Something Selfish

by alternatime

Summary:

“You do have the instincts of a fighter, after all.”

William didn’t let it show, but that did take him by surprise—he thought he’d been doing a pretty decent job concealing that particular side of him.

“Oh, do I give it away that easily?” he responded without missing a beat. “My self-defense tutor would be disappointed—my brothers insisted we hire him after I was kidnapped some time ago. He always said the element of surprise was to be my best weapon.”

Sherlock smirked, probably seeing right through him.

“Clever man,” he conceded, but William knew he wasn’t talking about his “tutor”. He was forced to suppress yet another smile. Damn you, Holmes.

We didn't have enough sherliam interactions in canon that were just "I know you know I know you know, but I have to pretend that I don't know" so I'm here to add some more (this fic is pretty much just a love letter to the catch me if you can scene). But also, Milverton is going down—the same way but also differently.

What if Sherlock figured out what William's planning just a little earlier?

Notes:

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a short drabble that should work as a prologue for this fic, so you can start there if you want (it's the "catch me if you can" scene from William's pov). This story takes place after the Jack the Ripper arc.

Chapter 1: William

The dead body was rather inconvenient.

Not to say William was a stranger to dealing with dead bodies. More often than not, he even found ways to make use of them in his plans. But this time…

The police barged into the room, weapons drawn and voices loud, so William slowly raised his bloodstained hands in the air and turned around to face the man in charge.

“You’re under—” inspector Lestrade interrupted himself with a gasp. “Professor Moriarty?”

William tilted his head forward in greeting, his arms still raised.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, inspector Lestrade.” He offered the man a cordial smile. “Though I wish it could have happened under more fortunate circumstances. It seems I find myself in quite the predicament.”

From what he could see of the officers that now surrounded him, his calm demeanor seemed to throw them off—Lestrade’s mouth was quite literally hanging open. William couldn’t deny that part of him always had a little fun when that happened.

“You…” the inspector started, and then seemed to shake himself out of a stupor. “Mr. Moriarty, you are under arrest for the murder of Warner Robinson.”

“I understand.” William offered his wrists to the nearest officer. “Although I must warn you, I did not kill that man.”

“The blood on your hands begs to differ,” said the man who cuffed him not-so-gently. “It’s even in your sleeves.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find soon enough that all the evidence in this room points to me being the killer, yes. Though there are a couple of contradictory details, for the keener eye.” With these words, Moriarty fixed his gaze on the inspector once again. “I think it might be prudent to contact our mutual friend for this one, inspector Lestrade. I could point out the incongruences myself, but I wager his word would carry much more weight in this situation, yes?”

Lestrade didn’t say anything, only brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and the officer who restrained William pushed him towards the door.

“Wait,” Lestrade said. He eyed William cautiously, probably remembering their last encounter—and the fact that William was not your regular noble. Then, with a sigh, he pointed at an officer to his right: “You. Go get me Sherlock Holmes.”

Notes:

Hi, everyone! I'm kind of new to this fandom and English isn't my first language so I'm a little nervous about this one. This just might be the most challenging thing I've proposed myself to write yet lol, so any feedback at all would be really appreciated. Welcome to this fic and I hope you'll enjoy it :)

Chapter 2: William

“Liam! Got yourself arrested, did you?”

William could hear the grin in the detective’s voice even before turning his head. Seeing his expression only confirmed it: the man looked delighted. William knew better than to take it as enthusiasm over his own demise, of course.

With his chains clinking as he moved, he raised his cuffed hands to greet Sherlock with a small wave.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.” William offered him his first genuine smile of the evening. Sherlock was about to reply when another, more somber greeting interrupted him.

“Evening, Holmes,” said Lestrade. Then, turning to the blond man who had just crossed the threshold, he added: “Dr. Watson.”

“Good evening, inspector, Mr. Moriarty,” Watson acknowledged each with a polite nod, but Holmes didn’t bother saying anything—William didn’t miss the way his eyes were already scanning the room, cataloguing every detail.

