Work Text:
William could not, if he was being perfectly honest, recall a time in his life before something hurt. On the streets, in the orphanage, always cold and always afraid of what would happen if they stopped watching their backs. He’d learnt to stop caring about pain, to fold it into the foundations of his world so that he could build on top of it without faltering.
Now—now he didn’t know what to do without the pain. He tried to live without it. He tried to learn. But it was easier to trip over the curb, slam a cupboard shut on his fingers, forget to eat until he felt too dizzy and faint to stand.
It was easy, and Sherlock didn’t buy it for a second. He hated when William was hurt. William didn’t. No one had said domestic bliss was going to be either domestic or blissful.
And yet—their days were steady, a balance of risk and routine. The emptiness in William’s soul never faded, but he found ways of keeping on. Sometimes he wandered the streets of New York for hours, late into the night, until hunger had chewed his stomach raw and the soles of his shoes needed replacing, until Sherlock had to come down in the small hours of the morning and find him dozing on the stairs of their apartment building, arms wrapped around his thighs, shivering.
“You’re as bad as I am,” Sherlock would say fondly.
And William would look up, the ice in his heart rendered oddly translucent in the light of Sherlock’s attention. “No,” he would say. “I’m so much worse.”
But Sherlock would carry him upstairs and they’d make a mess of the bed until teatime, until every muscle William’s thighs was reduced to tight, delicious bands of agony, until he felt so filthy and used it spiraled in from the other side as purity. He’d lie in bed once Sherlock left and thumb over the scars from when the real William Moriarty had decided to make him a pony, riding spurs and all—something about verisimilitude, and wasn’t it funny that he’d learnt more about cruelty from a wayward child than he had in all the years since?
Pain, casework, the architecture degree William was earning at the local university…they muted the irate buzz in his head, the violent discomfort that had taken up permanent residency in his spine. It never felt like they did enough.
He’d fought with Louis the night before his seventeenth birthday. “Can’t this happen on any other day?” he’d cried.
“The House of Lords meets two days later, and it takes one day for the news to spread,” William had said, rote and harsh. He had not been as careful then as he’d later learned to be; he hadn’t realized it mattered. “Besides, there’s hardly anything special about tomorrow, is there?”
Louis had turned his back on William and said, low and cold, “You have a clockwork heart, brother.”
William’s explanation had died in his throat. Hundreds of children are born every day—what makes any of us special? How can I turn my back on them to spend another evening with you? You’re my brother, but you’re no more valuable than anyone else in the world. A life is worth no more or less than any other life; only sentimentality says otherwise. I am doing this for you, Louis.
A clockwork heart indeed. Louis had forgiven him, as William had known he would, but he’d never let go of those words. There was no room for love between the gears that logic and rage kept turning.
So what if William was a machine? It meant no one had to love him; no one had to care that some nights he wanted to be human so badly it made his throat raw, gripping his own wrists so hard his hands left marks wondering what it would be like to simply exist. Without this sword hanging over him, without the weight of his past and future crushing the life out of his lungs.
He felt so lonely.
It would have been so easy to just go mad. Instead he turned the knife inwards, practiced kindness until it came easy. He learnt to dodge Louis’s love, not wanting him to waste it on a dead thing, but it was harder than it should have been—Louis was persistent, and William did not want to crush his brother’s spirit. He learned to be patient, to not mind stupidity and slowness, to see the value in their helpless irrational affection. It was the only way to stay sane. And it was important to stay sane. He still had a plan to see through.
Sherlock tore through those painstaking walls and automated processes with the disastrous unselfconscious sweetness of a hurricane. He was never bored by Sherlock’s side.
He’d have followed Sherlock anywhere for his company alone, for the paths he took that William would’ve dismissed, the things he said in his low rough voice, challenging William and keeping up. Perhaps William’s clockwork heart had been built in the image of Sherlock’s, which was so violently alive that it could lend warmth even to William’s cold world.
They got drunk in speakeasies, in the drag queens’ dens Sherlock found and wrangled invites to where William could toss his head back and melt into the crowd, allow strangers to touch him and kiss him and dance with him until some kind stranger guided by the pulse of the music returned him to Sherlock. He would’ve thought Sherlock hated that, but Sherlock’s possessiveness was of a different kind; and he told William once that he liked William kiss-drunk and red-faced and open, a book read and beloved before Sherlock found the climax.
William didn’t know how to say that he liked it too. He liked the way his head went quiet in a crowd of fellow queers, the way fear took a backseat to desire. It wasn’t safe, but it was joyous. It had been so long since William had felt anything like that.
