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The beautiful red rose left on the threshold of his room was the only thing reminding William that today was 14th of February.
He bent and neatly picked up the flower, silently studying it with his only eye. William smiled, realising that all the thorns were carefully cut to prevent him from hurting himself, and turned around to place the rose on his writing desk. He lingered on the threshold for some more seconds, contemplating how the single flower’s intense colour beautifully stood out in his colourless room. But the sounds of Sherlock already awake and busy preparing breakfast forced William to turn away and hurry towards the kitchen to help him with cooking.
In recent centuries, Valentine's Day has become a very important and widely celebrated holiday in Britain. William, however, never paid much attention to the day, which was to him a silent reminder that he would never be able to get to know the taste of true love, and the only red colour available to him would forever stay the one of blood. The only tradition they sometimes allowed in the Moriarty household was exchanging small gifts as a sign of dedication, deep bond, and absolute love, even if not romantic.
But this year seemed to be different from the very beginning of it.
All the great knowledge and immense mind of his were not necessary in the case of the mysterious little gift, for the only person who allowed himself to speak of William as of the red rose, and even witnessed him carelessly hurting himself with the thorns while leaning to smell beautiful flowers in the garden last week, was now waiting for him in the other end of the house.
The smile hadn’t yet left his lips when William entered the kitchen, greeting Sherlock and throwing suspicious glances his way.
“Good morning, Liam!” Sherlock returned the smile to him, and William felt that expression on his face was the very cut thorn that pierced his heart with unknown before tenderness.
“Do you need help, Sherly?” He approached Sherlock from behind, stilling in a distance but close enough to take a look at the table over his shoulder.
“Not really, I’ve already finished with everything.”
“Ah, sure. I’m quite useless in terms of cooking anyway.”
William silently stepped aside and returned to his place at the table, waiting for Sherlock to join him and place plates with freshly-cooked omelette before them — breakfast he cooked every morning without fail since the day William mentioned that Louis’s omelette was his favourite way to start a day.
“Quit it, Liam, you are not useless.” Sherlock caught the joke and playfulness in William’s eyes but still cared to reassure him.
“Well yes, I can wash the dishes perfectly.”
They laughed and continued with their breakfast, but the spirit of the morning lingered, and suspicion already started creeping up upon William when he failed to see any signs in Sherlock’s expression.
To him, Sherlock didn’t seem to be a romantic kind of person. At least, his past self definitely wasn’t the one to fall for all the pretentious affection of the holiday. And as to his new self… well, William had yet to discover.
His analytical mind screamed to ask and have everything settled and shelved in his head, but William knew better than to scare Sherlock away. The game he tried to play with William was unique, and he cheered inside, thinking how Sherlock decided that leaving little items for him and acting nonchalant would be the best way for them. They both knew what was left unsaid, closed the case in silent agreement, and William was more than happy to accept the challenge as long as Sherlock hinted at his intention more evidently.
“Sherly, may I ask you something?”
Sherlock raised his head, stopping chewing. “Of course, go on.”
“Did you…” Without any logical reason, his heartbeat fastened. “ever celebrate 14th of February?”
William watched him intensely and the lips, slightly moving upwards in a sly smile before moving back down and transforming into an awkward cough, couldn’t pass by him, even though William was left with only half of his vision.
“Not really.” Sherlock looked down at his plate and suddenly continued to eat with a lot more enthusiasm. “And… you?”
“Neither did I.” William followed his example and averted his gaze from Sherlock, contemplating the white ceiling with uttermost interest. “I always thought that the holiday was quite irrational and love shouldn’t be shown only on one particular day.”
“So thought I.”
Sherlock granted him another suspicious glance accompanied by a slyish smirk and stood up, grabbing both their plates. Clearly, this kind of discussion was uncomfortable for both of them and, of course, such a person as Sherlock Holmes having questionable feelings towards such a person as William James Moriarty, could never admit it out loud. Silently leaving small gifts was his only way of communicating in the current situation — William accepted it without overthinking, and already tried to come up with his own way of solving the problem.
“I will make them, Sherly. You cook and I wash, I thought we agreed on this.”
“You don’t have to bother yourself with it since the very morning.”
“And neither do you.”
