Sherliam Oneshots

I Still Love You

Summary: William wakes up in America, not knowing how he ended up here.

(Based on this post: https://www.tumblr.com/fallingyams/724985818553483264 by fallingyams)

When William woke up, he felt like he’d fallen off the London Bridge face first. His entire body ached and had sunk deep into the mattress below him. Though it felt like his every muscle was against it, William forced himself into the waking world.

As if sewn shut by a deep sleep, his left eye refused to open. With his hand, he touched the eyelid but only felt scar tissue. Softer and.. rawer, than usual…

His mind, usually always frighteningly clear and fast working, felt dulled and eager to rest again. His head was heavy, and so were his muscles. Still, the strange sensations and dullness set into motion a system of underlying panic in his body as he strained his single eye to adjust to the room's light.

Even without both of his eyes, he could easily tell he was in a hospital.

The bed he sat upon was old and rickety. Each time he moved, it creaked and the texture of the blanket he was under was scratchy. The white wallpaper was starting to peel off the walls and the ceiling was full of cracks.

Next to his bed was a closed window, which sunlight shone through; when he looked out, he didn't recognise the city’s buildings. It wasn't London or Durham, nor any other city he was familiar with. He felt himself growing uneasy and restless…

But then, the left side of the bed shifted in weight and William turned his head. There he saw none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. He was sat on a chair, and the upper half of his body collapsed and stretched across the bed, almost reaching toward William. He rested his head on his crossed arms.

Finally, panic broke out like a deadly throat puncture, exploding out of him all at once.

The last thing William remembered was the incident that happened back at Milverton's villa.

His heart rate began to pick up, and he unconsciously straightened his back, clutching the sheets.

Was that why Holmes was here? To arrest him? He couldn't let that happen. Not yet. The Moriarty plan was far from being finished.

William needed to escape and he needed to find out where he was. If he can just get back to the London estate, he can articulate his thoughts properly.

But how?

He couldn’t just get up and leave, chances were that there were bobbies outside, and he couldn’t risk waking Sherlock either. If Sherlock were to wake up, there’s no doubt he’d interrogate William and lock him up, limiting his chances of escape.

He couldn’t escape through the window; he’d have to survive a three-story fall.

Maybe he could-

Sherlock shifted again and turned his head to look at William. The bags under his eyes were a deep purple and his skin looked paler than usual. He slowly opened his eyes.

“Yer awake,” he said drowsily and stretched out one of his arms to gently caress William’s calf “M’ glad.”

Like this, Sherlock looked like a beautiful, depressed and melancholic painting. He looked like that to William most times.

Sherlock’s hair had gotten significantly longer, William realised. It surely hadn’t been that long since he last saw Sherlock.

Sherlock’s head drooped and he fell right back asleep.

William was stunned, to say the least.

Perhaps this was all a dream. A cruel and tempting echo of all the things he could not have, and tried to keep hidden from everyone around him, and above all, from himself.