Chapter Text
When was the last time this city hadn’t reeked of blood?
London was called the empire where the sun never set… A name from the old times. On present day, such a place could only be described as the wolf’s den. Waters that weren’t touched by pollution became rare, merchant boats luring rabbits from across the world. Sherlock saw none of the praise that John wrote about in books - couldn’t, even if he’d tried. John was a romantic by heart, always worn on his sleeve, and Sherlock was… he was a drifting soul of sorts. Unbelonging, hungry and so lost that no street coated in oil could guide him anywhere worth his while.
Each alley seemed to be a vivid copy of the next. He’d given up on it, simply followed the motions of what piqued his curious mind, or what offered a similar excitement. What an empty life, if it could be called living at all. But… hidden in the bunch of putrid things, there were jewels waiting to be discovered.
A pair of ruby eyes, bright and unending; they warned him and Sherlock knew he’d follow their gleam anywhere in this city, outside of it if necessary.
There was a blade to his chest, threatening to split tissue and reveal the itching beneath. Sherlock walked closer, let the sharp end slice shallowly, and William’s hand should have retreated, but his point needed to be made and he didn’t make any visible attempt to move away. Sherlock used the solid stance in his favor and pressed the blade deeper, a hand wrapped around William’s slender wrist.
“Stay away,” or so he’d been told.
Sherlock didn’t think he was wrong - he didn’t want to prove William wrong, because his were the most honest words: the faults in the system aired to the population, all the promises and visions for a different future. Everything that William’s ideals encompassed, Sherlock believed in more than words could ever say.
Punishment by death, however... That was the one thing he couldn’t agree with.
Heat coiled in his gut.
“I get your point,” Sherlock rarely used the few inches he had over William. And William never seemed to care that Sherlock was; he’d always looked confident in his ability to dodge him faster than he could be grabbed. Face to face, it was impossible for him not to glance down to meet William’s impassive gaze. “I know it already.”
William smiled, “Do you? Then why are you trying to stop me?”
“Stop you? Yeah, I guess I am. ” his fingers traced the veins on the back of William’s hand, the rough patchwork of wounds clipped shut; his fingers moved deliberately slowly, though William’s attention never faltered.
“I’m also pretty sure that could’ve made me regret the day I was born. Cut me up right here.” Warmth. Then, the cold length of metal. The knife could find its way through his flesh and heart, and it still wouldn’t be as deadly as the blow of William’s forced apathy.
Was it deflection? That old trick...
He bared his neck, head lolled to the side, “…and yet, you haven’t done it. I think I want to hear your answer.”
“You are truly a demon, Sherlock Holmes.” William’s tone had grown somber, but no less sour. Like vinegar. He was truly a sight, standing so close to the edge. The feeling of vertigo must be strong, Sherlock could feel it in his own body. How tempting it must be, too, to fall.
In an instant, the world moved at an unnatural speed. The night turned upside down, buildings and windows on their feet. William shouted his name, and the exhilaration it brought to him was both poison and medicine. He was told to let go, but his arms wrapped tighter around William’s waist.
“I’m not letting you die alone.”
-
Dusk came. Shadows grew longer on the road.
They’d stopped for a stretch of limbs, sore as they were. The car’s engine hissed, low until it was completely asleep and silent. Sherlock pushed his seat back and crossed his legs on top of the glove compartment. The other door closed and William’s muffled steps could be heard rounding the car. There was rustling, another sound of something being opened and then closed. Sherlock opened his eyes in time to find William leaning back against his door and offering a cigarette from the box.
“Oh, you got more on yourself? Could’ve said it sooner, you rascal.”
“Hm? I don’t remember you asking.” William replied in that all-too-familiar tone of feigned confusion. Damn him and that charming smile.
“Thanks,” he offered after taking one for himself. William closed the lighter with a ‘click’ and a smile. He tossed the lighter to Sherlock, who caught it without much effort. The fire was brighter than the city lights in the distance.