“We’ll just leave them waiting, then.” Declared Sherlock and put the plates near the sink where the crockery from the previous day still stood — put aside for later during the same discussion yesterday.
William sighed and, with his head in his hands, watched Sherlock leave the kitchen. The man was so stubborn and hardworking that William couldn’t help but feel useless and spoilt, surrounded by his love and care every single day.
William stood up and was about to follow Sherlock into the living room to read the details of their next mission provided by Billy, but had to pause to pay his attention to another thing.
On the cooking table, near the stove, three freshly-baked heart-shaped biscuits patiently waited. William blinked in disbelief, now sensing the pleasant smell spreading across the kitchen. When he arrived in the kitchen, there was definitely no such thing. Besides, even the stove didn’t look used. Leaving presents so gracefully and without any slightest chance of being caught could indeed only be the work of a great mind.
William exhaled, smiling more confidently, for if, upon receiving a rose, he still had some doubts, now he was more than certain.
Because if one time is a coincidence, two is clearly a regularity.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Sherlock wondered, as he walked the streets of New York with William by his side, where all these games would lead them.
There had always been that silent agreement between them, and they both liked to play small tricks on each other since the very first meeting, but with all the fuss around and numerous shops being decorated specifically for the day, he felt that this particular one was different. He wasn’t even sure who of them started the game first, and the only option left for him was to silently abide.
Everything he said to William back in the kitchen was not a lie. He barely cared for any holidays before, let alone such sentimental and useless ones. He always laughed at John for “falling victim to the sentiments” and could not possibly imagine himself being so invested in pretentious love exchanging day.
But then, there was William.
A man whom he would never hope to love openly and on whatever day he liked, the one with whom he always had to put a bit more effort, have a bit more patience, and be just a bit more careful. And what other choice did he have but to try all the means, especially since the man accepted and established the rules himself?
The wind in the middle of February was noticeably cold, and Sherlock prayed it would take all his irritating thoughts away. He turned his head and could not help laughing at imagining how hilarious side by side they must be looking. William, who abided by the rules of the weather, was dressed up as a proper gentleman: with a warm coat, scarf, hat, and all other clothing keeping him warm. And Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to button up his coat properly — the scarf hanging over his neck like an accessory rather than a warm item of clothes, so he could distinctly feel all the horrors of such weather on his own skin.
“You are not cold, Liam? I think we should hurry back home.” He sneezed to prove the point — not demonstratively but just in time.
“I feel like I ought to be the one asking this question.” William made a step closer, catching Sherlock’s fluttering coat with his fingers. “I told you to at least put on a hat.”
“We just went out to the store for five minutes. What could possibly happen in that time? That’s you who likes to dress in a million layers of clothes. Aristocratic habit, I presume?” He winked at him, unintentionally holding a breath as William’s hands quickly got to work and started buttoning up his coat.
They lived together for quite some time, but Sherlock still had to learn to get accustomed to William’s ways and stabilise his breathing whenever he showed even a little bit of care for him.
“You were the one to remind me to dress properly since the weather is cold, Sherly. Are you hinting that you would rather we both went out looking like you?” He finished with his work, neatly smoothed Sherlock’s coat out with his hand, and stepped aside to check if he had missed something.
“Not exactly my point. And you know, I can button it myself, people are watching.”
William shook his head in pretentious reproach, walking ahead and forcing Sherlock to catch up with him. “As if them watching ever concerned you, of all people. Besides, how would you do that with your hands so red and clearly immobilised?”
“Okay, guess that was not quite my point either.”
Only when they resumed their stroll did Sherlock finally get the meaning of William’s words and felt the weather getting yet harsher, with his hands becoming redder and untied hair getting into his eyes and mouth, fluttered by the wind. Sherlock nearly bumped into the column, too preoccupied with having a battle against his own hair as he heard William’s soft laugh nearby.
“You keep losing your hair ties, Sherly?” He gently took him by the elbow and directed him to the side, keeping Sherlock from the eyes of the passerbies who had already begun to throw suspicious glances at them. “Guess I will have to start to take some as well if this continues.”
“Just forgot ‘em home.”
“The same way you forgot your hat, I see the pattern.”
“Must you always jest, Liam?” Sherlock gently nudged William with the elbow, bringing a short laugh out of him.