“Listen, Holmes, normally I wouldn’t ask for your assistance in a case like this, considering that it pretty much closes itself, but—”

“Oh, does it?” Sherlock smirked condescendingly at Lestrade and moved towards the office chair where the body lay, leaning forward to examine it. William had a million and one thoughts running through his mind, but he’d learned he could always find room to admire what Sherlock was like in his element. He’d followed his eyes during his assessment of the room, and the detective’s gaze had been drawn to most of the same elements that had caught William’s attention earlier. Sherlock had also taken a moment to eye each of the officers’ shoes, probably so he could rule them out while searching for footprints—though William wagered he’d done so more out of habit than anything else, since the floor was uncarpeted and didn’t show any foot marks.

“Well,” Sherlock carried on, checking under the dead man’s nails. “I suppose that for a simpler mind, the blood on this man’s stomach and the blood on Liam’s hands should be enough for a conviction.” After checking the man’s pockets and then sniffing the air around him, Sherlock finally looked satisfied. He turned around and surveyed the paperwork scattered across the work desk before the victim, not touching anything. Then he threw another jab at Lestrade. “If we follow that logic, then you should probably send someone to check on the butcher two blocks down—I’m sure you’ll find blood staining his apron as well. Will the Scotland Yard arrest that man too, I wonder?”

Lestrade didn’t bat an eye at his rudeness—probably used to it—, and Moriarty idly wondered if in another life, in which social status didn’t keep him and Sherlock from having a closer friendship, he would have berated him for his impolite remarks.

“Sherlock!” Watson hissed, and William suppressed a chuckle. I wouldn’t have to, he thought to himself.

“What?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, coming back towards them. “Liam didn’t do it.”

“I figured it wouldn’t be that simple. That’s why I had you brought here.” Lestrade sighed. “Holmes, I’ve always thought that, heavens forbid, should you ever commit a crime, it would be nearly impossible to catch you.” A mischievous twinkle appeared in Sherlock’s eyes at the inspector’s surprisingly enlightened remark, and William didn’t even hold back his own chuckle this time. “With all due respect, Mr. Moriarty,” Lestrade continued, turning to him, “but after that unsavory business on the train, I’ve come to believe that you possess an intellect that rivals Sherlock’s own.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to chuckle—or rather, cackle. He seemed amused beyond himself.

“So there is hope for you, after all, Lestrade!” he grinned. “That’s right, Liam’s too smart to let himself get caught red-handed like this. Quite literally, I might add.” He winked at him, and William just knew he was hinting at his tendency for evading him in his… extracurricular activities. Just like in the train, William found himself having fun with the veiled exchange. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you apologized to Liam for comparing him to me,” he narrowed his eyes at the now sheepish-looking inspector.

William chuckled again.

“I must admit, though I’d never dream of doing anything this atrocious—” Moriarty didn’t dare look at Holmes as he said this—", I do believe myself capable of better planning.” He gave the inspector a tight-lipped smile, and Sherlock laughed again.

“I’d picture you as more of a criminal mastermind, if that were the case.” That twinkle was back in Sherlock’s eyes. “Y’know, working from the shadows, calling the shots but avoiding direct interference...”

William had to admit that it was a struggle not to do anything to indulge Sherlock’s hints at his alter ego—again.

“Though that’s not to say you wouldn’t be physically apt for it,” the detective carried on, perusing William head to toe with clever eyes. “You do have the instincts of a fighter, after all.”

William didn’t let it show, but that did take him by surprise—he thought he’d been doing a pretty decent job concealing that particular side of him. Still, denying what was apparently clear for the detective would only raise suspicion, so William raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, do I give it away that easily?” he responded without missing a beat. “My self-defense tutor would be disappointed—my brothers insisted we hire him after I was kidnapped some time ago. He always said the element of surprise was to be my best weapon.”

