel guilt, ergo wouldn't feel the need to pay for his crimes.” Sherlock replied with the utmost seriousness.
William stifled a laugh and continued reading as Sherlock wolfed down his breakfast. A few minutes later, William closed the book and set it down on the table, exchanging it for the omelette.
“Finished?” Sherlock asked, wiping egg from his mouth.
“Yes, it was interesting. I think Doctor Watson did a rather good job of twisting the events.” William said as he began to dig into his breakfast.
“John was always good at that.” Sherlock’s voice became quiet, thinking about his best friend.
William saw how much Sherlock missed London, just as much as he did. The look on Sherlock’s face felt like a dagger in William’s heart.
Sherlock shook his head and changed the topic. “Y’know, before the encounter on the bridge, you also wrote me a letter,”
“I supposed I would, what did I say in the letter?” William questioned.
“You said all kinds of things like ‘If we could be born into another life, we be able to take one another’s hand’.”
William rolled his eyes. “I’m sure I didn’t say that.” In truth, that is exactly something he would say but he wasn’t going to admit that.
“You did!” Sherlock retorted. “And you also said ‘Oh Sherly, how I yearn for you’,”
“Alright, I’m definitely sure I didn’t say that.”
“Well… maybe not in those words.” Sherlock petered out, folding his arms.
“I had the letter with me on the bridge, in my breast pocket, it’s a shame it got damaged in the Thames.” he lamented. “No matter, you’ve written me many other letters, ones that are more… forthcoming of your interest in me that I tease you endlessly for.”
William broke eye contact with Sherlock, suddenly feeling uncomfortably hot in the face, which only made Sherlock laugh.
“I like the letters though, I try to keep all of them.” Sherlock spoke sincerely, hesitantly tucking a strand of William’s hair behind his ear, still unsure what touch William would be comfortable with.
William, taking the initiative once again, wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “In that case, I will start… continue to write you letters.”
They stayed like that for a while, in comforting silence, just letting the time pass them. They’d eventually need to get up.
Maybe they could go out to eat lunch with Billy.
But for now, Sherlock and William were fine the way they were.