“Come on, we better really hurry now, until you unfortunately lose your coat too.”
Sherlock pretentiously rolled his eyes and followed him. Alas, they had almost arrived, and Sherlock would be free from William’s reproaches for the rest of the day.
He reached for his pocket to grab the key, and light panic began to take over him when it appeared magically absent. Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, convulsively searching for the key all over his coat until he got surprised by finding something unfamiliar in his own pocket.
Instead of the key he was searching for, Sherlock pulled out a pair of blue gloves alongside a big beautiful hairpin of the same colour which was neatly decorated with a little white dove in the corner.
Sherlock quickly put both items back in the pocket and failed to hide the smile when, upon raising his head, he saw William a pair of meters from him calmly unlocking the door with the very key he was seeking. Sherlock caught his gaze and squinted his eyes, but the expression on William’s face remained unchanged as he nonchalantly gestured for him to get inside.
And again, Sherlock accepted the rules, following him and finally realising what the gesture of buttoning up his coat truly meant. He shook his head and clutched the hairpin inside the pocket tighter, thinking how this one, unlike the others, he would never allow himself to lose.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
In a couple of hours, when twilight was already beginning to set upon the city, Sherlock found William busy with preparing the kitchen for making dinner: dishes finally washed, all the surfaces cleaned and shining.
“You should have called me, so I helped you, Liam.” He leaned against the door and watched William from the threshold with a gentle smile.
“That’s me who is helping you, not the other way round. You will end up doing all the cooking, so that’s totally fair.” He turned around and wiped his hands with the towel, returning Sherlock a shy smile. “If you insist, just unpack the bags.”
Without questions, Sherlock immediately got to work, exchanging roles and leaving William staring at him instead. He raised his head a couple of times to secretly steal glances at William, whose eyes were fixed on the very hairpin that Sherlock had already proudly put in his hair. He caught the gentle flames dancing in William’s irises at the sight of him, but whenever Sherlock tried to watch the gentleness burn in those eyes, William deliberately hid it deeper inside his gaze.
“I like your hairstyle, Sherly.” At last, he confessed, and the smile on his lips became more obvious.
“Do you, really?”
“Sure.” William passed him, heading towards the door and as if accidently brushing Sherlock with his shoulder. “All is better than when they are undone and dishevelled by the wind.”
“Well, I guess it was supposed to be a compliment so I will take it.”
“But of course it is one.”
William stilled at the threshold where Sherlock was positioned just a moment ago, watching him from behind. Sherlock knew that he chose the place because he wanted to examine his hairstyle and the single drop of blue shining among the waves of black hair from afar. But William, of course, would never admit it. What for, when both of them found the way things were going today most natural and comfortable.
“Oh damn it, I forgot about matches again.” Sherlock cursed shortly after he finished unpacking the bags and failed to notice the box of matches he made a mental note to get next time they went shopping.
He exhaled and suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to smoke. He didn’t smoke much these days, tried to limit himself to the number of cigarettes allowed in a day but, by Sod’s Law, the need came when there was no possible way to satisfy it.
Sherlock decided to wash away the sorrow with tea, but when he was about to fire a teapot, he found himself taken aback by surprise again.
On the windowsill, near his cigarettes, he found an interesting silver box which he immediately grabbed. It took mere seconds for a smile to appear on Sherlock’s face, a finger running over the metal surface of the small box that was perfectly smooth except one small spiral flame engraved in the centre of it — suspiciously reminiscent of the golden ratio’s perfect form. He opened the box with one finger and, of course, there laid a dozen matches inside it.
The familiar golden ration pattern screamed to Sherlock to check, and he started to count the matches without thinking much of his own actions.
No more, no less, twenty-one matches were packed inside.
Sherlock didn’t even need to call his genius maths professor to help with calculations, for the motive and numbers behind it were clear even for his sluggish in terms of mathematics mind: they went out shopping once a week, and he allowed himself to smoke three cigarettes a day — in the morning, after lunch, and before the bed, which made exactly twenty-one cigarettes a week.
Sherlock smiled at this kind of thoughtfulness and turned around to give William his attentive gaze, but the man was already gone.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The single flower found by the door of one Professor in the morning appeared to be replaced with the big bouquet of red roses that William noticed when he entered the living room with a book in his hand.