Sherlock smirked, probably seeing right through him.

“Clever man,” he conceded, but William knew he wasn’t talking about his “tutor”. He was forced to suppress yet another smile. Damn you, Holmes.

“Well,” Holmes carried on, “before I check anything else, I was really hoping I could take a look at that letter, Lestrade.”

Ah, of course. That was why the Scotland Yard had barged in there so readily, after all—they’d been tipped off. Lestrade had already read the letter to William while they waited for Holmes's arrival, but William was curious to see how the detective would react.

The inspector wordlessly pulled the letter out of his coat pocket and handed it to Holmes, who eyed the blank envelope carefully.

“No stamp, no address. I take it you don’t have the person who delivered it in custody?”

“It was a homeless guy. We didn’t have time to deal with him, considering the urgency of what was said in the letter.”

A familiar grin spread on the detective’s face as he read it. He openly laughed as he got to the end, passing the letter over to his friend.

“Hey, John, take a look at this!”

Sherlock kept laughing while the doctor’s eyes widened as he read the letter. He whispered the last sentence out loud:

“The Lord of Crime is coming to kill me.” He looked at William, flabbergasted.

“C’mon, Watson, don’t tell me you’re just as gullible as the Scotland Yard!” The detective leaned over his friend’s shoulder, skimming the message again. “I’ve been teaching you how to look for meaning behind a person’s handwriting, haven’t I? What does this letter really tell us?”

Moriarty wished he could examine it himself, but he knew Holmes wouldn’t miss anything. And even Watson appeared to be learning from the detective:

“Well, the letters are uneven and there are blotches of ink everywhere…” he narrowed his eyes in concentration. “His hands were shaking when he wrote this, but that’s to be expected, considering what was written.”

Sherlock nodded encouragingly.

“How about the force?” Holmes pointed at something. “He almost tore the paper at that letter L.”

“The force means… anger?” Watson looked at Holmes for confirmation. “That doesn’t tell us much, does it?”

“You’re getting there, Watson,” Sherlock chuckled. “But no, a text written in rage would have a much more consistent form, while the force applied to this surface varies a lot. See here? It’s like his pen barely touched the paper. Add that to the way too shaky letters and what you have is a man who is terrified for his life.” He smirked as he said the next words. “Almost as if the threat was already in the room with him.”

William finally spoke again, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“I’m afraid that last bit sounds like a stretch; no self-respecting judge would pardon me based on how shaky the victim’s handwriting was. There’s more to the letter, isn’t there?”

Sherlock grinned.

“Sharp as ever, Liam! Yes, that’s pure conjecture on my part—though I usually tend to be right about these things. But what’s really interesting here are the blotches of ink. See the smudges all over the paper, Watson? The ink was still fresh when the letter was sealed. And if you’ll look at Lestrade’s right thumb, it carries a slight stain of ink as well—I bet we could match this fingerprint right here to Lestrade’s own. The station isn’t that far away from here, is it?” He smirked. “This letter was written minutes before it got to your hands, Inspector. There was no time for the ink to dry off.”

Turning to William, Sherlock added: “You’ve been awfully quiet today, Liam. Care to finish the thought for me?”

William smiled back. He’d opted to keep his thoughts to himself so that no one could accuse him of bringing bias into the investigation, but the blatant invite was hard to resist.

“Well, Mr. Robinson died right before my eyes. I was trying to apply pressure to the wound; it’s why my hands are covered in blood. I must admit that my medical knowledge is rather limited, but I’m willing to guess that a wound like this… I probably just missed the killer when I got here.” William purposefully let his gaze move to the window, disguising his hint as absent-mindedness. He knew Sherlock was more than capable of reaching the right conclusions on his own, but he was still expected to display some level of intelligence as well. “If this man was still alive when that letter was written, and considering the time it took the Scotland Yard to arrive after that, then it’s probably safe to assume the killer was already in the room when Mr. Robinson wrote it,” he concluded.

