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It began the same way it always did—with the fall.
No matter how much time had passed, this single memory followed William like a ghost. He was across the ocean from London, more alive than he had ever felt before, yet it still invaded his dreams so often he believed it would stay with him for the rest of his life.
Perhaps a part of him was lost there forever, one hand clinging to a splintered piece of wood, suspended between life and death.
He had once believed he was meant to die there. He no longer thought so, all thanks to a certain consulting detective and his incredible ability to add color to even the bleakest of futures. He handed William a blank canvas, and William vowed to paint it, stroke by painstaking stroke, until it resembled something worthy of the life he had been given.
But Sherlock wasn’t here now.
The apartment was silent when William woke up with a gasp. Darkness pressed at him from all sides as he forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, hoping to calm down his stuttering heart. The dream always felt impossibly real, with the wind roaring past his ears and the gut-wrenching sensation of freefall. There was no going back to sleep once it took a hold of him, so he resigned himself to his fate and pushed himself out of the bed.
In the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and took slow sips. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on the feeling of the cool liquid as it travelled down his throat. It almost worked to calm him, until a sudden sound outside the window made his guard slip, and the memory threatened to pull him under again.
Pacing did nothing to ease the restless energy coiling in his chest, either. He tried pressing his fingers into his temples, ran through mathematical equations in his head—anything that could make his swirling thoughts settle—but none of his usual methods were of any use.
He knew what would help. Or rather, who.
When the memories overwhelmed him and he couldn’t shake off the image of blood on his hands, it wasn’t the warmth of tea that steadied him, but the conversation over the teacups that came with it. It wasn’t the crackling heat from the fireplace that chased away the cold in his bones, but the presence of the one person who had anchored him back to the world.
William’s gaze drifted towards the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. Ever since he woke up in the hospital, they were nearly inseparable, save for some missions that took Sherlock out of town alone when William’s strength ran low and he couldn’t accompany him. His absence now felt like a missing limb. The door was slightly ajar in a silent invitation, so William hesitated only for a moment before moving forward, drawn by a pull he couldn’t quite name.
The room smelled distinctly of Sherlock, with the ever-present hints of tobacco, coffee from their closest corner shop, and something warm and familiar, something undeniably him. William took a deep breath of it, and the smell alone was enough to loosen the knot in his stomach a little bit.
He meant only to sit for a moment, just long enough to steady himself and find the strength to go back to his bed. Yet the exhaustion, the lingering echoes of the nightmare, and the undeniable comfort of Sherlock’s smell, all worked against him.
Before he knew it, he was curled against Sherlock’s pillow. The scent wrapped around him like a protective cocoon, and with a quiet sigh, he let his eyelids drop. Soon his breath evened out, and his body finally conceded to the pull of sleep.
He didn’t dream of falling again.
*
It took an embarrassingly long time for Sherlock to fit the key into the door in the dark.
His fingers, usually deft and sure, fumbled with the lock. He was exhausted. Perhaps he shouldn’t have rushed Billy and simply returned the following day as planned. That would have been the more sensible choice, but he saw no reason to delay his way back if it could be helped. He wasn’t worried about William—at least not as much as before—but why should he spend any moment longer apart from him than he had to, now that he had finally caught him?
At last, the lock clicked, and Sherlock slipped inside.
The air was still, thick with the quiet hum of night. Light from the street lamps stretched across the wooden floor, creating long shadows in the room. Though Sherlock was hardly the quietest of men, he kicked off his shoes and set his bags down with practiced care, making sure not a single sound disturbed the silence.
It was tempting to go see William straight away. Sherlock’s favorite part of any mission was the moment he opened the door to their shared apartment and found William waiting, his relieved smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes, as if the world had righted itself just by Sherlock’s return.
There would be time for that in the morning. For now, his bed called to him, promising comfort far better than the hard ground or a lumpy mattress in some rundown inn. It was another undeniable benefit of an earlier return.
He pushed the door to his bedroom open, completely unprepared for the sight that welcomed him there.