The flowers looked so natural when placed on the shelf above the already burning fireplace that William barely paid attention to them as he positioned himself on the sofa in front of the fire. Today he learnt to be especially attentive to details thanks to the game Sherlock pulled him in. William felt his insides tighten as if pulled by an invisible string, and found himself overjoyed by the thought that they both may have something more in stock for each other that day.
William had lived over two decades in a loving and caring family, made a lot of irreplaceable friends, but only today he felt like he had a chance to experience something vaguely reminiscent of love.
Not that other people had never shown him affection, of course, Sherlock himself could be easily called the most caring friend who seemed to take making William happy and loved as his direct responsibility.
Yet doing something veiledly and on a particular day felt unique. By the evening, he even began to suspect that what they were doing today had already crossed the line of mere game for both of them. It was secretive, making it feel like something forbidden and, because of that, for the first time in his life, William even accidentally allowed himself to call Sherlock by a different from a “friend” name inside his head. And it was also the first time he thought that he and Sherlock might see things differently on the topic.
Approaching footsteps forced William to quit all useless deductions, and he quickly opened his book, pretending to read. Sherlock entered and sat on the other end of the sofa a meter away from him, the same way he did every evening.
“Your boring maths almanacks again?” Sherlock tactfully inquired, not without the hint of irony in his voice, and lit a cigarette, positioning himself more comfortably.
“Do not underestimate the power of maths, Mr. Holmes. And never forget that these hands may just as well be powerful enough to hit you with the boring almanacks should you dare to underestimate me alongside maths.” He slipped a page with a distinctive rustling sound, trying to hide his illogically fastened heartbeat behind barbed words.
“Okay-okay, guess I interrupted you just when the most important battle of numbers and formulas was progressing there, my apologies.”
“You know I should keep my skills sharp, Sherly.” William laughed, throwing his head back and accidently catching the glimpse of red roses again, placed, as if purposefully, right in front of him. “Both in mathematics and in making fun of you, like I used to in the past.”
“Ah, ah, excuses…”
William shook his head, allowing himself one quick glance at Sherlock before turning his attention back to the book.
For some reason, Sherlock’s breathing by his side felt heavier and louder than usual, preventing William from concentrating on his reading properly. The numbers danced in front of his eyes, but the meaning of them seemed unnaturally unfamiliar to William, leading all his thoughts back to the man by his side.
He coughed and, unable to suppress the desire any longer, silently moved a couple of inches closer to Sherlock, his eyes still fully occupied by the book’s content.
Sherlock didn’t bother to throw a glance at him either — allowed William some small liberties as long as none of them was ready to play openly. His breathing, however, did become a bit more measured, and Sherlock threw his arm over the back of the sofa.
William slipped the page and felt the man’s breathing closer when Sherlock made his next move by mirroring William’s action and drawing closer to him by another inch. He could almost physically feel Sherlock’s skin on his own, hear him breathing right to his ear, and their shoulders nearly touched when a very strange thought suddenly occurred: they were close enough for William to be able to just lay his head on the man’s shoulder.
“Have you ever heard of the Fibonacci numbers, Sherly?” William restrained the urge by redirecting it into the conversation instead.
“And have you ever heard of one imbecile student who got zero points in a maths exam, to ask such questions?”
“I knew you did it on purpose. I revealed your pretences long ago, so you will have to find another excuse.”
“I made quite an impression, didn’t I?” Sherlock laughed shortly and threw his head back on the sofa, exhaling the smoke again. “But I believe you mean those connected to the golden ratio.”
“Indeed.”
“And where are you going with this, if I may ask?”
“Nowhere, actually.” William slipped the page way too fast, feeling Sherlock's eyes following him attentively without any shame. “Just saw them mentioned in one of the recent researches, and the curious resemblance struck me: their descent from, let’s say, twenty-one mirrors rather neatly the reduction you should apply to your daily number of cigarettes smoked.”
William heard a loud laugh just above his ear, and Sherlock immediately put out a cigarette without any questions. “So, back in the ki—” he broke off and coughed uncomfortably, straightening up. “That was a hint, wasn’t it? And you can just tell me if you don’t like it when I smoke near you.”
