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Side by side, they walked. Amidst their ongoing conversation, an unbearable wind blew in their faces abruptly. A storm was on its way, all of the sudden. A filthy shade of gray casted a shadow over the sky. The force of the air made William stumble backwards slightly. He grabbed Sherlock’s forearm to ground himself.
—My, this weather all of the sudden is no good.—William looks at Sherlock back again. His face was scrunched as he sighed. William cannot help but find him amusing when he’s annoyed. All the time, better said.
—Aye. New York’s cold is bullshit compared to this.—another sigh. He was frustrated by the fact the weather was troubling their wholesome date.—I should’ve packed a thicker coat at least.
William smiles.
—Language, dear.
There are barely any lights on out on the street; only the faint shine of a big white star in the sky and the signs of the establishments around. Despite it being Paris, nightlife outside the city centre wasn’t as lively; at least not so lively as they’d expected before experiencing the past few days in the lovely Montmartre. Perhaps it was due to the breezy and wintry season.
William had a feeling the destination Sherlock chose was not exactly for work reasons, but rather for entertainment solely. Why else would his lover bring him to the renowned City of Love shortly after getting rings for them both? The name was rigorously accurate, he must say. They had watched how the sunset fell down on the horizon and as it did, it coloured warm shades of orange over Sherlock’s face. A sight that enamoured him further, if it were possible.
William glanced around, as if making sure of something. He then intertwined his partner’s arm with his very own. Before he could even begin to protest, the golden haired man talks, soothingly.
—Mind if I support myself with your arm?—He grins, his white teeth showing.—There’s not a single soul around, you needn’t worry.
Whatever Sherlock had to say died on his tongue as he looked around too, and verified William’s statement. His features softened as William now allowed himself to cling onto Sherlock freely, drawing a chuckle out of them both. Not that they should worry much if they’re seen; they’re even a continent apart from home. Well, their newfound home, better said. Their birthplace was an island away.
Unfortunately so, a drop of water landed on their faces. And another. And in less than a minute, the night sky was crying harshly as if it wanted to drown its people underneath. Before letting the rain soak them further, Sherlock pulled his lover along with him under one of the balconies of the nearby buildings.
There was still a long walk from where they stood to their hostel. The rain was, in fact, not stopping any sooner; in a couple of hours, if anything. The smart choice was taking shelter until the storm withered away. Yet, they would most certainly freeze to death if they remained on the outside.
William glanced at his surroundings thoroughly once more. There was what seemed to be a small bar, or café right around the corner of the street. He was not sure. Wouldn’t hurt to take a peek, now would it?
—Sherly, perhaps we should enter someplace and guard ourselves from the cold and rain.
He nodded, probably already having picked up on what he was implying. And giving the colour of his cheeks, he was more than eager to drink something that provided some warmth to his senses.
—Any suggestions?
—Indeed. Come, follow me.
A bell clinked above their head as they swung the door open. They took their hats off, wet due the rain and glanced around.
The sign on the outside was indeed right, what seemed a cozy, candid cafeteria extended before them. Wooden walls and floor tinted rather dark. At the back, there was another door covered with a red curtain, or so it seemed from the distance.
William saw bright lights coming out of the edges of said doorframe. His eyes stayed fixated on it for a moment too long. A known nudge on his shoulder took him out of his trance, eyes glimpsing sideways. Before he could wonder further, a waitress attended them.
—Bonjour! Qu'est que ce que vous voudrez?
Sherlock left William to handle the communication part. His french was infinitely better than his. He, on the other hand, only knew a couple broken words necessary to survive in the territory. However, he managed to understand a bit from the conversation. What a lovely flower you have there! Sherlock heard him say upon noticing the violet on the waitress ear.
And hearing his beloved speak the posh language, he’d found out that it was one of his new favorite things about him, and about his life with him, essentially.
He will be forever grateful for William’s choice.
For allowing him to spend his life of atonement by his side.
Whenever he wished to feel at ease, he glanced down at his hand and then at William’s, at the blinding shine from the bands on his fingers. Legally meaningless, as they were, he did feel eternally attached to his soul. As it ought to be.
A laughter from William snapped him back from his idleness. He and the lady seemed to have been engaging in an interesting conversation; about flowers from what he’d heard. The waitress finally signaled them towards the door William had grown particularly curious of. Sherlock had just barely acknowledged it. William peered back at him with a smirk after thanking the lady with a lovely merci beaucoup.
An eyebrow on Sherlock’s face furrowed.
Ever the unbridling mystery, William started walking towards the door without further ado. Funnily enough, Sherlock almost chased after him.
