Constellations Strung With a Shooting Star | Sherliam

Chapter Seventeen

[updates are such a mess i'm so sorry </3 n i'm going on vacation in just two weeks, so it'll still be like that for a little. but i'll try work on something before i go. tysm again for the support!! even though i don't respond to comments, i read all of them and giggle every time, so tyy <3]

Sherlock had been hoping that he'd be able to return to the flat soundlessly, with both his flatmate and landlady deep in sleep. He doesn't want to discuss how the night went, as while it wasn't horrible or unbearable in the slightest, the way it'd ended left him dissatisfied beyond belief. He doesn't know how much more of William dodging questions he can take.

Though one would typically give up after being given the response that the professor decided to give him, the detective continues to feel tied to his deduction of him being his soulmate. He won't even call it an assumption anymore; he's deducted and sorted out William as much as he can in each respective encounter, and nothing turns him away from his original thought beside Moriarty's answers, above anything else.

Really, if the man hadn't conducted that Sherlock had been specifically asking about his connection to the constellation, then he must not be William James Moriarty. He could even deduce the fact that the ravenet plays the violin when they'd met, so what's stopping him from figuring out damned context clues?

And Sherlock is never wrong. He isn't going to begin believing otherwise; not when the glint of struggling ever so slightly shimmers in William's eyes when the topic drops in between them.

Even so, his responses and answers managed to gradually upset the detective. So much so that he can't bear the thought of speaking about it. He feels so endlessly disappointed that in the past three encounters with the blond, he's still winded up without a clear and confirming answer. An answer that he restlessly hopes is a yes.

Holmes quietly enters the flat, shutting the door behind him with a gentle push. He shrugs the various layers of clothing off of his person as he walks up the stairs to the sitting room, utterly and completely tired of them. He's almost glad that he wasn't born as a noble like William; the copious amounts of layers are an aspect that he'll never wrap his head around.

Not a single light goes to dimly bright up any part of the hallway, but as he steps into the sitting room, he's misfortunately met with a softly lit room with a patient and reading Watson sitting silently at the sofa. The doctor's head turns as soon as the door is opened, his almond eyes lighting up and sparking like a match.

"Sherlock! You're back, at last!" He greets, folding his book and setting it off to the side. He stands, striding over to the detective to get a better look at him. "How did it go? You seem a bit..." He pauses, expression shifting to one of slight dismay. "Disgruntled."

"Hm. I wonder. I come back looking 'disgruntled'. How could it possibly have gone?" Sherlock quips sarcastically, brushing past John within an instant. The other man's eyes widen, rather taken aback by the unexpected burst of irritation. Sherlock immediately feels a bit sorry, but that apologeticness is temporarily overridden.

John swallows densely, slowly and gingerly following after the ravenet. "How bad was it? Do you want to talk about it?" He asks cautiously, words and tone careful and steady. And Sherlock at least manages to show some restraint, understanding that John only wishes to help. He's a doctor; not a psychological one, but nevertheless, still a doctor.

"Fine," the detective grumbles beneath his breath, turning back to face Watson with slight reluctance. "It wasn't bad, or anythin' like that. Other than his brother practically shootin' daggers at me with his eyes, the dinner itself was what I wanted it to be." He huffs out a wavered breath. "It only frustrates me that I can't get a damn straight answer."