If there is anything a winter in New York City has taught William, is that walking around in the apartment is impossible without layers upon layers of clothes and a blanket wrapped around himself.
Even though he is used to being relatively cold, this has proven to be almost unbearable without sitting by the fireplace every day with a cup of hot tea or coffee to warm him up.
Mycroft Holmes's efforts had gotten them out of Britain only a week after William had agreed to Sherlock's idea. The beginning of the year caught them in Montpellier, before they moved on to Meiringen with the arrival of spring, where they spent the better part of the year. They arrived in New York right when winter began to creep up on the world.
And now, almost two years after leaving London and his old life behind, Sherlock Holmes, light of his life and favourite source of warmth, is missing for the month. With many apologies and promises to make it up to him for dragging him out in such cold weather, infamous outlaw Billy the Kid and current sort-of employer, has managed to whisk him away on a mission, leaving William to bore himself to death in this small Brooklyn apartment.
Socked feet pad across the wooden living room flooring as William walks in the kitchen to pour himself another cup of Earl Grey. He remembers clearly how hard it had been to find good tea at an affordable price, and a wave of affection and gratitude washes over him at the thought of how much Sherlock had worked to get him this small thing.
He had learned fairly quickly that the detective lives off of coffee instead of tea, and William had taken a liking to drinking it as well, despite how, at first, due to the little money they had and the need to prioritise buying certain things over others, Sherlock had made the coffee using a linen handkerchief.
But then the detective had come home one afternoon bearing coffee filters and all of William's favourite tea, and William hadn't been able to stop the tear that dropped down his cheek in time.
They had bought curtains. Every piece of cutlery needed. When William had finally decided to join Sherlock at the agency he was working at, besides the job he got at an university, the salary had increased, and therefore so did the goods. Finer clothes for special occasions. More books to read and more expensive spices for tastier food—although Sherlock didn't really need them. Everything William has tasted so far has been divine.
He walks over to the bookcase and picks up a random book. Great Expectations.
The red leather cover and gilded letters of the Shakespeare collection Sherlock had gifted him what seems like an eternity ago glints in the sun as he turns towards his favourite armchair. The window next to him offers him a perfect view of the street below him and the setting sun over the sometimes-still-foreign skyline.
He sets the cup of tea down on the low table and pulls his feet under him to warm them, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. Christ, he misses clinging to Sherlock and basking in his warmth. He still can't understand how that man manages to stay so warm all the time.
He sighs as he opens his book. It's alright. Three more days of waiting won't kill him.
He's endured far worse, after all.
He doesn't remember falling asleep.
The feeling of the book being pulled away from his grasp is the first thing he registers. The feeling of calloused fingers caressing his cheek comes next.
YOU ARE READING
I never loved myself like I love you
Fanfiction"He deserves effortless, pure love," William utters quietly. It seems even the rain has subsided in order to listen to his whispered confession. "But I cannot shroud his world in light, when mine is so thoroughly shrouded in darkness. My candle's fl...
