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Sherlock couldn’t help himself.
It was William’s birthday, and the only one that should get to decide what he wanted to do on this day was William himself. That’s what Sherlock would have told anyone else that dared to meddle with William’s plans. However, something about the fact that he had now spent hours lounging in bed, immersed in the book Sherlock had gifted him this morning, just didn’t sit right with him. He was happy it was this good, he supposed (he had gone and talked to an esteemed mathematician to make his choice, but that had been no guarantee), but did it have to take his place the Whole. Damn. Day? Could the book not wait until tomorrow?
The day had started pleasant enough, with cuddles and laughter and a late breakfast in bed, but then Sherlock had handed him the book, William had lit up like a lightbulb and the following several hours had passed in a blur. In the beginning, Sherlock had been thrilled by the enthusiastic reaction, but now they had another hour, maybe two, left before they would have to leave for William’s birthday celebration at Universal Exports. And the idea that the remaining time should pass just like this filled him with dread.
Being jealous of a book (a book he had bought himself, no less) was awfully childish, but Sherlock wouldn’t have denied it had he been asked directly.
He was lying sprawled out on his back beside William, staring at the ceiling, not exactly pouting but close enough. A while ago, he had put his own book aside (not that he had been particularly interested in it in the first place, but he had to do something), hoping that would be enough of a hint for William to follow suit and focus on his actual present the way he always did. All those years together, of their tradition of being each other’s present, and not once had any of their birthdays gone like this. He was trying his hardest not to take it personal—today was about William and only William—but with every passing minute he felt worse. He had never chosen anything above William on any of his birthdays, not even that year William had gifted him a massive supply of labware and chemicals, and he was absolutely positive he never would. Had he maybe done something wrong? It wasn’t because he hadn’t made Stargazey Pie this morning… right? Oh, maybe William was still mad because he had forgotten to take his shoes to the cobbler the other day so he wouldn’t have them ready for tonight? Or could it be—
“What is it, Sherly?” William asked without lifting his eyes from the book. His voice sounded casual, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Not Sherlock, anyway.
His racing mind came to an abrupt halt. Of course William had noticed. The discontent energy radiating off of him was probably no joke. Well, perhaps it was for the better. He should just voice his concerns, shouldn’t he? However, there was a fine line between communicating just how much he would appreciate some physical affection, if William was so inclined, and downright telling the love of his life how (not) to celebrate his birthday.
“...Was just wond’rin, the book any good?” he decided to ask. It was a stupid question and he knew it—William wouldn’t have spent all day with it if it wasn’t. Stupid, but safe. Awaiting his answer, Sherlock tilted his head to look at him, but all he could see from his perspective was his eyepatch and strands of hair shining golden in the afternoon light. How he longed to run that hair through his fingers now…
“It’s excellent.”
“Wanna explain some of what it’s about to me?”
The bright chuckle this elicited from William was almost enough to cheer Sherlock up. “Please excuse my bluntness, Sherly—I am fully aware of the brilliance of your mind, and I would never doubt it, but trying to explain this to you would equal trying to explain organic chemistry to a toddler.”
It was all Sherlock could do to suppress a long, theatrical sigh. Not a chance, huh? Today, all his mathematician cared about was math. And that was alright. Sherlock needed to drill that into his mind. It was likely that William hadn’t felt the need to explain this to him because he knew Sherlock wanted him to spend his day whatever way he wanted. If only this hadn’t been the first year that Sherlock was not on top of the priority list. Just when he was about to give up and go back to sulking watching the ceiling, his gaze zeroed in on William’s left hand, sitting lonely and unused on top of the blanket. An idea blossomed in his mind. This was going to be his one and only try.
Before he could second-guess himself, he turned onto his stomach and carefully took William’s hand in his own.
“May I have this?” he asked sincerely, firm in his decision not to push it should William say no.
It still didn’t earn him a glance or any significant amount of attention, but William’s voice was warm with amusement when he replied. “Go ahead, it’s all yours.”
“I can do whatever I want?” Sherlock probed after a moment’s hesitation. He needed to be sure.