“Cold night, huh. Think we’ll get to sleep in the car?”
“Well, I would hope not. It’s a little too cramped for two adult men.”
“So you’ve got cash for an inn, or something?”
“I thought you were the one with the plan this time, Mr. Holmes.”
He snorted weakly, “I say it’s about a couple more hours until we hit the nearest town. Would be faster if we didn’t stop and continued west, there’s a gas station along the way. Saw some guys wearing the uniform about a kilometer back. Y’know, we could use a refill.”
“It will only get colder, so it would probably be for the best if we booked ourselves a room.” William glanced over his shoulder, teasing, “After that, we can think about the best parking lot to spend the night.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Without sparing the theatrics, Sherlock kicked his feet out of the car “Alright, I’ll drive us there. Get back in, Liam.”
There was that smile, again. It’d been a long while since the last time William let the mask slip off, or let Sherlock in, for that matter. He’d been retreating and Sherlock spent each day following after the traces left for him, like a hunter would in the mountains. But neither were playing that game anymore - he doubted any of them was prey enough at all. The simple nature was this: William was a tad bit difficult to convince to open up, always dressed in the most artfully-made disguises. Sherlock gave chase every single time, and every single time, William gave him reasons to come back. Now, it was the tilt of his head, autumn-yellow hair cradling his cheekbones.
“A plan, indeed.” he moved gracefully to the passenger seat, with all the gravitas of a petal sinking in water.
Sherlock gave him one last look before sitting behind the steering wheel and focusing straight up ahead. A shame, that he couldn’t indulge a bit longer in that view. “Buckle up, else those cheap blankets waiting for us get colder. ”
-
It hadn’t always been like this.
This, of course, meant the runaway sort of life.
“Sherlock, you don’t suppose the Lord of Crime is...?”
“Setting up a trap for me? That wouldn’t be too bad, John, but I doubt someone who’s so careful about staying in the shadows would purposefully lead the detective tracking his steps to the root of everything.”
John, ever-so-loyal John, a good friend and an honest man, didn’t conceive a word he’d said. Not for lack of wit, or blindness. It was the absence of malice - the kind only reserved for those who fell prey to their passions. “A trap could be anywhere, it doesn’t have to lure you near himself, does it?”
“Ah John, you don’t get it. He’s clearly testing me. I haven’t figured out yet the whole map of it, but I can ascertain a thing or two.”
“And what’s that?”
He numbered each point with a finger, “First, he’s tested my drive. If I’m machiavellian enough for his goals, but too bad I didn’t shoot that man because you were there to have my back.”
John blushed, but Sherlock went on, “Second, if he truly wanted me dead, I would’ve been disposed of long ago.”
At that reveal, John gasped. “Sherlock! All the more reason you shouldn’t involve yourself any more than necessary! Is a mystery worth throwing your life away?!”
He’d paced around the room that no corner was left unexplored. Instead of running away from the scrutiny, Sherlock opted for a sincere confession, whatever that entailed. Thin trails of smoke crawl up to the ceiling, and he allowed himself to be mesmerized by the sluggish dance.
“That, my friend, is absolutely right.”
-
“It’s a losing battle,” his teacher told him one day.
This old man, nearing his sixties. All posh and dignified knowledge, but caged in the orthodox method nevertheless. Sherlock felt he could’ve come to respect him if he weren’t such a bore. Still - he liked the grandpa enough to stop his track, turn on his heels and regard him with a long, disinterested look. “Losing what now?”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Holmes: you’re a brilliant student, probably smarter than I ever was on my finest days,” a chuckle followed, not self-depreciating, though Sherlock wouldn’t have minded either way, “This world, however, is ruled by minds that aren’t half as sharp as yours. By circumstance of birth, those who deem you unlikeable enough will sabotage all your efforts. It hasn’t changed in the past years.”
“That’s interesting... A teacher telling his student to give up.”
“No! That’s not what I—”
His chest deflated with laughter, short-lived and easy, “I know that. You probably mean well, but as far as I know, it’s my business whether I let that disheart me or not, isn’t it?”