Sherlock offered him a grin of approval, turning to the other two men, who looked awed:

“Precisely.”

“You’d need to be more than merely incompetent to wait around as your victim writes and sends a letter to the police right in front of you,” Watson nodded slowly. Then he grinned, excitedly telling Lestrade: “That’s great news! It means Mr. Moriarty is innocent!”

William couldn’t help but feel touched by the doctor’s joy. He really was a good man.

“Thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Holmes,” William smiled at the detective. He knew the police might not have listened to him due to all the evidence stacked against him, but they wouldn’t dismiss Holmes’s word.

Just as Moriarty was about to ask Lestrade to uncuff him, an officer came into the room and whispered something in the inspector’s ear that made his expression darken once more. He looked up and William knew that this wasn’t over.

“Mr. Moriarty,” he started, “it seems we’ll be forced to take you under arrest nonetheless.” William had figured as much from his body language. “Officer Thorpe just finished speaking to the neighbors, and several were under the impression that they saw a man matching your description in a heated argument with the victim just this morning.”

Oh, that was curious indeed, considering he’d never met the man before this evening. And then came the final nail in the coffin:

“You were also spotted walking into the building half an hour before we received the letter, which invalidates the argument you and Holmes just made.”

“Ha!” Holmes exclaimed, excited. “Not that simple after all, then.”

Lestrade motioned to the officer who’d given him the news: “Please escort Mr. Moriarty to the station.”

As he was led outside, William idly wondered if he ought to feel worried; instead, all he felt was that peculiar fondness over Sherlock’s delight at the prospect of a good mystery to solve.

Chapter 3: Sherlock

Sherlock was whistling when he arrived at the police station, two days later. The officers at the front desk let him in without a word, already used to his comings and goings. Walking up to Lestrade’s desk, Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket.

“Evening, Lestrade. Got a suspect for you.”

Lestrade blinked twice, his eyes struggling to focus on the piece of paper being dangled in front of his face.

“For the Robinson case?” He sounded surprised. It took Sherlock great effort not to roll his eyes—Watson would be proud. “Look, Holmes, I understand the feeling of not wanting to give up on your friend, but Mr. Moriarty lied to our faces about the time he arrived at the scene—”

“And then he forced Robinson to write a letter inviting the police in and couldn’t even be bothered to flee the scene in time, is that what you’re saying?”

Lestrade stuttered, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

“Look, I know there’s more to it, but we had no choice—"

“And do tell, how do you explain the books?”

After they’d taken Liam away that night, the detective had finally taken the time to be thorough—he’d already hoped to do so away from Liam’s clever eyes, in case Sherlock took notice of anything interesting.

The letter to the police had been a joy to read. In it, “Robinson” claimed to be too scared to step outside because the Lord of Crime was watching him—he’d allegedly found out his real identity and taken the evidence to an officer, who had then been found dead. He said the Lord of Crime was coming for him next on that very night.

And then his dead body was found in the presence of one William James Moriarty.

Now, Sherlock knew it in his bones that Liam was the Lord of Crime, but he also knew with the same certainty that he had not killed Warner Robinson. All evidence aside, it wasn’t even his style. And just like he’d told Lestrade, Liam was far too smart to get caught so easily with nothing to gain from it—his plans were far too elaborate to end in a place like this.

As it turned out, inspecting the office told Sherlock several interesting things.

First, that Liam’s name had been scribbled on Robinson’s planner, which was… convenient. That could work both for and against William’s defense, since it gave him a reason to be there—an actual appointment, scheduled for 7pm—but also gave the victim a reason for warning the officers in his letter that he would be murdered tonight.

Second, a grappling hook had definitely been attached to the windowsill at some point. Sherlock had a few extra thoughts about the window but kept them to himself; what mattered was that the markings contradicted the narrative: if William was spotted walking through the front door half an hour before the murder and never left, then what need was there for a grappling hook? And where was it?

