Chapter Text
It wasn’t always like this, no. Where roads disappear on their peripheral vision, there had been rows of bookshelves and yellowed pages; mindless chatter and faces which transited in a blurred sequence of pictures, like an old movie, or a TV with static.
Sherlock is suddenly quiet - almost too quiet for William’s taste. He liked the sound of his voice, the rumbling of his chest when his cheek pressed until the warmth from his sun-kissed skin permeated like melting ice. Right now, he misses the familiarity of it.
“What are the odds? There’s an abandoned chapel in the next town.”
There’s a wince, a pause, and a row of white teeth chewing at the end of a half-burnt cigarette, “I’m a man of faith.”
William doesn’t mind the sarcasm. “I could tell. Do you want to make a stop before taking the longer road? I would not want to risk my personal driver guiding us down the nearest cliff.”
“Tempting.” The unspoken truth lies between words: where there’s a symbol, there are followers. Even if the chapel is disabled for public use, there are people in town to take care of it as a spot for tourists. Sherlock nods at the phone’s screen “Any good restaurants? Or should we grab take out?”
“Fancy wrapped snacks and a warm bowl of instant noodles? I believe the convenience store is rated five stars on Maps.” he places the device on his lap, offers his warmest, half-smile, half-teasing snark, because it’s easier than to address the leap his heart takes into the abyss when Sherlock’s tongue darts slightly out to roll the filter, pensive, contemplating his options.
“I’d rather eat something else.”
William plays the guileless card before rolling the window to let the wind in, clouds of smoke caressing golden locks of flowing hair.
--
Blood couldn’t be washed away, the fabricated Gods above knew he’d tried - and if there’s no one to have seen it, each scar on his body kept the score for him.
--
The record continues, a scratching sound echoes in the confines of his mind.
Music faded as it passed through the open curtains, lost into the stillness of the night. Though his heart was dead, and the warmth of his skin along with it, sometimes he could still feel the illusion of a chill, or the humidity sitting in the air. These were remnant memories, to keep his mind at ease.
It’s in the water’s depths where the heart is the lightest, the body a feather in the immensity of nothingness. Soothing, albeit lacking warmth, but calming all the same. William knows this feeling by memory of touch, not from experience, for his eyes were closed and welcoming to the promise that a different path might open up for him.
Perhaps he’s asleep, or remembering. The mind is a curious place, a trickster and William allows the sensation to last for longer.
--
William blinks twice and once more for good measure and stretches. Sherlock’s seat is empty, the contours emphasized by the store’s “OPEN 24/7” sign. It’s night outside.
There’s more people than he anticipated: an old woman selling hand-made goods, a couple getting off a noisy motorcycle, an empty trailer and a bored-looking teenager behind the register. He notices Sherlock’s back through the glass doors, holding two bottles, a few bags of food and new sustenance for his nicotine addiction.
He should remember to keep him distracted when they make their next stop.
When Sherlock opens the door, William’s drowsiness is all gone.
“Miss me too much?”
“I would not know what to do all by myself in the middle of nowhere.”
“With a smartphone and two grand in cash? Forgive my mouth, you’ve got it hard.”
William’s enigmatic smile moves up a quarter, bemused by the doublespeak. It doesn’t mean he has to address such childish jabs. “Indeed. My brother is a generous man. But would you punish his goodwill? I’m afraid my companion didn’t make his heart feel at ease, especially not in those ripped pants.”
“You said you liked them.”
“I only said that they left very little to wonder.”
“Isn’t that the same thing? You were looking.” Sherlock’s pointed eyebrow and the playful smirks are sign enough that he believes he’s won the game, but there was no game being played at all so William merely shrugs and takes one of the two canned coffees sitting in the plastic bag.
“Teddy bear gums?”
“Not for me. Henry’s collecting snacks from different places.”
“And this is a bribe?”
“Want your generous brother to find his money is being spent on single-bed rooms?”
William chuckles, “Well, Mr. Holmes, that only depends on the kind of questions he’d be asking, but I’d prefer this trip didn’t make it to family gatherings.”
“Chocolates for the next stop, then?”
“Chocolates, indeed.”
--
In his poise there’s promise, and William could be anything but a man who enjoyed being bound. But this is an oath he would like to hear spelled out for him, so he allowed the wandering hands to threaten his defenses, and if there was any coldness left in his icy glare, it was all gone by the time Sherlock’s daring mouth pressed against his neck.
