His nerves are fraying at the edges. If he was a book, he is sure he would feel as if his pages are slowly being torn free of the spine.
He just wanted a cup of tea, really. Wanted to offer Albert some of the porridge he had baked earlier in the day.
And he just couldn't help himself, no matter how wrong he knew it was to eavesdrop. Not when he heard Mycroft Holmes inquire as to why Sherlock speaking with him might not be easy, when he thought they were equals—when he thought they perfectly understood each other.
Clearly, he was wrong.
A part of me wonders if saving him was the best choice.
He eyes the detective rising from his seat with as much of a neutral expression as he can muster. But he knows he's failing. He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, he can feel the way his lips quiver as Sherlock takes a step towards him.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers Albert and Mycroft heading for the door.
Sherlock reaches for him, and an unfamiliar ache tugs painfully at William's heartstrings as he gets reminded of the night of the fall. "Liam..."
Perhaps if his emotions were not so high-strung, perhaps if the one person he was finally ready to fully let his guard down around and offer his heart to hadn't just uttered the most gut-wrenching confession—perhaps then, William might have listened to his logic-ridden mind instead of his confused, wounded heart and stayed to listen to what Sherlock had to say. If he had anything to say, at all.
But he doesn't. His heart wins over his mind, and he steps out of Sherlock's reach with a simple "Don't" that conveys more than he would have liked just how hurt he feels.
In the split second it takes to turn towards the door, he sees Sherlock's expression crumble. And yet he doesn't let his resolve fall apart. He heads for the door and steps through it before Mycroft or Albert. By the time the two follow him out, he is already inside the carriage waiting at the front of the manor.
Albert sends a sympathetic look his way, but William refuses to acknowledge it out of fear of breaking down. He refuses to let the tears fall until he is safely locked into a room of his own where no one can see this... this weakness.
Two weeks of domestic bliss and an enlightening talk with Albert had him thinking he can finally have what he has so desperately yearned for, but Sherlock has shattered every bit of hope he had with those words.
If even the detective, who had jumped after him to save him, has given up on him now, what remains of him?
The first day since his departure finds him in his new room at Universal Exports, sitting by the fireplace with a book in hand. Louis sits in the armchair across from him with his own volume, nursing a cup of chamomile tea. William's own sits on the table between them, untouched.
He knows Louis will be able to tell he has not turned to a new page in about six minutes, but, truthfully, he cannot bring himself to care. Every time he has tried to focus on reading, the words have bled into one another, creating a cacophony of shapes he lacks the will to try to understand. He has not been able to focus on anything, recently.
It's as frustrating as it is unnerving.
Why must he think of Sherlock Holmes? Why must he be constantly reminded of what he cannot have?
Life had been so devoid of color before he met the detective on that fateful day, and yet it was also so, so much simpler. His only cause of anguish had been the blood that coats his hands and the sins he has to carry, free from worrying if the man he had come to befriend will kill him in the end. Free from feeling sorrow that this was the path they were destined to walk upon.
He remembers—he remembers so vividly the nights he had spent in his study, thoughts drifting to the detective while he had been plotting; how he wished life had been more kind to him, even if he did not deserve it, if only it meant having a normal friendship with the man. He remembers desperately wishing for that second chance, atop the bridge.
He had been so scared of the way Sherlock's words had planted a seed of doubt in him, how they had instilled in him the will to live. But now? Now, after those two weeks spent at the Holmes' summer estate, basking in the detective's addictive presence, he can selfishly say that he wants more of it. He wants to experience living by Sherlock's side.
He marvels at that—at the realisation that he wants something, for himself, after denying himself of it for the entirety of his life.
He cannot blame Sherlock for giving up on him, really. He supposes it was only a matter of time. What has he done, besides burdening the man with endless nightmares, taking care of him while he was injured and unconscious—with taking care of him even after he awoke—and forcing him to live with the fear of coming back from town one day only to find William with a noose around his neck?