And third…

“Hey, Watson, care to check that cabinet for me?” Sherlock asked as he stood up from his crouching position, moving to shuffle through the drawers on the work desk. “See if you can find any alcohol.”

Watson raised an eyebrow but did as he was asked, just as Sherlock found what he’d been looking for. He took it in his hand and went back the way he’d come.

“I’m trusting that you have a reason behind this request other than raiding a dead accountant’s liquor stash?” Watson asked.

Even though Sherlock now had his back to Watson as he crouched before Robinson’s safe again, he smirked.

“I do have my reasons, but one can always multitask.”

Watson harrumphed.

“Well, too bad for you: there isn’t a drop of liquor here.”

Sherlock grinned at that information, turning the key he’d found in the drawer to open the safe.

“That’s fantastic news, then!”

Watson moved to crouch beside Sherlock, eyeing all the money inside.

“How is it fantastic? And why do you look so happy to rule out robbery? Wouldn’t it have helped Mr. Moriarty’s defense if that were the case?”

Sherlock looked at him sideways, still grinning.

“On the contrary: we have just proved that there was, in fact, a robbery.”

“What?!”

“Look here.” Sherlock moved the safe door to show Watson the keyhole. “You too, Lestrade!” he called.

The inspector came closer and leaned forward.

“What am I looking at?”

“See the scratches on the metal? You only see that in objects belonging to alcoholics or people with really poor vision. I don’t see any glasses laying around, so I’m assuming Mr. Robinson had perfect eyesight, given his occupation. And what kind of alcoholic doesn’t keep a single liquor bottle hidden in his office? I’d already checked everywhere else, there is none to be found. No, these scratches are very recent, and Mr. Robinson failed to easily open his safe because of how much he was shaking. I wager he did it at knifepoint—just like when he wrote that letter.”

“But the money’s all there,” Lestrade protested.

“And yet the upper shelf, which is easier to reach and therefore should be packed, is empty.”

“So maybe Robinson emptied it recently? He could have bought something expensive.”

“That could be the case,” Sherlock said with a grunt as he stood up, “if there weren’t something so blatantly absent from this office.”

Both men looked at Sherlock with questioning looks, and the detective sighed.

“The books,” he said, exasperated. “The ledgers! The man was an accountant—a good one, from the looks of the paperwork I saw on his desk, and this office alone tells us he attends a very wealthy clientele. So where are his ledgers?!”

Lestrade finally widened his eyes.

“My God, you’re right!”

“You didn’t happen to find an armful of books when you searched Liam’s belongings earlier, did you?” Sherlock couldn’t help but ask, sarcastically. Then a thought occurred to him. Shit. “Say, did you already have them taken away?”

“The… books?” Lestrade looked lost.

“Liam’s belongings!” Honestly, how could Watson expect him not to act impatient when people kept asking questions like this?

Lestrade pointed him to an officer by the door and Sherlock eagerly went to check out what Liam had brought into the room with him.

It wasn’t much, as it turned out: a wallet, a small notebook full of equations, a handkerchief (now stained with blood) and his cane. He took the items to the desk with him and examined each one carefully.

Sherlock had already dismissed the wallet and the notebook when something in the handkerchief made him pause. There, in the smudges of blood, there were the faintest traces of a pattern he thought he recognized. A split-second deduction left Sherlock grinning.

“Caught you,” he breathed out in triumph, and then reached for the cane.

---

“Lestrade,” Sherlock now said calmly, still patiently dangling the paper in front of the inspector’s face, who finally snatched it with an annoyed frown. “I’m giving you a suspect, so now all you have to do is go find him and you’ll see that the case is pretty much closed. While you do that, I’d like to have a word with Liam.”

“I don’t—” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I know better than to ignore any suspects you throw my way. Do I at least get an explanation?”

Sherlock laughed as he walked away.