Liquified desire. Warm, flooding. It’d take so little to make him surrender, to make him admit to the faults in his hands as he was a liar by necessity and sometimes it made him wonder if it was not by nature, but the words never come out of his mouth and silence is the best disguise.
There’s eagerness in the touch, fingers fumbling with the hem of his pants and a tongue that feels like hot flames burning scars down his chest, the hollow of his stomach, and further south. “Want me to return the favor?” Sherlock’s muffled voice asks, breath so close to his inner thighs it leaves a humid trail in its wake.
William’s gaze is veiled by a layer of mist.
Never had he wanted something - someone this badly. So much that he might be sick.
“You’re...”
Sherlock mouths at the outline - right where William wants him the most. It’s unbearable. “Be clearer.”
He clears his throat, “We can play the guessing game all you want, but I have my doubts it will lead us anywhere worth the effort.”
“As it happens, I don’t keep track of all your demands. If I should start a list, I’d appreciate it if you tell me - or better yet, that you don’t try to start an argument right as I’m trying to suck your d--.”
“Mr. Holmes.”
“Uh-uh”
“Sherly...”
“That’s more like it.”
William closes his eyes and dives into the dark once more.
--
William remembers - his body remembers, because scars aren’t always on the surface, some are ebbed into the flesh, past the pigments, deeper and warmer than the blood in his veins. Sherlock knows, too, so he smiles. It takes all of William’s willpower to stay , get himself familiarized with the dust gathering here and there instead of connecting his fist to the falling ground. Damned be that expression of open kindness - of the gentleness that he knew needed more than anything but couldn’t have no matter how much he tricked himself into believing he could - like he deserved it.
“Stay still,” Sherlock repeats for the second time, and William pretends that he listens. “Just a minute, you can do at least that much for me? Be good, William. I’ll get us out of here, so let go of that sword and give me your other hand.”
He laughs, and he’s sure to be mean about it, “Tell yourself that, Sherlock. There was never any other end for me.”
“Then make it yourself!”
Words move like wild currents, clashing and breaking into countless streams until all that’s left is William’s own quivering heart. The vertigo of seeing himself floating amidst London’s cold breeze lures him to leap and forget all about his sins, but the hand clutching at his wrists reminds him that no matter how much he tried to look a devil in the mirror’s reflection, all that stared back was a broken human with broken dreams.
A pause.
Light cascading through the debris.
“I see...”
It’s not about seeing what he wants, it’s about wanting to be seen.
--
William’s fingers follow a path across Sherlock’s collar-bones. The sheets are crumpled around, clothes discarded on the floor. He’s covered just enough to maintain a minimal amount of decency, but nudity is far from his preferred subjects in art. Then why? He has no answers for that, or maybe he doesn’t feel compelled to find counterpoints to what his eyes see: the rise and fall of Sherlock’s naked chest, purple bruises lightly painting his shoulders, the waist he knows better than his own.
Something about the moment feels familiar, like he’s lived this before, though he would know - he never forgets anything that threatens his heart.
“What time is it?” Sherlock’s voice is down by a few gravitas, sleepiness lingering in each word.
“It’s still early. We have time.”
“That’s nice.”
“Hm? Prone to sleep in, are we?”
“No, not that.” Sherlock waves his hand, urging William closer.
William tilts his head but obliges, and soon are Sherlock’s hands cupping his face with the gentleness of falling autumn leaves. “You.”
--
Do you deserve truth? You sure seek it, but do you deserve it?
If you want to see real things burning you first have to reach up
to the height of the fire.
“Is Nietzsche interesting?” the man asked, raising his brows in a way that made the crowns of his dark hair shift a little. Dark... was an understatement… if he should name it, then it would be something closer to the night, or the bottom of the sea.
“Uh?” William blinked, taken by surprise.
“The book you’re reading. Is it interesting?”
“It keeps my mind occupied.”
The man made a contemplative noise, taking a sip from what looked (and smelled) like black coffee. “I don’t think I’ve enjoyed any of his works.”
“And why is that?” William bit at his lower lip by reflex, after noticing his sudden investment in the conversation.
“A clash of ideals, maybe.” a pause, then he continued, “I see nothing wrong with the mundane, however much these writers try to give significance to what’s charming because it’s ordinary. Ah… whatever, I didn’t mean to engage this much in the topic. I’m late for class.”
“What’s your name?” William asks before he could stop himself.
“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”