“Be my guest,” William confirmed, already sounding more distant again.
Well, then.
Cradling William’s hand in his own like the precious treasure it was, Sherlock started by gently stroking its soft palm with his thumb, slowly and rhythmically, not unlike petting a cat. The skin felt cool against his, the way it always did. Even this light touch did wonders to brighten his mood. There was no palpable reaction from William, but Sherlock was only getting started.
Wriggling a little closer, he lifted William’s hand to his face and pressed a feather-light kiss to its center. Wow, that felt even better than he thought it would. Naturally, he had kissed William’s hands many times before, but never quite as focused on just a hand. He lingered long enough to commit the exact feeling to memory, then started to rub his face against skin. First his nose, then his right cheek and jawbone up to his chin until it was eventually his lips again, tingling from the touch. While William still didn’t say or do anything, Sherlock could tell something had shifted. He was now focusing on Sherlock’s actions.
To his own surprise, Sherlock realized he was having a really good time. This was fun. Maybe having to fight for William’s attention every once in a while wasn’t so bad; he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t rise to a good challenge. His lips curled into a smile.
This time when he kissed William’s palm, he didn’t leave it at simply touching his lips to skin. Instead, he slightly opened his mouth and started dragging his lips across it in kissing motions, wet and sensual, and he could almost imagine it was William’s mouth instead with how thrilling and satisfying it felt. He really hoped William felt even a fraction of the sparks erupting in his own lower belly. The sudden shiver running through William’s body—Sherlock could feel it so distinctly against his lips—was a good indication he wasn’t completely unaffected, at the very least.
Time for his trump card. He gave William’s palm a final, chaste peck, and then started moving his mouth upwards, never stopping the drawn-out, open-mouthed kisses, with a clear goal in mind.
And he was rewarded.
As soon as his lips reached William’s wrist, his pulse point, William uttered a gasp, accompanied by another, more violent shiver. Sherlock felt his own heartbeat quicken, an intoxicating mixture of arousal and the deepest affection coursing through his veins. William’s left wrist always had been and always would be of greatest significance to them both; no words had ever been needed to convey that. In a way, it was a symbol of their soul-deep connection.
Without taking his lips off William’s skin, Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet his, knowing for a fact that he would have turned his head by now to make eye contact possible. What he saw in that ruby red iris was a reflection of his own feelings, miraculously amplified by a hundred. His heart skipped a beat.
“Hey, Liam,” he murmured weakly, way too emotional for his own good.
A loud thunk indicated the book had fallen to the floor, all but forgotten, when William finally started moving and hastily scooted lower to come to lie next to him, never pulling his hand away in the process. Sherlock had barely managed to turn to his side to face him when William already wound his right arm around him, firm and possessive, and dragged himself close, hooking a leg around Sherlock’s thigh. Only then did he twist his wrist out of Sherlock’s grip, immediately setting his now free hand against his cheek.
“Oh Sherly,” he whispered then, practically against his lips, voice choked and almost reverent. His gaze held Sherlock’s, shining and suspiciously glassy. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed with the sudden change of attitude. It was one thing to hope for a little attention, but another to be so suddenly confronted with the primal force of William’s full affection.
Before he had the chance to somewhat compose himself, William’s eager mouth found his, and all thought was forgotten. William’s lips were cool and soft, and moved against his own with much more hunger and enthusiasm than should have been expected considering he had only just been engrossed in an academic book (or acted like he was?). The hand now tangling in his hair and pressing against his scalp was only a marginal sensation compared to the assault taking place on his lips. William licked and nibbled and sucked them, somehow all at once, as if he couldn’t do it all fast enough, as if he had been starved of Sherlock’s touch for centuries. Just when Sherlock was beginning to adapt, finally trying to give something back, William was moving on again, mercilessly invading Sherlock’s mouth and intertwining their tongues until Sherlock was dizzy with lack of air, gasping into William’s mouth almost desperately, and part of him suspected it was only because William noticed that he eventually pulled away.