But he liked it better when they got drunk at home, when Sherlock bought the alcohol and the cannabis from wherever he usually bought drugs and William didn’t have to worry about his body. “You’re a wanton ponce,” Sherlock informed him. William grinned and made good on that particular opinion, straddling Sherlock’s comfortably muscled thighs and unbuttoning his shirt, slow and sensual, reaching up to take the joint from Sherlock’s mouth and fit his own lips there, “A right menace, that’s what you are. William, stop.”
The high never lasted long. In the morning William would be shivering and angry; he’d snarl at Sherlock if he so much as came within arm’s reach. He couldn’t bear being touched. He hated that he kept allowing it, weak pathetic filth, a damned thing gotten free of hell for a little longer. As though he didn’t know what awaited him.
He went to church. Sherlock didn’t.
“I fuck you on Saturday night and on Sunday morning you’ll go listen to that prat drone on about how those who touch themselves are sinners and those who take a man’s dick up their arse are worse still. You’re beyond me, William.”
But it wasn’t all hellfire and ranting. William would always believe in a loving god, because he felt in his soul that love had its limits and it would never reach him. He needed hell to be real; god knew he wasn’t living like it was. The prospect of eternal punishment was as close to a daydream as he’d gotten in years.
Other than Sherlock, bright and handsome and vivid. William was tired of being center-stage, playing a lead role. He wanted a smaller part.
“My sidekick, stupider than me? Can’t have that,” Sherlock said against William’s neck, morning stubble scraping sleep off William’s skin. It was five in the morning; William had woken up shaken and unhappy, and Sherlock had been only too willing to give William what he wanted.
It was raining outside; the window was open, the dull wet morning light softening the sharp angles of Sherlock’s face. The effect on him was beautiful. William could only imagine how badly it served his own pale wan skin. “Your sidekick, tired of being clever,” William mumbled.
Sherlock inhaled sharply.
How could he ask for this? Sherlock loved his genius. There was nothing else to love.
“Not forever,” William said hastily. Rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “A few hours, no more. I doubt I could stand anything further.”
Sherlock hummed. William tried not to let his disappointment show, but he couldn’t drag himself out of bed all that day—it was too hard, with the rain and the gut-wrenching rejection twisting his insides. The downside to narrowing your whole life to one person; William’s world ended when Sherlock didn’t pay attention to him. Deserving it didn’t make it any easier to bear.
In the evening, once the rain had relented, William slowly emerged from his nest of blankets to make a cup of tea. Sherlock wasn’t back yet—William knew, vaguely, that this case that had begun with a lost dog had spiraled as the owner had discovered a robbery from over a decade ago. Sherlock was probably irritated to kingdom come about it—he liked his evidence hot. William didn’t have enough facts to be sure, but he suspected it had something to do with the victim’s sister.
Steeped to bitter perfection, he dithered over whether he wanted to drink it in the living room or at the dining table. Both options had their merits.
Had it always been so difficult to make everyday decisions? He finally balanced the tea, the pot, a jar of biscuits, and a plate to bear them all to the table. He didn’t want to make two trips—it had been task enough to make one. He was so tired.
Naturally, that meant he ended up tripping over a fold in the carpet within two steps.
When everything had stopped ringing, he heard the door close. Terrible timing, Sherly. He took stock of himself carefully—scalded but not fatally so, elbows and knees scraped and bruised and cut. He heard Sherlock enter, heard his shock and anger.
The realization, flickering in the back of his mind, that he didn’t want Sherlock to be angry with him. He couldn’t take it right now.
“Stay put,” Sherlock said briefly. “I’ll sweep around you.”
William gathered himself slowly, gingerly. The wreckage stretched in every direction; there was nowhere to put his feet but on broken china. He hadn’t even bothered with his slippers before he left the bedroom. There was no point avoiding it; he got to his feet and held back a gasp.
“Liam—”
William didn’t listen. He simply held his breath and walked over the china and didn’t wince. Pain, he reminded himself firmly, was incense at the altar of penance, and he was a devotee.
“I would’ve carried you, you idiot,” Sherlock sounded tired too. William reached the living room and curled up on the couch and contemplated the futility of existence. The odds of the sun exploding right now were infinitesimally low, but never zero.
No such fatality came to pass. William had known it wouldn’t, and had proceeded to pin his hopes to a freak flood.
Sherlock was swearing and digging through their shared paraphernalia for a pair of tweezers. William said, dizzy with longing or perhaps hunger, said “Are you angry with me?”
“Damn right I’m angry, Liam. You’re utterly impossible.”
William nodded. Kept nodding. “I just wanted some tea,” he told Sherlock. “I can’t seem to do anything right, which is quite inappropriate if you ask me. I used to be Britain’s foremost genius.” He sighed. “More for lack of competition than anything else, it seems.”
