The first thing he feels when he regains consciousness is the throbbing pain in his whole body. He feels the beginning of a headache creep towards the front of his skull, feels his arms lay limp by his side. He can barely move a finger, let alone his legs. Still, however impossible moving feels, he manages to open his eyes, squinting against what he guesses is the early-morning sun. But he is not greeted by the sight of his own room's ceiling.
He looks around the foreign room in panic, looking for anything resembling familiarity or for the fastest possible escape route, before his eyes finally settle on the figure on the chair next to the bed. Messy dark hair, a weird mix between blue and black he has grown fond of, lays about in every direction around its owner's head. William feels his body relax a little and his panic die down. Sherlock is leaning forward on the bed, hiding his face in his crossed arms. The pace at which his back rises and lowers tells William that he is asleep.
He feels his own fatigue lull him to sleep again, but not without the occasional flashes of memories coming back to haunt him. Usually, he would've let them rip him apart to pieces, would've cursed himself for all that he's caused and for the life he almost took, unintentionally this time. But for the first time in his life, William, too tired to deal with his emotions and thoughts, finds himself succumbing to sleep instead, trusting that the man peacefully sleeping next to him would be there when he wakes up.
William feels the merciless wind, as merciless as the God awaiting for him on the other side to deliver his punishment. He's never been much of a believer, but now, with his end so near, he can't help but pray and hope his brothers and friends—the little family he's created through his plan—will live well in the new world they've created together after he's gone.
"You expect to me to just stand by and watch while you go to your death? Is dying really your idea of atonement? Don't make me laugh, Liam. Don't just use death as some cheap escape route. You're just trying to avoid the pain this way, aren't you?!"
Sherlock's words get carried by the wind, surrounding William, making him feel as if he is drowning, even though he hasn't even touched the water waiting below him yet. He knows what Sherlock is accusing him of is true, yet it's still unnerving to hear it. In his twenty four years of life, he has never said it out loud before, and if others seemed to know the truth, they did not voice it either. Because voicing it would give it power, make it true, and not even William himself felt strong enough to face that truth.
The blond looks at Sherlock, and his hands start shaking when he eyes the thin crimson line on his cheek again, barely just a few minutes old. The detective doesn't bother to wipe the drop of blood that trickles down his cheek this time. He's entirely focused on the criminal in front of him.
Fighting Sherlock felt unnatural, like something against the laws of nature themselves, and yet it had been crucial for the plan. So, even though his heart had throbbed in his chest with every action, he had willed his body to move and put on a convincing act for the people of London that were still watching from below.
If Sherlock notices the way William grasps his sword tighter to stop the trembles, he says nothing of it and continues with his previous thoughts instead. "If you truly want to atone, then make the harder choice for yourself!" A pause, and then Sherlock whispers, "I killed Milverton with my own hands. I'm a criminal now, just like you." It's so quiet that, at first, William thinks he must have imagined it. "So... let's atone together."
William's eyes widen slightly, something that doesn't go unnoticed by the detective. Sherlock offers him a small, soft smile, and William's heart clenches in his chest when he sees the dark-haired man reach out a hand to him. And he feels his resolve crumble, little by little.
Piece by piece.
Together.
Maybe he can-
William hesitantly lifts his own hand, ready to accept the detective's offer. But something catches his eye and gives him pause.
Dark crimson stains his hand. Everything fades, except for that color that seems to follow him everywhere he goes. He's left a river of blood behind him because the plan demanded it, for the betterment of the country. But that doesn't change what he did, what he is. Sherlock had said it himself when he visited William at the university, in Durham. A noble criminal, but a criminal nonetheless.
He knows the blood isn't really there, but no matter how much you try to wash it away, no matter how much you keep your hands under hot, steaming water in hopes of getting rid of the feeling of the warm, thick liquid running down your fingers, the stain never comes out.
And he was a fool for thinking the detective in front of him would be able to change that.