“I cannot possibly grasp my mind around what hint you are talking about,” William gave up, allowing himself a single quick glance Sherlock’s way, accompanied by a sly smile. “And I do not mind you smoking near me, I’m afraid I just mind you smoking overall.”
“Fair enough.”
The room fell silent again when William pretended to turn his whole attention back to the book. Sherlock was still studying the ceiling without trying any new movements, and even though William knew that it was supposed to be his turn now, there was no more space to take action.
He yawned, bringing his hand to the mouth, only to put it back on the sofa just beside Sherlock’s leg, as if accidentally almost brushing it with his knuckles.
Sherlock didn’t make him wait for too long and immediately relocated his hand from the back of the sofa to his own leg, his little finger less than an inch away from touching William’s hand.
William stilled his breath and removed his hand abruptly to slip the page the second Sherlock made a movement to touch his waiting fingers.
Surprised by his own unexplainable desire and the boldness to fulfil it, William started to look around the sofa a bit too nervously, groping its surface while still holding the opened book in his hand.
“Seems like I’m not the only one who keeps losing small items.”
William turned his eyes slightly upwards, stilling them in Sherlock’s hand offering him an unfamiliar object. He took it without question and his cold hand brushed Sherlock’s hot skin, reducing all his attempts to escape the touch just a moment ago to nothing.
“I suppose you were looking for this one?”
William put an item between the book pages, which seemed to be the most logical thing to do, and allowed himself to stare at the beautiful metal rose-shaped bookmark that he saw for the first time in his life just for a couple of seconds under Sherlock’s studying gaze.
“I suppose.” He closed the book shut as soon as he secured the bookmark and marked the necessary page, and threw his head back to the sofa, mirroring Sherlock’s pose.
The itching on the tips of his fingers started to burn, hurt, almost made him sure that accidental touch had indeed physically wounded him, and William couldn’t help but throw glances at the hand lying nonchalantly on his lap.
It was the first time today that Sherlock gave him something in person, breaking, therefore, their silently established rules. William felt the hints of both anger and yearning taking control over him, and turned his face back to the ceiling, preventing himself from looking at Sherlock no matter how irresistible the desire was.
And who of them was to blame, anyway?
William provoked Sherlock into believing that he was allowed to take action, and the detective was more than eager to try his chances in the lottery of William’s heart.
He had already thought that it would be easier for them to either say it out loud or, at the very least, quit keeping each other on edge. There had always been these accidental touches, glances, deep love and desire hidden behind the good intentions, and whenever one of them tried to put an end to this forbidden, awfully wrong flaw of events, the other clutched to the coals of their burnt-out feelings.
William had decided to fight himself and end it once and for good. But Sherlock almost insisted that he soldier on and keep fighting, while William, as always, found himself the victim of circumstance, never able to refuse Sherlock.
“I wonder, Sherly,” he began, moving another figure on his mental chessboard. “What made you change approaches?” William still hadn’t granted Sherlock a glance, trying to look as calm as possible while his heart began the race.
“You did.”
William raised his head and straightened up to study him with slightly squinted eyes, while Sherlock, as if mocking him for lack of self-confidence, was the one who refused to return the gaze.
“I suppose I should be quite honoured that I made you reconsider your long-established attitude towards holidays.” William threw his head back on the sofa again, his pride wounded by Sherlock’s delay.
“Well-well, but did I even have a choice, pulled out in your game once again? I must thank you, it almost felt like in the old times when I was searching for your mystery.”
“I pulled you out?” William almost laughed at the impudence. “I recall it was me who was tricked into playing your games by the rose at the threshold.”
William heard Sherlock holding a breath, and he could swear that every muscle on his face suddenly stretched.
“Liam…” they turned their heads to each other at the same time. “I didn’t give you any rose.”
They stared at one another way too long for the gaze to be considered appropriate, trying to recall the order of events in their heads.
“Wasn’t it you who gave me the blue iris in the morning?”
“I didn’t give you any iris either.”
The silence in the room was almost thundering when they kept staring at each other with the hilarious looks on their faces, two brains working as one to solve the most awkward mystery of their life.
If neither of them started the gift-exchanging game, and both of them thought the other was a sponsor, then…
They laughed synchronously as realisation finally dawned on them, still looking at each other but without the hint of shyness any more.