“I won’t take that as an insult, because you’re rambling.” Sherlock loomed over him with a pair of tweezers, carding his fingers through William’s hair and lifting his face. “Let me clean you up.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” William said.
“I wasn’t asking,” Sherlock responded, cool and even. “Hold your arms out.”
William couldn’t move. His brain felt like it had smashed alongside his favorite mug; his arms existed somewhere, but the exact location was beyond him at this point.
“Sorry,” he told Sherlock. “I’ll take care of it later, alright? You should go clean that up.”
Sherlock dropped down in front of him. “Liam, darling, I already did. I did it in front of you.” He sounded baffled. “What’s gotten into you? You didn’t hit your head.”
“I actually did, as a child—” He didn’t want Sherlock to look at him right now. “I’m fine.”
“I even asked you where the dustpan went, and you responded. Do you recall that?”
William hated Sherlock so much. He tried to remember, grasping in the choking fog inside his head. Nothing resolved into a sensible shape. “I need to sleep,” he whispered. “I need to sleep and then it’ll be fine.”
“Look at me. You’ve been sleeping all day, Liam, look at me.” He looked, though he didn’t want to. “I’m going to take the china out of you, and then you’re going to do as I say and nothing else. Do you understand?”
That—that sounded so much easier than trying to figure out what to do by himself. He could feel his grip slipping. Wasn’t it better to let go when Sherlock was here to catch him?
He nodded.
“Good boy,” Sherlock said gently. Liam wondered who he was talking to. Certainly not him. “Hold out your arms.”
It was easier when Sherlock told him to do things. Everything seemed to be happening miles away from his mind. He didn’t even notice when Sherlock finished with his feet, but he was glad it was over. “Sherlock?”
“Right here, sweetheart. What is it?”
Liam shook his head. There was nothing. He’d just needed to know Sherlock was still here, like reaching out a hand in the dark for a wall.
He was scooped up before he could realize it was happening. But it was oddly fine. He didn’t care what Sherlock did to him right now; he’d told Sherlock he would do as he wanted. He put his head on Sherlock's shoulder and found the smell of grass and dog fur and seawater, tried to piece it together, lost the thread. Oh well.
The bedroom had no fireplace, only a grate. That was how Liam knew they were in the living room, far enough from the fire Sherlock must’ve stoked to be warm but not overly hot. He tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen, needlessly curious.
Sherlock emerged a moment later with a plate and a glass. “Ham sandwich and cherry cordial,” he said to Liam. “You said you hadn’t eaten.”
He set it down in front of Liam, sitting on the couch behind him and unwrapping the shawl tucked around Liam’s shoulders. He whined, immediately colder than before. Hated being cold. Sherlock laughed. “You’ll be fine, you baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to a scar on Liam’s shoulder. “Eat.”
Liam ate slowly. His hands hurt. He only managed about half the sandwich and two-thirds of the glass before it became utterly impossible to continue.
“That’s good enough. Well done, sweetheart.”
“Didn’t do anything.”
Sherlock put a broad hand on the side of Liam’s head, against his ear. “Lean back, Liam.”
Somehow, Sherlock switched their places so that Liam was the one lying facedown on the couch and Sherlock was kneeling upright next to him, shirtless and predatory. Liam wasn’t afraid, but his back prickled like a wolf pack was waiting to tear into him. A whole pack, or one Sherlock Holmes.
Too late, he remembered to be conscious of his back. There was a reason he tended to fuck Sherlock face-to-face. He’d been whipped more times than even he could count.
(That was a lie. Every lash still bled in the back of his mind.)
Sherlock dragged his mouth, lips open, across the knotted tops of the scars and down over a shoulder blade. Liam arched and tensed. “Shh,” Sherlock said, somewhere near his spine. “You’re doing what I want you to do.”
Liam tried to bite back a whimper.
Those last two weeks as the Lord of Crime, when there was only blood and darkness and the smell of nicotine and roses and death wherever he went, he’d felt every punishment he dealt scar his own soul. He’d press his hands to his ribs or chest or throat as he walked away, wondering where the blood had gone. And all that pain didn’t compare to the agony of Sherlock finding the only tender patch of scarless skin on his back and pressing his mouth to it, right there, as though worship meant finding the softest place to start cutting.
He thought there were tears in his eyes. He was only grateful Sherlock wouldn’t see them, even if he’d know from the cadence of Liam’s breath.