Even the wind seems to want to push him over the edge now, ruffling his hair and clothes and blowing with so much force that he struggles not to sway as he stares the figure in front of him down. The outstretched hand of who was supposed to be his rival, but who ended up being the only person to ever truly understand him. And when he offers Sherlock what many would consider a cruel smile, he knows the detective understands there's no way to change his mind by the way his eyes widen.
William takes a step back, and lets himself fall.
"You stubborn jackass!"
Footsteps pound hard against wood and before he knows it, he's hanging by his arm, his wrist hurting in Sherlock's tight grip. The detective's determination to keep him alive is both annoying and inspiring.
"Why... would you go this far for me?" William asks quietly.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asks right back without hesitation, exertion from struggling to keep William in place and keep himself from tumbling after him evident in his voice. "Because you are my dear friend."
William looks up at that. He called Sherlock here so that they each can finish their parts and finally draw the curtain on the stage and play the Lord of Crime had set up. He called Sherlock here so he can witness William's demise, so he can have the one person in this world that truly understands him by his side as he falls into the cold and tumultuous embrace waiting for him below. But the detective...
"Living may hold nothing but bitterness for you, but the world that you are changing is going to be a world worth living in. I'm sure of it! I'll make sure to protect this world, so you should, too! So live... Live, Liam! " Sherlock's voice rises with every word he gets out, until it's the only thing William can hear. The desperation in the detective's words finally makes something inside the profesor snap in place, and his eyes open wide at the realisation.
"You... you came here not as a detective... but as a friend, didn't you?"
For the first time in his life, William feels his conviction waver.
He remembers the first time he's met Sherlock, on the Noahtic. A chance encounter, that made life enjoyable for William for the first time, even if it was only for a day. A chance encounter that made him forget about his worries, his master plan and his desire to die. He would never admit it, but the detective caught his attention then. And he's had it since that day.
His conviction falters, but not enough. He can still feel the weight of his sins on his shoulders.
He knows that scaffold can't possibly support both their weights.
And he will always choose for Sherlock to live.
His eyes soften and this time, when he smiles at the man above him, it's fond instead of cruel. "You've bested me, Sherly..." William whispers, admitting defeat. He raises his sword one last time, and brings it down in an arc across Sherlock's shoulder. A superficial wound, but the pain it causes is enough for Sherlock to briefly lose focus and let go of William's wrist. And as the Lord of Crime falls to his death once again, carelessly dropping the sword, all he can think about is how beautiful Britain's greatest detective looks with his hair fluttering in the wind.
"I'm not about to let you be the only one who dies!" Sherlock shouts, and a moment later plunges after William. The detective has somehow managed to surprise him yet again, for the second time that night. William can only watch, frozen in shock, as Sherlock gets closer and closer to him, outstretched arms ready to wrap themselves around the professor's body. And when he finally reaches him, Sherlock wraps an arm around William's shoulders, the other carefully cradling his blond head, and pulls him close. His body is warm against William's cold one. "Finally, I've caught you now..." Sherlock whispers, a mockery of the words William spoke on the train. The grip he has on the professor's thin shoulders almost hurts, but William lets himself be engulfed in the characteristic smell of ink, chemicals and cigarettes that seem to follow Sherlock everywhere he goes. However there's a truth he must face now.
The detective chose to die with him. And that was not in his plan.
Guilt eats away at his conscience. He feels he must say something. Sherlock pulls him even closer, despite that seeming humanly impossible, draws circles on William's shoulder with his thumb in a comforting way, as if he knows the thoughts racing through the professor's mind.
"Liam... let's live. We both have to live," Sherlock whispers gently against the blond head, making William bury his face against the other's shoulder.
And just a few moments before they hit the water surface, William closes his eyes and winds his arms around Sherlock's waist, holding onto him like there's no tomorrow. It's the first time he's hugged the detective, and he finds it oddly comforting, despite the situation.
"I'm sorry..." is the last thing William whispers, a mutter against Sherlock's shoulder, before the unforgiving cold greets them.
If William remembers one thing after he hit the water, it's that he couldn't breathe.