Once he swung the curtain open, bright coloured flashes and lights invaded his senses abruptly along with a strong smell of liquor. It took his eyes a moment to fully adjust to the excess of light. He could see a big stage where an orchestra was performing a lovely upbeat jazz song, in french obviously. He wished he could understand the lyrics. To his surprise, there weren't many tables unoccupied. He’d thought initially that this was a peaceful, undisturbed place. Quite the opposite.
—Sherly, dear.
His eyes now fixated on him. The reflection of the many lights on his eye was breathtaking. He’d later tell him how beguiling he appeared.
—Tell me.
—Go sit down on a table, I’ll go get us something. Fancy a brandy?—William pointed to a table on the corner that was available. He nodded.
—Aye. Do you want me to have your coat while we're at it?—A fond smile rose on William’s face at the endearing gesture.
—Ah, well if you say so. I cannot reject such a generous offer.— Sherlock helped him dispose of his coat with lingering and unhurried movements, as if he meant to entice him. He surely wanted to.
Coat handed to him, he finally went to sit down. Absent-mindedly, he folded Liam’s coat and placed it atop the bench carefully. The leather of the padding was a bright red, as if mimicking the ones in theatres. «Comfortable» he thought. There was a lack of windows, at least that he could see near him.
His eyes were following William as he moved around the place towards the bar, his golden hair casting a spark of light amidst the room. There was a modest space delimited in front of the stage. For dancing, he supposed as he noticed some couples committing to the task.
His eye grew curious as it landed a pair of women, dancing closely together. From his seat he couldn’t really make it out, yet it seemed, well, very affectionate let’s say. Other couples danced together as well. He would’ve kept examining the people on his sight, but his favorite one of all was now next to him. He handed him his drink and proceeded to sit beside him.
—It’s not a bad place at all.—Sherlock commented upon his first sip.— Your intuition is excellent, as often is.
A sly smirk spread across his face. Being in a foreign city really did put his mind—and his tongue—at ease.
William simply chuckled under his breath, now indulging himself into his glass of wine. He felt as though he’d started drinking more frequently the more he lived with Sherlock. Yet he wouldn’t pay mind to the unhealthy habit, at least not in this precise moment. Not in this precise place.
—Do you perhaps recall that one time with Billy, in which we accidentally entered a very special bar?
Sherlock’s gears finally were put together in his head.
—I do. What, you say it because of those two ladies over there?— his head tilted towards the pair almost imperceptibly, though he knew it was more than enough for his partner to catch on.
—Not quite exactly. Have you noticed the different flowers on the attendees' attires?
«Flowers?» He glanced around once more. The two ladies did not have any flowery adornments on themselves. There were two gentlemen, however, who were heading themselves upstairs towards what he deduced was some sort of room. Coming out of their pockets, he could see one of them wore a green carnation. With a more thorough examination, he could notice lavenders and hyacinths, among others.
—Are we at the florist’s or what?—As rare as it was, Sherlock was evidently clueless.
—That could be an auspicious deduction at first, yet I'm afraid it is not correct at all.—William sighed, carrying faux deception in his breath.
Despite having completely realized they were in fact, in such a diverse establishment, he couldn't help but tease.
—How come you are so sure? Enlighten me, professor Moriarty.
William’s eyes followed how his lips stuck to the edge of his glass as he sipped from it; relishing from the smirk that rested on his divine face after addressing him heavily with intent.
—With pleasure, Sherly—He cleared his throat falsely before proceeding.—You see, flowers have always been, and will be, a delightful way of demonstrating any sort of affection, admiration or adoration when gifted, correct?—The detective nodded.—But, beyond their astonishing beauty and pleasant smell, they carry various meanings, dependantly on who gifts and receives them. The language of flowers, they call it.
—I’ve heard of it, yes. But I suppose that is not enough to claim this is one of those establishments, is it?
—Well that leads me to my next point. You noticed the lady at the front entrance had a violet on her hair, I’m supposing.
—I did. I also hear you mentioned it to her.
—Indeed.The explanation is the following. Back in ancient Greece, there was this poet; Sappho I think was her name, who wrote a vast amount of affectionate poems directed to her female companions, some historians say. As well, she tended to associate the beauty of these women with violets. Now some women use this flower to communicate between them. Or so I’ve heard say.
—A rumour, you mean?
—Could be. But I have grown to trust most of what Bonde has shared with me about his experiences among theatre life.
Sherlock hummed in reasoning. It made sense, actually.
—And how could you be blatantly sure that she wore the flower for such a reason?
William shrugged casually.