Instead of an empty room, he found William curled up in his bed, half-hidden in the shadows. His golden hair, tousled from sleep, fanned across the sheets like a halo. His fingers clutched Sherlock’s pillow, holding it tightly against his chest, while his face was buried deep in its fabric.
Well. That was new.
Several thoughts crashed over each other in Sherlock’s mind at once.
What was William doing here? Had this happened before? The idea of William seeking him out in the dead of night, only to find the bed cold and empty, sent a sharp pang through his chest. He knew nightmares still plagued him, no matter how well William thought he hid it.
Then came another thought, quieter but insistent, a ghost of something possessive curling at the back of his mind. He shoved it away before it could take hold of him.
The right thing to do was back away quietly and let William sleep undisturbed. He still needed as much rest as possible while Sherlock could just take the sofa. It would still be an improvement over his recent accommodations. Hardly the worst place he’d ever slept in.
He turned to leave, but the wooden floor betrayed him with a soft creak.
William stirred. His eyelashes fluttered, and then his drowsy, unfocused gaze found Sherlock.
They both went still.
“Sherly?” William’s voice was hoarse with sleep, soft and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was really there.
For the briefest moment, Sherlock considered pretending he wasn’t. Which was absurd. Idiotic. He shook the thought away.
“Yes.”
William pushed himself upright, releasing Sherlock’s pillow from his tight grip. “You’re back early. I… uh.” His eyes darted away. “There’s an explanation for this.”
The faint flush that crept up his neck was visible even in the dark.
Sherlock bit back a laugh, though the smile that spread across his face was beyond his control. “Really?” He took a slow step closer to the bed. “Enlighten me then, Professor.”
William shot him a glare, but the effect was ruined by his mussed hair and the lingering drowsiness in his eyes. Sherlock only grinned wider. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothed the edge of the bedsheet with his palm until his amusement dissipated and all that was left was the silence of the night again.
“Was it a nightmare?”
A slow exhale. William hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
Damn it.
If Sherlock could claw into his mind and rip those nightmares away, he would. The thought of William suffering through them alone, locked inside his own head where Sherlock couldn’t reach him, was unbearable.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
William’s fingers clenched over the bedsheets. “I can’t chain you to my side just because I might have a bad dream.”
Sherlock wouldn’t mind such fate, but he wasn’t about to voice it out loud.
“And yet you don’t have to go through them alone. Didn’t we promise to share our burdens?”
A smile flickered over William’s lips. “That we did.”
They held each other’s gaze. Sherlock could see the lingering shadows of William’s nightmares in the faint crease between his brows, the way his fingers curled slightly into the sheets. William, in turn, seemed to search Sherlock’s face, as if grounding himself in his presence.
Then William yawned, breaking the spell like ripples across still water.
“It’s fine.” Sherlock stood, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “You can sleep here. I’ll take the sofa.”
Before he could turn, William’s hand wrapped around his wrist.
“Don’t go.” His voice was quiet but steady. “Stay. It’s your bed, after all.”
Sherlock blinked. “You sure?”
William merely shifted, scooting over just enough to make room.
Sherlock hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to—because God, he wanted to—but because something about this moment felt like a point of no return. A shift, inevitable and irreversible. Though exciting, also somewhat terrifying.
“I smell like the road,” he said, one last weak protest. “And sweat. And probably like a horse, too.”
William let out a breathy huff. “Sherly, you just caught me with my nose in your pillow. I couldn’t mind less.”
A laugh rumbled in Sherlock’s chest. “Alright then.”
He slid beneath the covers, and warmth immediately seeped into his travel-worn limbs. William curled up beside him. His nose burrowed into the crook of Sherlock’s neck instead of his pillow this time, his breath steady and warm against his skin.
Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, instinctive, natural. He felt William relax as sleep pulled at both of them.
“I missed you too,” Sherlock murmured.
And as the night settled around them, he thought that, yes—coming back early had been an excellent decision after all.