“Well, you might be right.” a pause. The wrinkles around the teacher’s eyes deepen when his eyes are cast down, like thin cracks on stone, “I simply don’t want to see another candle be snuffed out in front of me.”
“That’s giving too much credit to the bureau, y’know? If I lose my fire, that’s all on me. A man’s biggest enemy is his own mind, weren’t you the one who taught us that?”
Oxford had always felt cold, even during summer. Perhaps the building was made to last as a barricade against everything from ages past. Still - the dampness in the air, combined with the sorrowful lightning from the halls and library could get pretty depressing at times. He wondered when the world had begun to look so grey and uninviting. Sherlock shivered a little, before he resumed his gait and waved his teacher goodbye.
-
Talent recognizes genius.
There was a subtle shift in the air when William’s attention set on him. What would he call it? Fate or chance? But wasn’t chance merely a different way to call fate? We’re all pieces on the same board, casually touching one another’s orbit in a lifetime of probabilities. Only a few of these become collisions, rocking each other off the predetermined path. For Sherlock, he was that type of cataclysm.
William’s eyebrow quirked in amusement after Sherlock made his guesses - after he made his own.
Who he is, what his profession surely is; never what he is not, because this was a fleeting moment in the grand scale of things, was it not? Odd thing to make conversation about spiral stairs - and in the middle of a vast sea.
Ah, but William had the last word on that, “Interesting assumptions, though I have to say a little forced.”
“On my end? Beats me if that’s what it sounds like. How ‘bout you, hm? Sniffing out a man just to prove a point? Cornering the enemy is an old tactic.”
“That you deem yourself an enemy must mean you consider ourselves to be on equal footing. That is worth recriminating, but your confidence doesn’t look the kind that can be faked.”
“It’s not.” Sherlock assured him, resting languidly against the wall. His fingers toyed with the lighter in his pocket, while this man toyed with the strings around his stomach. It felt tighter by the second, so he pressed for the next sentence lacking decor, “What’s your name? I felt like I’ve seen you somewhere before...”
“Hardly. I would remember.” he’d replied, “My name is William James Moriarty.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
William was gentle enough to humor him a bit further. “Certainly... There is a familiarity to the name.”
“Right? Guess it’s a sign that we might become friends. How’s that sound, Liam?”
“I would say that you seem confident enough that I will agree on that. Is that another guess?”
He shrugged, then dipped his head to the side, “It’s only a guess as long the other party’s left the answer unclear.”
That might’ve done the trick, earned him the most bewitching smile. Fragrant, poised. Showered in the salon’s golden lights, he was no different than a flower at the top of a cliff. Desolate beauty, made to stab at the unsuspecting hearts.
“There is your answer, Mr. Holmes.”
-
Eyes on the road, fingers gripping tight around the steering wheel. Still a long way to go, it seemed, but Sherlock felt content with the silence unfolding between them. William was asleep. Placid rest like this didn’t come often, so Sherlock bit his tongue, bit a cigarette and swallowed each word he wanted to speak to the man beside. It could wait. They had all the time in the world now.
He chewed on the filter a little too roughly. Then, he threw another glance at William’s face.
Lashes that fluttered like butterflies as they passed the scattered lamp lights, petal-like mouth and fair skin. Perhaps he liked this William best, if there were separate entities at all. And well, there might be two of him and none at the same time. Each sentence was a carefully-crafted lie within another, faceless, porcelain dolls that stared blankly at you and said nothing about what would come next: another empty canvas to paint on, or the very core of this game of guessing.
Sherlock loved guessing, as he did always find puzzles to be more interesting the harder they were to solve. And William... he was a mystery of his own nature, and if he wished to be discovered, the answer must be in the challenges and amused glances directed his way.
He should’ve heeded the cautory side-steps: they were dancing around each other, from the very start, yet the absent selfishness in the professor had made Sherlock doubt himself - truly doubt himself - if he’d misread the signs and hoped for something that might as well be on the dark side of the moon. Damn, if he’d known...