Hasn't William given up on himself a long time ago? Hasn't everything he said, every little desperate attempt at pushing everyone away, proven that?
Whoever has become a devil cannot go back to being a man.
"Brother?" Louis calls out softly.
It's enough to snap William out of his thoughts and draw his attention to him.
Louis is frowning at him, ever so slightly, as he sets his book and cup aside. William watches him curiously as he wordlessly rises from his seat, only to kneel in front of William's armchair. Before he has the chance to question what on earth his younger brother is doing, Louis drags him into a protective hug, running his fingers through William's hair. It takes him aback, but the touch is not unwelcome.
He is vaguely aware of Louis's finger smoothing over his cheek, wiping the tears he had not realised had begun to fall.
"It's alright," Louis soothes, not unlike the times when William had done it after one of Louis's heart episodes. "He... He will see, in due time."
And William, helpless, tired, unsurprised that Louis has noticed what has been tormenting him—because of course he has; he has always been able to sense when something is wrong with William, why should this be any different?—can only succumb to his brother's warm embrace and slump against him.
Louis's gentle assurances follow him as he falls into Morpheus's clutches.
The next day passes in a blur.
He spends his morning playing cards with Moran and Jack. Moran, for all of his past disappointment of not being able to cheat and fool William, makes an extra effort to succeed this time. Even Jack, who usually sees right through it and uses his own tricks against the colonel's, is struggling against him. Patterson visits at noon and joins them, and even though he wins against the two, he still cannot cheat his way past William.
After lunch, he busies himself with finding disguises so he can go out in public. James, Fred and Moneypenny all help him in searching through Bond and Fred's stash of wigs, dresses, suits and hats in hopes of finding something that will be comfortable while offering anonymity. Fred discovers the wig he used when he pretended to be Frida, and William cannot help but smile fondly at the sight of Moneypenny and James insisting he put it on just so they can see how he looks with it. Fred, although flustered, agrees.
William, surprising even himself with the little improvement in his mood, finds it in equal measure both amusing and endearing—how all of them are making such an effort to distract him from thoughts of the detective and cheer him up.
At night, when he cannot fall asleep, he takes the opportunity to explore the building he resides in. It's unmistakably smaller than the Moriarty Manor, but he cannot bring himself to care. Not when he has a small library and a music room. The collection of books is not nearly as large as the one he had in his study, but if there is one thing the life he had before Albert took him in had taught him anything, is that even a single book is enough to fuel the imagination. The piano is a beautiful, grand thing, made of neatly polished black wood, with ivory and ebony keys.
He has lost count already on how many times Albert or Louis has found him playing when he should have been sleeping, making poor attempts at drowning out the constant fuss of his mind.
Now, as he sits on the stool and runs his fingertips over the keys, as he begins to play Franz Liszt's Liebestraum No. 3, he thinks of an abandoned bookstore that he had called "home" for a little while, and the stories he used to read to his younger brother in order to help him fall asleep. He thinks of a green-eyed boy going against his family and showing two orphans kindness without expecting anything in return. He thinks of the little family he has brought together while working on his plan and how dear they've all become to him.
He thinks of sapphire blue eyes and the smell of cigarettes and how he would give anything to hear that boisterous laugh again. He thinks of solving mysteries and a failed mathematics exam with no correct answers whatsoever and breakfast in bed when he cannot find the will to rise and go to the kitchen and the comfort of a warm embrace.
And as he closes his eyes and sways to the music, he realises he cannot stand the thought of losing this friendship, of losing his equal.
He had accepted it must be impossible to find someone with a mind such as his own years ago, had made peace with being the only one standing atop this hill.
But then he met Sherlock, who had gone and assessed the equation of him as if it was the easiest thing he had done—who had chased him throughout the worst of nightmarish cases on a hunch, had danced to William's tune willingly and laughed all the while because he truly loved their game of cat and mouse—, and he truly realised how lonely he had been.