“We got fooled, Liam…” Sherlock declared, bursting into laughter every time he tried to gather himself, “got fooled like two idiots.”
William was barely able to answer. He wiped the tears off the edges of his eyes and leaned back on the sofa, still laughing.
There was no game since the beginning of it. Sherlock was right and they — two geniuses — just got fooled like schoolboys.
They were exchanging gifts the whole day without either of them starting it first. All it took was just one small hint for them to eagerly throw themselves into the love game without second thoughts and unnecessary questions.
William realised later how all of that could have been easily remedied, if only one of them had had just a bit more courage to ask one question. And still, the dedication and how they got tricked so easily, almost willingly, as if they both expected it from one another, was the main significative of the feelings they both didn’t even try much to conceal any more.
They exchanged understanding glances and smiled at each other. This mystery wouldn’t take much of their brain power to be solved, for there was the only person who could know them well enough to successfully use this scheme against them.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
“You two have already read details of the mission, haven’t ya?”
Billy paid them a visit by the same evening, looking at both of them one by one while sipping his scaringly sweet tea.
“Indeed,” Sherlock got up, allowing himself to throw one suspicious glance William’s way before returning the folder with the documents to Billy. “We will be able to depart within the next few days.”
“Working hard, ain’t ya?” Billy winked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes at the sight of the boy already peeling the apples that they were unfortunate enough to leave on the kitchen table. “I believe you two deserve a good winter holiday, even if delayed, considering you worked all the season.”
“And who, pray tell, overwhelmed us with this work?”
“C’mon, don’t be too strict on me, Mr. Ponytail! I will redirect all the complaints to the US government on your behalf.”
“Okay, listen, boy, you—“
“That won’t be necessary, thank you, Billy,” William hurried to silence them both with his angelic smile before the argument escalated further. “But do tell if there is something more we owe to such a late visit?”
Billy glanced at them, his hands stopping peeling and throwing apples into the mouth when a sly smile painted his face. “Not much. Just checking on ya, I had to make sure the mission was perceived right.”
“Glad to see you and everything, but just so you know for the future, in civilised societies people would come to talk about work during the day.”
“You brits are so proper.” Billy demonstratively nodded at William before turning his gaze back to Sherlock. “But with all due respect, Mr. Ponytail, right now you look to me like the most uncivilised person in the room—”
“Oh, shut up, enough of your nonsense.”
William smiled, watching Billy jump up from his seat the second before Sherlock’s fist could reach his shoulder.
“But I really better be going now.” He grabbed his coat and walked towards the door, forcing two men to follow him to the hall. “Will reach out to you should any difficulties arise or new details of the mission come, usual goodbye stuff, y’know.”
“Of course, Billy, thank you. We will inform you if there are any changes from our side as well.”
“Enjoy your evening, lovebirds.” He bid farewell to them and watched with a pleased smile how Sherlock and William exchanged confused glances. “Oh, by the way, I love your new hairstyle, Mr. Ponytail!” He knowingly winked at them and stepped outside, preventing Sherlock from reaching to hit him again.
“You are not the only one, and oh, boy, will you sh—”
“—shush now, Sherly.”
Sherlock attempted to scream back to Billy, but William closed the door, giving him one of his reproaching gazes.
“This boy, really…” Sherlock exhaled tiredly and headed back to the kitchen. “I’m sorry if he makes you feel uncomfortable with his jokes, Liam.”
“I have known him for quite some time, he is barely able to make me uncomfortable any more.” William followed him. “The only question is how he managed to enter the house back then without any of us noticing.”
Sherlock laughed, smiling at William over the shoulder. “He is on an entirely different level when it comes to such matters. Beyond our understanding, I’m afraid.”
William joined him in laughter and leaned against the wall. “I hope he enjoys our little gift hidden in the documents.”
“Oh, he better love flowers as much as we do.”
They laughed again, and William couldn’t help but be grateful to Billy for being there for them, gently pushing them towards one another when they were too shy to do it by themselves. He couldn’t even remember when was the last time he enjoyed any holiday this much, and his home was filled with so much laughter in one day.
And yet he felt as if they were missing something, as if he himself had one more thing to do before the day ended and all the atmosphere alongside the confidence he felt that moment died together with it.