—A mere premonition I must admit.—His glass was brought to his mouth once again, staining its tongue with a crimson similar to blood. —I asked her the whys of such a flower, and she told me to go through this door. That perhaps was a secret code, or anything of the likes. Addiionally—he paused briefly to let his glass of wine down on the table once again.—There are barely any opposite-sex pairs around, have you not noticed? And not to mention, normal places opt for simple, candid lighting and relaxed music. This isn’t anything of the such.
—I have, yes, but did not think of associating one thing with another—a smirk rested on his semblance before going again—I’m unable to focus when I have such a fascinating sight very near to me.
—Oh, really?—a dramatic, false sigh of discontent leaving his lungs.—That is a pity, truly. I guess I’ll have to say word at the agency not to pair us together if that is going to reflect negatively in your performance.—That earned him a scoff from the dark-haired man. It was obvious he would not ever do such a thing, but threatening the detective is an activity he took huge pleasure from quite frequently.
—What can you tell me about the green carnations then?—Sherlock brought back the topic, genuinely intrigued in the matter.—I saw a couple of fellas carrying them.—It was interesting how quickly Sherlock had adopted U.S. mannerisms and idioms whereas William still had trouble hiding his accent.
—Those I do not know for certain, I’m afraid. A Britain-based newspaper I laid my eyes upon the other day mentioned something related. It talked about an author, Oscar Wilde I believe? A dramatist, more precisely. The article said that upon the release of his newest play, the crowd did look like a large plantation of those, but failed to explain the whys of such a phenomenon. I suppose it must be related to the play itself.—He paused for a second to drink—Though, if these gentlemen are making use of it to communicate, I guess I’ll find out sooner or later the hidden meaning of it.
—Seems we’ll maybe find out once we get back to London too.—Sherlock slipped the words past his lips as if a casual thing, so sure of himself. At the memory of their hometown, however, a tinge of sorrowfulness sparked within his semblance. The nostalgia of his familiar environment; his brothers, his home…all. His lover noticed the matter quickly. He bit his lip at the realization, then tried to deviate the subject.
—Interesting, I must admit. I wonder how you acquired all this knowledge regarding floristery?
William, fully perceptive of what he was trying to do, played along. To tell the truth, he was incessantly thankful for the acute mind of his partner, who could read him so well at the minimum shift in his demeanor.
—I did not spend the entirety of my childhood rummaging through books at the library in vain, Sherly. And the other half of it is observance and deduction really. No more. Hyacinths too, come from a Greek myth involving same-sex lovers.
—Oh I do know that one. The god of the sun, and a young male, Hyacinthus, so captivating not even the deity could help himself, is it not?— He leaned closer to him, inwards to the table. William mirrored the movement, swirling the glass of burgundy liquor in his grasp.
—Yes, certainly.—His voice shut for a second, that’s how Sherlock knew he was thinking far beyond much about something. He waited patiently for him to speak again.—Isn’t it curious, how this kind of love was once glorified and now it is demonized?—He laughed, bitterly.—The quirks of human evolution, I suppose.— As odd as it may sound, the reflexive, lethargic look behind the ruby orbs was so very alluring to him whenever William started to think about life.
—It is.— He nodded.—I wonder, if one day it will be possibly normalized again, at last.
William laughed under his breath.
—That future is uncertain, Sherly.— He had one of his hands under the table. William took it in his and raised them both above the table. Sherlock startled himself for an evanescent moment, curious about what he was scheming. He then felt the blond’s head resting atop his shoulder.—Yet at the moment, we can only enjoy this.—A pause, longing—Don’t you believe?
William stole a glance at their intertwined hands, the rings on them, and then upfront; some other couples had joined the dancefloor as the orchestra played a softer, tender-hearted tune. The ladies from before remained there, and now he could see more couples like them. Undoubtedly, this one was another of those places.
William breathed in, softly against Sherlock’s neck, humming along the melody.
Sherlock then had an idea, wonderful as ever.
As he slipped away from his lover's embrace in a swift yet assertive motion, cautious enough not to let William´s head fall abruptly. Visibly dumbfounded, he was on the verge of protesting yet Sherlock spoke ahead of him.
—My dear Liam, would you let a gentleman such as myself have this dance?—He extended out his hand for William to take, his back bending slightly as he bowed to him.
Awestruck as he was left, William still was able to tease him a little further.
—Ah, and what if I refuse?—He crossed his limbs charmingly, a stillborn grin on his lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowingly.
—Then you’d make this gentleman very, very upset.