The impossible had become possible, and William had reached it. And he knew—he knew that Sherlock, who is the first impossible thing William's ever had, will never be replaced by another. He managed, before, but he doesn't think he'd be able to anymore. It's one thing to just not have any equals, but now that he has found his...
For months they flirted and pretended and toed the line between enemy and friend, carelessly and carefree, and they ended up falling too deep without knowing. Sherlock had always known who he was, even if William kept finding clever ways around his accusations to keep the detective on his toes. He had known—he just simply never cared, despite the risks and complications it arose.
The melody comes to a close, the notes echoing around the room, and William is left to ponder if he has been a fool in the deafening silence that envelops him once again.
Has he made a mistake when he stormed out of the house without hearing Sherlock out first?
Fred Porlock slips out of the Universal Exports building at a quarter to eleven at night, quickly draping across his shoulders a dark cloak. It's not so much necessity rather than habit that's pushing him to do so, but he keeps to the shadows in order to avoid the Yard as much as he can.
He reaches his destination at precisely eleven, enters the abandoned bookstore and ducks beneath the fallen bookshelves as he walks deeper and deeper, until he reaches the end of the corridor. Specks of angel fire greet him as he glances at the night sky through the broken ceiling.
Wiggins is late.
He sighs.
It doesn't come as a surprise to Fred—he tends to arrive way past the settled time, rather than earlier. So, he settles into one of the chair in the corner with an old book he randomly picked out, lights a candle and begins his wait.
It is not until half past twelve that Wiggins shows up.
Fred bristles at the whistling he hears, listens carefully for the signal, then responds in kind. Wiggins pokes his head around a bookcase, grins at the older boy then flops down in the chair across Fred's.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, and it's evident from his tone that he doesn't feel the least bit apologetic. "Holmes had a job for me."
Fred raises an eyebrow at that. "Already? I didn't expect him to take cases again so soon."
Wiggins laughs then, heartily, and pulls out of his unbuttoned waistcoat an envelope. "He isn't. Nobody in the city even knows he is alive, and he wants to keep it that way. Poor Mr Watson has been running his errands for him since he has returned. This is a special request. I am actually supposed to pass this—" and he wiggles the letter in front of Fred's face "—to you."
Fred's eyebrows rise up to his hairline at that. He gingerly places the book on one of the empty shelves and reaches for the letter. His fingers barely skim it before Wiggins pulls it back and out of his reach.
"Wiggins! If it's for me, hand it over."
"I never said it was for you," the boy retorts. "It's for Mr Moriarty."
Well that certainly is a surprise. Not the letter itself, not really; Fred has always known that, since the detective had jumped off a bridge for William, he would eventually attempt to fix his mistake—whatever mistake that is. What surprises him is how fast the detective had abandoned his pride.
Wiggins, for all of his discretion thus far—at least when it comes to the correspondence between them—wastes no time to unseal the envelope and take out the letter. "Be proud of me for not opening it on the way here. I wanted to see what it says while I was with you."
"That is rude," Fred says accusatorily, hand immediately reaching for the letter to stop him. He remarks with a hint of satisfaction that he sounds like Louis when he used to scold Moran. "It's private and a matter that concerns Mr William and Mr Holmes, and them alone. I know you have to report everything back to his brother, but surely you can leave this alone and ignore your burning curiosity."
"But, Fred," Wiggins mockingly whines right back, "wouldn't you like to know what it says? What if Holmes's letter will only upset Mr Moriarty further? Don't you want to make sure that doesn't happen?"
He can't help the deadpan look he sends to the Irregular. And yet it quickly morphs into a thoughtful expression, lips pursing, brows furrowing, and he hates the knowing grin that spreads across Wiggins's lips because he knows he has won. It's a cruel card to play, especially since he knows of Fred's loyalty to William, but the idea is already planted inside his mind. He would like to make sure Holmes doesn't mess up the situation further, even if he knows it is highly unlikely, simply because that man is as devoted to William as the rest of them are.