“Sherly,” he stepped closer and almost bumped into Sherlock's back.
“Yes?” Sherlock turned around, standing face to face with William, a bit closer than they both planned.
“Don’t you feel like if we have already got involved in the game, we should end it properly. If we didn’t start it ourselves, we could, at least, finish it by our rules.” William grabbed him by the sleeve, either to keep Sherlock in place or to make sure he himself wouldn’t run away.
“And what exactly is your proposal on the rules, then?” Sherlock’s eyebrows arched in confusion, but William had already spotted the flames of interest burning inside his eyes.
William sighed in despair, taken aback by Sherlock’s hesitation, and all the courage suddenly left his body when he made a step back, thinking that Sherlock decided to decline his turn for the next move.
But he, instead, caught William’s hand midair the second he withdrew it, changing his position and being now the one who clutched William’s sleeve.
“Just kidding, Liam. I already know.”
William was about to smile, but found himself caught again, this time by Sherlock’s lips that gently stroked his own in a tentative kiss. Sherlock was so gentle that William barely had time to realise what happened, for the fleeting feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his own was too uncertain, and William almost began to doubt his sanity.
He imagined it to be another way and that thought was the only sign to William that he wanted it all along, subconsciously, without allowing himself to dream of it on purpose. How could Sherlock want him too? How could this angel ever love him back?
William lowered his head, bringing a finger to his barely brushed by the kiss lips. He stood motionless for a second, trying to comprehend what had just happened and come up with the possible explanation for the situation. He didn’t dare to raise his head to look back at Sherlock. He knew that he would find all the answers inside his eyes, but right now it almost felt like cheating, breaking the rules and his own heart.
“Liam? Is something wrong? Is there any other rule you wanted to follow that I couldn’t yet apprehend?”
Sherlock made it all sound so casual that William, who grew up with a lack of education on the subject of love, almost believed that kissing was a usual thing and shouldn’t be taken too personally.
“Maybe the only one which states that much is better than less.”
The warmth of Sherlock on his lips was quickly disappearing and, following the temptation, William traced a path back to Sherlock’s lips to renew the dose of that beauty resting in the pink lips of his. It felt almost like a curse, a poison which William took from him with the uttermost caution to not accidentally kill them both alongside what they had just discovered.
But where was the first kiss was the second, and then the third, the fourth, many more, until the calculator in his mathematics mind broke under the pressure of Sherlock’s lips. William was still careful, not allowing himself to force Sherlock, not opening his lips too much for him and Sherlock, in return, wasn’t letting him bring this kiss to another level for which they both still weren’t quite prepared.
William gently ran his fingers through the waves of Sherlock’s voluminous hair, feeling their fluffy structure against his own skin for the first time while offering Sherlock his opened lips as a reward, his final gift of the day, which was undeniably his own this time.
They let go of each other only after some time, when their lips stopped demanding the continuation and the feeling had secured good enough in their heads to keep them both going for some more time. William felt shy, not sure that what they had just done was so required. The thought of losing Sherlock and his friendship forever to the momentous joy was unbearable, and William felt the wave of gratitude towards Sherlock’s hand that took his own and reassuringly stroked his knuckles with a thumb, washing off all doubts.
“The rule is not to get excited when the game is about to end,” Sherlock added, leading him out of the kitchen with their hands still entwined.
“And maybe another rule is to let some things end with the game.” He followed Sherlock without question, stilling on the threshold to let go of Sherlock's hand. “We should keep these… things for celebration of the holidays, I believe.”
“And what if I can’t wait for another one to arrive?” Sherlock smirked and stepped closer to him, folding his arms across the chest.
“Then you will need to learn the art of patience, Mr. Holmes.” William’s gaze suddenly fell onto the kitchen table for the first time in the last minutes, and the smile on his face appeared by itself. “Or maybe you can ask the professor of impatience to come up with another solution.”
Sherlock followed William’s gaze and the smirk on his face, on the contrary, was replaced by the gravel tiredness.
On the table, just where fresh apples laid before Billy’s arrival, now stood the whole heart-shaped apple composition with the two apple doves in the centre of it.
“Bloody hell, Liam, we are replacing apples with oranges from now on.”
William smiled and didn’t beg to differ.