William stirred, soft hair flowing at sporadic moments when the wind made it through the thin spaces in the nearly-closed windows.
Peaceful.
He focused on the tempo of his breathing, which had grown calmer and steadier the farthest they were from the border. He needed another cigarette. Of course his mind would betray him and send all thoughts back to the place across the sea, where the wanted posters yellowed beneath the shifting weather and their makeshift gravestones served as meeting place for whoever needed somewhere to spat on after a night out at the bar.
For all that London, its people and the few friends left behind knew, Sherlock and William were dead.
Truly, ridiculously peaceful.
Death wasn’t absolution, but it damn well opened a whole new path for them. Sherlock had promised himself to follow William home, wherever home was. On the road, inside a cheap hotel room, behind a gas station in the middle of nowhere... He remembered doing the same during the chase, though William had been less welcoming and always dressed up with knives. His throat threatened to close.
Both of them clung to death and oblivion because it was all they knew. And it was painful - how could it not be.
Being mourned and forgotten in each other’s company made it feel less so.
-
“...for here Divine Justice transforms and spurs them so their dread becomes wish: they yearn for what they fear.”
Sherlock rose up from the seat at the front row. Bond sat back, yet the glint in his eye never left.
“Now you’re reciting Dante to me? What’s the occasion?”
“Not quite an occasion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Stages did always create towering characters. James blended perfectly with the remaining lights cascading into the room, through the holes in the walls and ceiling. An apparition, perhaps, though one Sherlock felt compelled to listen. "It’s a reminder of sorts. Serves to the lost men transfixed on something larger than themselves.”
“And that applies to me ‘cause...?”
James blinked slowly, and wasn’t it fantastic how a man can relay a message quite so clear with a gesture simple as that? “This theatre used to be a popular attraction. Entries sold off, aristocrats from all around the world came to watch the expensive, breath-taking performances.”
“Hm?”
“The fire took everything. Took some lives as well. Even the enchanting voices from the singers couldn’t do anything against that.”
On the left... or was it the right? How is he moving so fast? Ghostly.
“A bit naive to expect a mere human to stop something so disastrous and beyond one’s power.”
“Exactly.”
He could hear wood creaking. Was someone else with them? He couldn’t remember coming here with Watson, or with anyone for that matter. It was just the two of them.
“Where does that put me, hm? The destructive force or the puny little human?”
“For someone so brilliant, you don’t seem to understand the extent of your own mortality and power. There’s only so much you can do without entering the fire yourself, turn into a flame.”
A hand protruding from his ribcage. Sherlock heard himself scream, though what came out sounded wet and pitiful. His voice couldn’t even cut through the silence, before blood pooled in his throat and made him choke.
Sherlock woke up with a start.
He stumbled on the corridor, down the hall, towards the sink. His reflection in the mirror was pale, though the confusion in his face grounded him to the present. You’re becoming obsessed, John had warned him. Half concern, half accusation. And he was right - damned man, he was always right.
-
William turned into plague he couldn’t evict. It wasn’t quite like anything he’s had before. Of all the times he’d imagined what it’d be like to be brought down by this man, the most sensible and creative parts of his mind never amounted to the charm of having the real thing. The strangest thing... It wasn’t the blood on their hands, not the midnight fantasies, or the fact that his was the face he’d linked to the organization moving behind closed curtains.
No. It was the tenderness, the siren’s call easing the knot in his heart nearly convincing him that they could have it all the time.
Loving William was this otherworldly pact with a God. But he was no God, he was a man. A mortal, like the rest of them. Cruel one, he was, when pushed out his boundaries. All claws and hooks, with the most enticing eyes.
Sherlock exhaled sharply through his teeth, forced himself to watch the fire past the crystal-clear eyes pinning him like a butterfly for display. Because there was no need for William to be any more forceful than this. Hunger is man’s nature - it is to be given, and Willpower is the choice - for it is to give, and wasn’t Sherlock but a man who fought against constraints his entire life? How contradictory. Yet, he made no effort to push himself off the wall.