"Well?" Wiggins prods, flapping the opened envelope like a fan.
A moment of silence passes.
Fred relents. "Give me that."
He returns at three, and even though the whole household should be asleep by now, he finds Albert in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of wine with no other than Moran. Despite their usual bickering, the pair seems quiet now, talking in low voices in the candlelight. Fred knows they had a brief talk before the burning of the manor, and whatever it was they discussed, it seems to have made them give up on their feigned hostility to make room for a more sincere friendship.
Moran notices him first, and perks up from his spot at the table. "There you are. I've been looking all over for you."
Albert smiles at him and asks, still whispering, "Would you like something to eat? I believe there is still some crème brûlée left."
He shakes his head "no" and occupies the seat next to the colonel. He lets Moran ruffle his hair affectionately, then pulls the newly-sealed letter from his coat and places it on the table. Both men stare at it with mild interest.
"Is Mr William awake?" he asks.
Albert rises an eyebrow at him. "Will? Why, has something happened?"
"No, but I would like to give this letter to him."
Albert and Moran exchange a long glance, yet neither says anything. Fred looks between the two expectantly, waiting for an answer.
It's Louis, who has just walked into the kitchen, that gives him one. "He is not home. He left, I believe, about two hours ago.
On the fourth day, Louis comes into the sitting room bearing a small wooden box, the corners decorated in gilded spirals. White lilies are painted on its lid, and William recognises it for what it is—a box full of trinkets his brother had salvaged before the fire.
He gives William a warm smile as he sets it down on the table between them before occupying the seat next to him on the sofa. "I couldn't leave without taking some of them. I knew how much they meant to you."
William carefully removes the top and peeks inside. The first thing he sees is the dagger he used when he was younger and Jack was still training them, before it became obvious Louis was the one with a knack for knives, among the three of them. It's a beautiful thing, really, with a double edge and a grip made of leather-wrapped ivory. When he had abandoned the knife in favour of his cane sword, he had safely tucked it inside the box and placed it underneath his bed.
He finds the playing card that had been altered so Moran could cheat easier, which he had received in exchange for his watch. He finds the golden ring bearing a square-shaped ruby gifted to him by Albert. He finds a whiskey flask from Bond he had decided to preserve instead of use, merely because he is not that fond of drinking. A handkerchief Moneypenny had lent him. A cigarette Patterson had offered him when he had yet to begin smoking. A pressed blue aster from Fred.
He finds the necklace with his and Louis's parents wedding bands.
But what catches his attention is the folded sheet of paper at the bottom of the box.
He carefully sets aside the rest of the items and picks it up with trembling fingers. The last time he'd seen it, it had been tucked into Romeo and Juliet, away from prying eyes wondering why he would keep a failed mathematics exam.
He had expected Sherlock's handwriting to be messy, almost unintelligible, but even now, after correcting the exam and skimming through it for the fifth time, he is surprised to see how tidy it is and how well-defined the letters are. Not as elegant as William's own, but not scrawny either.
"Louis, you..." He looks up at his brother and tries to hide the tremor in his voice as he says, "How did you know about this?"
Louis sends him an apologetic, shy smile, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have. "The dust. I had noticed while cleaning that the spot in front of Romeo and Juliet was just barely covered in it. It wasn't that hard to deduce you must have hid something there and returned to look at it from time to time."
And William, for the first time this entire week, lets out a weak chuckle as he pulls the exam closer to his chest. "To think it was something so trivial, so easy to overlook..."
And to think that he had overlooked it because he was too focused on the sentiment the botched exam held.
He is aware that Sherlock is good enough at mathematics to at least get a passing grade. This was done simply to get William's attention, which is exactly why he finds it so endearing.
William stirs in his place, fidgets with his hands as Louis quietly begins to place the items back in the box.