Such a heartwarming chuckle elicited from his throat. He felt as if such would cause a paroxysm to his heart.
—Only a fool would ever say no to you, Sherlock.
He took his hand in his with subtle eagerness, and his lover pulled him in an earnest hug to the dance floor. Still wanting to maintain some discreetness, Sherlock did not lean them into the center but rather to the sides. His hands found its place on William’s back as the latter inherently wrapped his hands around his neck, pulling him closer in a playful motion. They relished in each other’s warm embrace. William's fingertips caressed his neck, almost pricking at his skin. His eyes only admired his own, as if asking to be drowned in the deep navy-blue ocean in his gaze. He’d gladly let him, only if he allowed him to treasure the gemstones in it.
Feet moving in compass with the others’, they swayed painstakingly slow and deliberate, as if time was an abstract construct which mattered not. It certainly didn’t at that moment. William inched himself closer to Sherlock’s face, as if asking for permission to kiss him. Without hesitation, it was granted to him as Sherlock pressed his lips gently atop his’ for a brief moment. And despite the brevity, it gave them both the goosebumps it always did. Upon parting their mouths, William brushed his lips lovingly against the edge of Sherlock’s mouth, just to bury his face again in the crook of his neck. Completely delighted, Sherlock hummed in satisfaction and moved his hand further downwards, to the small of his back, and pressed them a tad flush together.
—That hand of yours is roaming very freely, is it not, Sherly?—He scolded him with no intention of making him stop.
—Apologies, you might as well blame it on the alcohol.—A laugh growled inside his throat, his addam’s apple reverberating against his partner’s cheek. This, an euphony to his lover’s ears.
—Surely.—Voice laced with mischief, his hands tickled Sherlock’s neck as they made their way to the first button of his shirt, undoing it gently and caressing the sensitive skin. That made his partner sigh deeper.—This could also be blamed on the substance, could it not?—He glanced upwards with half-lidded eyes, blond eyelashes draping as if a curtain above them. He was intricately beautiful.
Many times William had described himself as the incarnation of the devil, a man of ill omen. But if that were true, why did he resemble a fallen angel wrapped around his arms? If he was so awful, then why did he feel this ineffable want to have him by his side until death did them part?
—Unmistakibly.—A grin plastered to his face again, enjoying the hospitable banter. He felt the need to kiss him again, and so he did. Gentle as ever, William cradled his face between his own, now blood-washed, hands.
He’d never regret his oath.
Sherlock reached for his right hand, his ring finger, where one rested and shined prettily against the pallid skin. He placed a fond kiss atop of it once he made sure he’d gotten William’s attention. He caught sight of his devotion-filled eyes. He was met with a smile that could make miracles, he deemed.
Time unfortunately did pass, even despite the little bubble of their own in which they’d submerged. William yawned as they danced chest to chest. Sherlock noticed.
—Perhaps it is time to get goin’?—He whispered, as if not to disturb the peace around them.
—Only if the sky’s cleared, then yes. If not, I wouldn’t mind staying a little longer like this.
He looked akin to a sleepy kitten now. «Adorable», Sherlock thought to himself.
—Shall we go pay and take a peek outside then?
William nodded, untangling from his arms with a slight disappointed sigh. Even despite knowing once they get back to their hostel he’d have Sherlock all to himself, it wasn’t quite enough to satiate his heart.
The sky was, fortunately or not, now clear. A pair of clouds remained, but they didn’t seem to suppose a major threat to their return. Once again, deeper into the night, they wandered through the somber streets of the place; though Sherlock thought the way the moon casted its brilliance upon his head was enough to even dimly light up their path. With his hand on his waist above the coat, and William’s arm interlaced with his, they walked anew. He was immensely grateful for William having accepted to accompany him.
—Sherly.—He called out at the most opportune moment.
—Say, Liam.
A fair rosy shade crept up on William’s face.
—I love you. Just that.
In the undisturbed peace of the past-sunrise, those words echoed like a prayer. Like a promise, another of the many between them. Sherlock felt his heart melt. Every time that three-worded phrase pushed past his lips, he treated it as if he’d found the most exquisite treasure.
—And I love you more.
Their shared chuckle cooed in unison amidst the silence.
—Not true.
—Wanna bet?—A suggestive intention underlined Sherlock’s challenge. William’s smug grin widened.
—I do, in fact.—Now William laid a soft caress of his lips to his cheek. He had a feeling he knew what awaited them once they reached their destination for the day being.
Never in his life they would,ve thought that jumping off a bridge would not only be the most venturous thing they did in life, but the one that'd bring them close this way.
Yet, they’d do it all again.