He felt the cold, merciless Thames clawing at him, pulling him under, deeper and deeper. He knows he slipped in and out of consciousness multiple times. He knows the strong arms that caught him mid-air were now struggling to swim towards the surface and shore, to pull them both out of the water. But the rest is a blur, his memory too foggy to remember what happened after that. And yet he knows he couldn't breathe.
William awakes with a jolt, panting, air slowly filling his lungs. He regains his senses as his eyes scan the surrounding area, and he realises he's not drowning in the Thames. He's still in the foreign room he first woke up in.
His gaze finally settles on the figure leaning above him, murmuring comforting words while gently stroking his hair.
William simply stares at Sherlock, ruby meeting sapphire. His dark hair falls around his face, pale skin slightly flushed, light streaming in through the window by the bed, giving him the aura of a celestial being. William's breath hitches in his chest.
"Hey, you..." Sherlock offers him a soft smile. He sees William trying to move and immediately helps the professor in a sitting position before sitting on the bed next to him. William chooses to ignore the sudden rush of vertigo. "God, Liam, you've been unconscious for days... You had me worried sick."
It's supposed to be a sweet thing, but William finds it bitter. He doesn't deserve Sherlock's worry, he doesn't deserve being treated with so much care when he nearly caused his death. He wonders if the ever-composed and stern Mycroft Holmes has heard of his little brother's actions, and if he is cursing the Crime Lord for it.
William eyes the thin pink line on the detective's cheek, almost completely healed now. Although he knows he shouldn't, he lifts a shaking hand and runs a finger along it. Sherlock freezes under his touch.
William's heart gives a painful throb when he remembers he's the reason for it, even though somewhere, at the back of his mind, he registers it's a shallow wound that won't even leave a scar. He chokes out a raspy "I'm sorry".
Sherlock quickly shakes his head, dismisses his apology. "Do not fret. It's alright."
William wonders what he did to deserve such kindness.
And just like that everything comes back to him.
Hurting Sherlock—not once, but twice in one night—, Sherlock jumping after him, refusing to let him die alone. The crimes he's committed, the lives he took. The suffering he's caused, to the families of the nobles he killed, to his brothers and friends.
Why was he, the embodiment of evil, given a second chance, when so many others who truly deserved it weren't?
And who is he supposed to be, outside of the villain he's created? Who is he supposed to be, without the spilling of blood, criminal plans and never-ending guilt and self-hatred? The monster he's become accustomed to throughout his life and that had been tormenting him during the last few weeks of his plan returns now, creeping out from its shell and whispering to William in a voice all-too familiar what he himself already knows: he should've died that day. Because outside of the Lord of Crime, William James Moriarty doesn't know how to exist and live for himself.
All his life, he's made decisions regarding one thing and one thing only: the plan. And now that the plan is over and he is alive, despite the ending he foresaw, William James Moriarty no longer has a purpose.
Outside of the Lord of Crime, he is simply... nothing.
His ability to hide his emotions must be hindered by his fatigue and the headache he feels coming in, because Sherlock's features morph into an expression William knows all too well.
Desperation. Desperation to heal what has been broken.
Something cold falls down William's cheek. Then another, and another. Surprise rises up in him when he feels something salty on his lips, and he glances at Sherlock, confusion visible on his face as he realises he's crying.
For the first time in his life, William James Moriarty sheds tears.
He blames it on the tiredness and delirium for allowing such a weak and pathetic side of him to come out, let alone in front of another person. But when Sherlock's hands hover between them, hesitant at first before gently pulling William into his embrace, he's glad that person is Sherlock. Because when he looks into his eyes, he doesn't find judgement or disgust. He finds only kindness and concern.
William buries his face against Sherlock's shoulder, letting the tears fall freely as his rival, his friend, the one person to ever truly understand him caresses his back and whispers comforting word after comforting word.
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uqhidhifhiuewh i haven't written in months and those two idiots pulled me out of my writer's block. excuse any mistakes or if something feels out-of-character for them, i'm still trying to figure out their exact character types and behaviours.
Title is from the song that bears the same name, by Dead Poet Society. It just reminded me of Liam.