He doesn't reach for the exam.
William's eyes drop to his lap, where the book he was reading sits opened still. He reads again the paragraph which gave him pause moments ago, before Louis had walked in, and left him pondering over memories.
An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. Though the string may tangle, or may stretch, it will never break.
Was it destiny, that had him meeting the detective, or was it a pure coincidence?
"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. At least since meeting Sherlock."
He doesn't glance up at Louis as he says it, but he knows his brother has heard it, despite how quietly it was uttered, from the way his hands still in their movements of closing the box.
"I never once thought I would harbour such feelings for anyone," he continues, "and when I met him... I didn't know— I didn't understand what I was feeling. But you did, on the train." He does look at Louis then, smiling ever so slightly, but it vanishes as quickly as it came. "And after I realised it myself... it all became so much harder. I knew I shouldn't, and yet I indulged myself and befriended him, no matter the risks it held. I hated it, at first. Sometimes, I still think I do. More so because I don't deserve anything that might have been, or has yet to be, between us."
Louis outright huffs at that, indignant. "That is not— you, brother, of all people, deserve any chance at happiness."
William sighs, though the sound is fond. "Albert and Sherlock share that belief, as well."
"Everyone here believes it. You have robbed yourself of choices for far too long already. The ending you have written for yourself did not come to be, despite how early on it was set in stone." Louis reaches for his hand. "I know how unnerving it must be that it was changed beyond your control, but isn't that a wonderful gift in and of itself? The entire country thinks you are dead. You are free to start anew, with choices of your own."
"That is precisely what terrifies me, Louis." He doesn't realise how much he is shaking until Louis is pulling him into his protective embrace. "It's a simple yet horrifying truth. What I choose do now will affect my future."
"You have time now, do you not?" his brother gently asks, and William can clearly hear the smile in his voice. "Who says you need to sort it all out right at this moment?"
It's a simple truth, yet it startles him to his very core.
He has time to do things he forbade himself to do before. He has time to sit idly like this and simply enjoy a cup of tea or a glass of wine while talking with his brothers.
He has time to discover himself and what else he might like.
And as he stares into the fire burning in the hearth... he realises he has time to find a proper way to atone for his crimes.
If flames, forever-flickering and never keeping their shape, are still flames in the end, can he truly say what the best way to atone is? The constant change must be the essence of the matter, should it not? And he has seen it in other people, during the numerous cases he has taken, how it's important to waver in order to live.
Therefore, even if there is no correct answer about atonement—and there may never be one to begin with—he wants to keep searching for his answer, just as others had found theirs.
"You... You said you love him."
Louis's voice is tense, and William cannot contain the chuckle that bubbles out. "I believe I did not explicitly state it."
"But you do," Louis stubbornly argues, a hint of childishness seeping into his voice.
"Love" does not even begin to cover it. There are no words that could possibly express just how much the detective has grown to mean to him. He knows now that his heart was Sherlock's before he could admit it, and his it shall ever remain.
He swallows past the lump in his throat and retreats from Louis's hold in order to meet his gaze. "I do, Louis. I truly do."
"Then why, pray tell, have you not wrote to him yet?"
William purses his lips. "I assume Albert has told you what has happened?"
"He has," Louis nods. "You told me Mr Holmes has told you about the letter Fred and I had sent to him. That night, he already had his mind set on saving you, even before I pleaded with him. Brother, the man I spoke with in that carriage cannot have possibly meant what he said to you, and you know as well as I do that even if he did, there must be another meaning behind it."
"I had thought that as well," he sighs. He tilts his head back until it meets the backrest, glancing sideways at Louis. "But if so, why hasn't he tried to make amends yet?"
Louis looks at him as if he's said something utterly foolish, idiotic. "William James Moriarty, for all the knowledge you posses, you seem to be rather dull when it comes to matters of the heart."
William, whose expression had turned into a grimace after hearing the scolding tone, laughs. No one, in his twenty-four years of life, has called him "dull".