Sherlock was positive he looked as love-struck as a teenager after his first kiss when their eyes made contact again. His whole body felt like goo, soft and malleable and entirely William’s to mold however he pleased.
“Whoa,” was all Sherlock managed, unsuccessfully trying to calm down his erratic breathing and wildly beating heart. How William was able to just stare back at him with that dark yet adoring gaze of his, seemingly without needing to breathe at all, was beyond him.
Apparently, William was waiting for him to catch his breath, because he didn’t do anything but watch him patiently while his pants gradually grew slower and deeper.
“And here I thought you’d get mad if I tried to distract you from that oh-so-amazing book,” Sherlock eventually mumbled after what felt like an eternity under William’s gaze.
“Maybe I was waiting for you to take the initiative?” William mused, wearing a smirk not unlike the one on that train all those years ago—“Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes”—a moment that had etched itself into Sherlock’s brain for eternity. There was no telling whether he was being serious or not. Sherlock felt the corners of his own lips lift. Being with William James Moriarty had never once stopped being a thrill, no matter how sweet and domestic—for the most part, anyway—their relationship had grown over the years.
“If that’s the case…” Sherlock murmured, caressing William’s hand on his cheek and finally putting his free hand to use by setting it against his back. “I wish I had done it sooner. Such a waste of time.”
This time, it was he that put his all into the kiss, but unlike him William didn’t fail to reciprocate. When Sherlock pulled him flush against himself by the small of his back and the back of his neck, he tangled his hands even deeper in his hair, and his open mouth was already waiting for Sherlock’s, impatient. Soon enough, their bodies were so entangled their limbs were hard to tell apart, rolling around on the mattress in what might have seemed like a fight for dominance if it hadn’t been for the passionate moans and unmistakable sounds of clashing and parting lips.
William’s hair was a mess, his cheeks bright red and his lips wet and swollen when he eventually pinned Sherlock beneath himself, both wrists in a firm grip but only a hint of victory mixed into the sparkling, adoring gaze he regarded him with. If undressing someone with one's eyes had a look, this was it.
“I was just joking,” he admitted then. “The book really is excellent; I could not see myself shifting my attention off of it today. Clearly I was mistaken. Either way, I promise I was not neglecting you on purpose, my dear.”
Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, like a fish on land. One would think he would have learned to know when William was mocking him by now. It had been more than ten years. But he still could only guess. How lucky for him that it had never once bothered him.
“Shall we make up for it now, then?” he suggested with a wink.
William leaned down to kiss him, lingering and sweet. Barely breaking the contact, he said, “We probably shouldn’t, should we?”
He had a point. There was not a lot of time left until they’d have to start getting ready for the dinner, and while their relationship had been anything but a secret among their friends and family for many years now, neither of them was particularly fond of the idea of showing up still shining with afterglow. There were limits to what they were willing to put their people through.
“Tonight then, when we get back?” Sherlock suggested courteously as he pulled his hands free from William’s to cradle his head, pull it down towards his own and kiss him deeply while skillfully untying the strings of his eyepatch and pulling the piece of cloth aside at the same time. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware his actions didn’t match his words, but that didn’t seem important right now.
“Tonight,” William agreed once he had his mouth to himself again, voice low and distant, while he started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt as if that was the only thing his hands knew to do.
Twenty minutes later, William was seated in Sherlock’s lap with his legs crossed behind his back, underpants the only garment still separating them. They were moving against each other in an unmistakable rhythm, arms tightly wound around one another and lips firmly interlocked, when a loud knock at the front door jolted them out of their world consisting only of the two of them.
With a smack, their mouths came apart. William sat back a little, moving his hands from where they had been buried in Sherlock’s hair to his shoulders. A thick trail of saliva was running down his chin. For a moment they just stared at each other in horror.
Then, Sherlock uttered a blunt, somewhat belated “Oh, crap”, and William burst into nearly hysterical laughter. Sherlock couldn’t do anything but join in. He should probably feel remorse for distracting William from his book and leading them to a situation like this, but there was no world in which he could ever regret anything that involved sharing his breath with William.