His cock stirred between his legs, but failed to rise. It was too overwhelming to add arousal to the mix. Sherlock spread his arse and rubbed over the tight pucker of his hole, his fingers already slick with oil and gentle as they worked Liam open. He was always so careful about this; he must have known that no one else had. And if Liam had been a little less ruined to the core he’d have stopped wanting it after he’d realized that it only ever seemed to hurt—but he’d preferred it, instead, for the same reason.
That Sherlock made it feel good was somehow still magical.
Sherlock didn’t linger there long, even though Liam’s cock had undeniably begun to stiffen where it was trapped between his body and the couch. His cheeks heated when he noticed, noticed too with a deep shudder that he liked being helpless to this. Liked that he couldn’t seek relief without Sherlock noticing that he needed it, liked even more that it would be obvious either way. He didn’t want relief right now, though, he wanted to drag this out and linger in the ache until Sherlock took pity on him. As though his patience would be rewarded.
Sherlock touched his thighs, scarred as well (what part of him wasn’t? He’d been punished for everything he or Louis had ever done), kissed the back of his knee like a world’s gentlest shark.
“You have such lovely legs,” he murmured. “How many years of ballet?”
“Three,” Liam choked out. “I never learned to dance properly. How can you tell?”
Sherlock smiled against his skin. Liam squeezed his eyes shut as he reached Liam’s feet, still throbbing with the cuts and bruises they’d incurred a while ago. It didn’t matter, not really—Liam killed for hours on feet that hurt far worse. But this pain was strangely vibrant, as though Sherlock’s very proximity drove his senses to work harder.
“You have,” Sherlock said softly, “the most ridiculous tolerance for agony.” He curled his hand around one foot, unkind for the first time in hours. Liam’s whole body bent to the thrill, heart thudding sharply, oh—yes—
Sherlock dug his thumb into the arch, where the largest piece of china had sunk. Liam felt a surge of emotion, unbearable brightness exploding in his stomach—vindication, heat, yearning. He wanted Sherlock to trust this so badly, to trust that Liam could take it and not flinch. If Sherlock asked, Liam would dance through every room in this apartment with him all night and not stumble a single time.
“Beautiful,” Sherlock murmured.
Liam’s cock ached with need. “Do that again,” he demanded, impulsive and frantic.
This time, Sherlock ran his thumb over the pad, pressing down with ruthless tenderness. Liam moaned, appreciative and embarrassing.
Nearly three decades and pain was still his first home. How did he explain that to anyone?
“Again?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes.”
Sherlock laughed. “You’d have me do this all night, wouldn’t you? No,” he gripped Liam’s ankles, stroking his heel. “Turn around.”
Liam obeyed, magnetized to the sound of Sherlock’s voice instructing him.
“Bring yourself off,” Sherlock said, sweet and sharp as a bee’s sting.
“Sherlock—”
“Do it, Liam.”
He hadn’t been protesting, just—oh, bugger it all. He folded his legs, pressing his feet against the cushions, and wrapped his injured hand around his cock. The ache pulsed, double the fire; he didn’t have to think for once before stroking his cock to completion. Every thought was splintered by pain, all the edges muted soft. A white heat running through his veins like heaven.
It crested suddenly, without warning, pushing him into freefall. He didn’t have time to catch his breath—he thought he cried out, thought it was Sherlock’s name, and please.
He returned to himself with his hand covered in spend, stinging dully. Sherlock was looking at him like he was still something meant to be devoured, as though all that blood had only served to whet his appetite. Liam smiled at him, warm and helpless with affection.
Sherlock made a rough, hungry sound. His gaze was affixed to Liam’s dirty hand.
Oh, Liam thought belatedly. Right. He slid off the couch, putting his marginally-cleaner hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and forcing him to sit. His head felt clear and empty as he put his own dirty fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean and wet, before wrapping them around Sherlock’s cock and lifting himself on his knees.
He fucked himself open on Sherlock’s cock in one clean motion, not caring that his knees also hurt, that he hadn’t been worked nearly lose enough.
“Liam,” Sherlock growled.
“My turn,” Liam smiled. Tipped his head back and surrendered to the sheer burning pleasure of riding Sherlock at the hardest pace he could set—and he could work himself so hard he cried afterwards and like it—always loved knowing Sherlock was staring up at him like he was a miracle in the flesh, with Sherlock’s cock splitting him open on every thrust. And Sherlock had been so kind to him today, it was the least Liam could do—
Sherlock wrapped his arms around Liam and hid his face in Liam’s chest as he came, a raw sound in his throat. “Liam,” he said afterwards. “Liam.”
Liam hummed, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s soft long hair. What would he have done without this man? Love felt so much like the space between a bridge and a river, stretched to fill years.
One day they would sink. For now…they could hold each other.