"That answer is for you to find out."
"...You seem to know it, already."
"I do," Louis confirms. "The Director has spoken to Mr Holmes, and then with Albert, who in turn told me about the detective's motives. But it is not my place to say. You are not going to receive that answer from me, and you are definitely not going to receive it if you just continue moping around all day."
William feigns offence. "I am not moping."
"And Albert is an excelent cook," Louis retorts right back, eyebrow raised—practically daring William to disagree. "You should talk to him."
"And if that conversation results in you seeing him around more often?"
His question holds a teasing lilt, but it's as vulnerable as William himself has felt recently. He knows Louis isn't fond of Sherlock, but he hopes he doesn't actually hate the man.
Louis only shrugs. "As long as he makes you happy, I have no qualms or objections." He rises from the couch in one swift, elegant motion and turns towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a colonel to pester about washing the dishes he certainly has not washed yet."
It's past midnight and Moran is certainly sleeping by now, if he is not engrossed in a chess match with Bond. William has half a mind to go after Louis and stop him.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he looks back at the fire and mulls over Louis's words, calculating the best outcome, pondering his possibilities.
Exactly thirteen minutes later, he slips a note underneath Louis's door to let him know him where he is going.
Two minutes later, he is walking down the street.
He could turn around and walk back.
Or he could walk past and not look back to see if he has been noticed.
But he does neither of those things.
Instead, he stops in front of 221B Baker Street, still holding the hood of his coat in place over his face after the breeze had blown it back. It had only taken him about twenty-five minutes on foot to reach his destination, thanks to Universal Exports being really close to it.
A thousand scenarios flash through his mind's eye. A thousand possibilities. Everything could go so horribly wrong or so blissfully right.
He lets himself in.
He silently opens the door and treads carefully over the carpeted floor. He avoids the stairs he knows will creak as he makes his way towards Sherlock's storey.
But his thoughts give him pause, and he is left with his hand hanging in the air, ready to knock. The door is ajar.
Last time he was here, it had been to deliver two envelopes to Sherlock, signed with the promise of William's looming death. What would Sherlock think now, if he appeared uninvited on his doorstep? Would he kick him out? Will he think back upon William's last night here, as well?
"Come in." he hears that deep, beloved voice call out. "Please. Let this trip not be in vain."
William readies himself, takes a deep breath. He cannot back away now. Sherlock is right, he has come all this way. And he will not leave without hearing the detective out, first. He owes the man at least that.
He pushes the door open and steps inside.
He doesn't look at Sherlock yet. His eyes dart around the sitting room. He has time now, after all, to explore.
There's a wooden cabinet in the corner, next to the fireplace, full of Sherlock's chemistry equipment and various vials of powders and chemicals. A painting of a skull sits above the mantel, where what looks to be a Persian slipper full of tobacco is resting, among other smaller trinkets. The desk by the window is cluttered in letters, and a much-loved and well-taken care of Stradivarius is visible behind the detective leaning against said desk. To his right, the dining table is empty, save for a few books bound with a red ribbon. He pays them no mind.
He notes, with a hint of satisfaction and relief, that there are no traces of opium or cocaine present. At least Sherlock hasn't fallen back to old, unhealthy habits.
The room looks the same as it did that night—just as suspiciously clean, as if its resident had cleaned ahead of time in preparation for his arrival.
After the few moments it takes him to asses the room, he finally moves his gaze to the man across from him.
The curtains are drawn almost the entire way, allowing enough light to seep into the room and illuminate the both of them.
Sherlock is looking at him with wonder, as he says in a gentle voice, "Liam..."
William's heart begins to gallop traitorously at that name. Because Sherlock, his rising bright sun after the darkest of nights, is here, in front of him, after almost an entire week of anguish and overthinking.
His voice doesn't reveal any of his tumultuous emotions as he greets back. "Mr Holmes."