Fabric rustled like a murmur, and Sherlock waited until the waves of electricity kicked in. William mouthed at the side of his neck, lower than that, too. Pleasure uncoiled in his gut, fingers flinching when the kisses neared the brim of his waistband. Bloody hell, it was painful to just stand and watch.
“Let me see your face, Mr. Detective.” William, goddamned William, crooned against the dip of his hip bones.
“Geez, you’re a handful, Liam.”
“Hm, how so? Are my demands that unreasonable?”
“Hell they are! It’s just mean... Agh... not letting me touch you —” warmth spread across his length, sitting heavier and slippier and making it impossible for Sherlock to grasp at the next words. All he managed was a pitiful groan.
The room was spinning - the walls growing taller and bowing their heads until all that was left was the feeling of William’s tongue pressed against his sensitive skin. Bloody Liam and his treacherous eyes, locking Sherlock’s focus solely on himself and no more. He couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else.
-
How alien the weight felt against his thigh - William straddling his lap, kissing him deep and slow. A spider feeding off a prey caught in its web. He’d gone so long without human company, devoid of interest and least of all wanting for a touch like this. William oftentimes proved himself a puppeteer, the one pulling at the strings in his heart and doing as his whim so pleased. This was his stage, this was the gamble and how could Sherlock ever deny this man anything?
“I find it hard to believe.”
‘Believe what?’, William’s face read - or the shallow light in his eyes said, more accurately.
“It’s simply not an easy task to make me linger on a single mystery for so long.”
“Perhaps your previous mysteries haven’t been so difficult to solve from the beginning.”
“That’s not what it is, and I’m certain that you understand as much without me having to say so.” he grinned, though half-hearted gestures weren’t his style. Prolonging the pause was the only option until his thoughts fell into place. Domino pieces arrayed one after the other, rows of them waiting for the soft push needed to bring it all to cause. He ought to be careful, lest William hovered too close to the frontal piece. And perhaps he knew, and still he played the curious man who couldn’t keep those ruby eyes away from Sherlock’s blues. “For each mystery there is a question, and drawing out the answers to such questions is what I am best at. But you, Liam… I never seem to run out of them. I’m not a patient man, but I can be patient for you. Could drag this on forever.”
Fluorescent lights, magentas and sharp blues filtered through the old curtains. William might’ve been incorporeal, an illusion he designed with all the things he liked and couldn’t attain. But the solid, grounding feeling of his waist against Sherlock’s palm reminded him that this was real.
A radio was playing in another room.
“Well, you did steal a lot of things from me, Mr. Holmes. It’s only fair that you settle your debts with a lifetime.”
“Isn’t that right?” Sherlock smiled against William’s lips. He pressed a bite there, and then on the charming curve of his bare shoulder. That smell - for all the times he thought of capturing William, he thought of this tenfold. He might’ve made William a bit more compliant. Liked the sight of messed up clothes and tousled hair, and oh dear Lord, the moans that would come with it. But... this was good. Better than good.
Long, slender fingers snaked their way around Sherlock’s throat. There was no real threat in the firmness of it. A dull attempt at catching him unaware. Sherlock's gaze lifted up and watched, enraptured by the closeness to William’s half-open mouth.
“You stole death from me, Sherlock Holmes, my sole atonement, and now we’re here. Two demons who couldn’t go back to Hell, where they belong.”
Even the bell of a temple wasn’t quite as melancholic as his voice was now.
“You’ve got that wrong, Liam.” Sherlock swallowed. He noticed William’s eyes dart from his face to the muscles moving like ripples under layers of skin. “I told you that I’d take you with me.”
“For what purpose?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” again, he chased after the sweet taste and sensation of William’s kiss. Intoxicating, more addicting than any other drug, “This is your purgatory.” he whispered, and this time, he didn’t let go.