After squeezing him tightly once more and giving him one last kiss, he reluctantly lifted William off his lap and set him down on the mattress. In a matter of seconds he was already pulling up his pants and accepting the shirt a now giggling William held out to him. (Really, who gave him the right to be this adorable?)
Since they knew pretty much for certain who their visitor was, neither of them saw a point in trying to make Sherlock any more presentable for answering the door. Properly detangling his mane that reached down to his waist now would take a while.
In his haste to make it to the door, Sherlock stepped on the hem of his not quite properly put on pants, and only avoided falling over by bracing himself against the bedroom door’s frame. Closing said door didn't do much to muffle the bright sound of William’s incessant laughter.
The front door opened—of course—to a cheerful Billy wearing a knowing smirk. When his eyes traveled from Sherlock’s face down to his rumpled, unbuttoned shirt, and then up to the absolute mess on top of his head, it was joined by a light blush. Worse than expected, apparently.
“Billy,” Sherlock said, trying to sound neutral, and stepped aside to let him in.
“Good day, Mr. Ponytail! I’m here to pick you and William up,” Billy needlessly informed him while entering the apartment. Voice practically dripping with glee, he added, “I didn’t interrupt anything, now, did I?”
One didn’t have to be a genius to know it was a rhetorical question. Billy knew them far too well. Maybe it should have bothered him, but instead a fond smile made its way onto Sherlock’s lips.
“You’re early and you know it,” he huffed jokingly, tousling Billy’s hair as he passed him by. “Another half an hour would have been much appreciated.”
Billy raised his eyebrows, but visibly bit back the comment he was thinking of initially. “I just wanted to make sure you have enough time to make yourselves… presentable. I don’t reckon you’re planning to go like this?”
Before Sherlock got the chance to reply, the bedroom door opened and out stepped a prim and proper William that looked very much ready to leave for the celebration right this minute. Traitor. Sherlock didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that, not even mentioning his half-dressed state, he looked exactly the way one was expected to look a minute after being interrupted in the middle of a heated makeout session—sparkly eyes, swollen lips and heavily flushed cheeks being the less embarrassing signs.
“William! Happy Birthday!” Billy called merrily, all teasing forgotten, as he started rummaging through the kitchen cabinets on the lookout for leftovers of their breakfast. He knew there would be fruit, and that he was most welcome to treat himself to some.
Crossing the room to enter the bedroom and start getting dressed himself (after some more cooling down that he clearly needed), Sherlock was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Billy might have been a rather unwelcome interruption just now, but having him at their place like this was so reminiscent of New York he was unable to be mad at it. The three of them had grown into their own little family back then, and no matter how many years passed, it seemed this would never change.
He came back a good while later to the domestic sight of William and Billy seated at the dinner table, Billy munching on an orange and William examining a bag of tea Billy must have brought.
“Oh! Mr. Ponytail! With the high ponytail!” Billy exclaimed upon seeing him, but Sherlock cared far more about the expression of delight on William’s face than Billy’s reaction. He had always been somewhat obsessed with Sherlock’s hair—the only reason he had grown it out like this—but this particular hairdo was a special weakness of his. Absolutely worth the pain he would feel in his scalp later from the strain.
“Shall we go, then?” Sherlock said, and Billy practically jumped up from his seat and made a beeline for the door, while William stood more reluctantly, seemingly still entranced by the sight of Sherlock’s ponytail. Sherlock felt himself heat up again under his appreciative gaze.
With his back to them, Billy noisily cleared his throat.
“You know, you are the two smartest people I know, and it’s not even close, but when it comes to each other—you are hopeless.” Then, he turned around again, a fond smile on his lips. “Please never change!”
They looked at Billy, then at each other, a little helpless, before William shrugged his shoulders and quickly pecked Sherlock’s lips.
“Ewww,” Billy commented, though he didn’t even try to stop his grin from widening.
It really was time to go now, and while he was looking forward to seeing everyone, part of Sherlock already fantasized about the way William would pull his ponytail later tonight. If the light dust of pink that had newly appeared on William’s face again was anything to go by, he was no different. Yeah, Billy really knew them well.