“Trust me, you won’t need one,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be waiting for Liam in Interrogation Room 3.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Chapter 4: William

“Y’know, Liam,” Sherlock’s smile greeted him as he walked into the interrogation room, the door getting locked up behind him, “can you imagine how funny it would be if you really were the Lord of Crime and the thing that finally got you convicted was the one crime you didn’t commit?”

William did his very best to conceal his own mirth as he sat down across from Sherlock. He was, indeed, very aware of the irony.

Though he’d never tell Louis, he’d also had fun when he and Albert came to visit yesterday. William had struggled not to laugh when Louis had asked, in hushed tones, why he had gone out that night to kill someone without telling him—and without any backup.  

“He didn’t go there to kill him,” Albert had answered for him, also being careful not to speak too loudly. His influence had been enough to guarantee them a few minutes of privacy as they talked through the cell bars. “Patterson told me a few days ago that a colleague of his, one officer Hawthorne, was bragging about a witness that would build him ‘the case of his career’. It was intel on a higher-shot, so I told William as much."

"Patterson had no trouble at all getting Harwthorne to spill that the witness was Mr. Robinson, which was concerning," William added, and Albert nodded.

"We were already planning to keep tabs on that case, but then that same officer showed up dead yesterday, so William went to check on the witness, just in case.”

“But how did you get caught?” Louis asked. “You know better than to stick around a crime scene.”

“He was still alive.” William could feel the amusement leaving his voice. “He kept trying to tell me something, and I knew it was too late to save him, but I just couldn’t leave him alone to die.”

“And then the police came in,” Albert finished the story for him, and William nodded.

“So it was a trap?” asked Louis.

“Yes and no. It was a frame-up, for sure, and we already know who’s behind it, but my name on the planner and the witness statements were already enough to point the police in my direction. No,” he chuckled, “I think me being there was just an unfortunate coincidence.”

Recalling that conversation now, alone in a room with Sherlock Holmes for the first time, William decided it was fine to indulge in some harmless fun.

“As they say," he replied, simply, "timing’s a bitch.”

His words caught Sherlock so off-guard that he burst into startled laughter. William idly wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t be feeling as proud of this small feat as he did.

“I told you on the train we would get along greatly,” Sherlock grinned, and William was once again overtaken by that same fondness, like they’d been friends for years rather than… well, barely a handful of interactions, really.

“And I’m once again glad you liked my joke,” William smiled lightly, and Sherlock looked at him with those clever eyes of his.

“So,” Sherlock started, “I just handed over to Lestrade the name and address of the murderer. Any guesses?”

The speed at which Sherlock had apparently solved the mystery was impressive, although not surprising. William had already warned his brothers yesterday not to get involved in this case, since there was no point in risking calling Sherlock’s attention to their methods if he was bound to solve this on his own, anyway—if only for the sake of the mystery. It had been hard to convince Louis, but he’d eventually agreed to sit this one out.

Now proven correct, William smiled and leaned his forearms on the table, the chains in his cuffs clinking lightly against each other.

“I wouldn’t prize myself as an academic if I were prone to making guesses without data, detective.”

Said detective grinned.

“Fair enough.” His eyes were twinkling again. “Then shall I give you the data and see what you’ve got?”

Or you could just tell me, was what any sane person would say, but… they were the only two people in the room, and Sherlock was far from being one to worry about propriety—a notion that had been solidified after Holmes’s delighted reaction to William’s light provoking, that day in the train. So, Moriarty once again decided that it was okay to indulge, a little.

“All right, then.” He offered the detective a smile, small but genuine, wondering if perhaps his “indulgences” had been getting more frequent around him.

“Then here are the facts: you were seen—and heard— having a screaming match with Warner Robinson through his office window at 9am, on the day of the murder. Several witnesses confirmed it.”

“I was quietly studying at home at the time.” Partial lie. He’d been quietly studying the layout of the street that housed one Adam Whiteley, to figure out where to best position his men, just in case. He’d decided they could buy the house across the street—through indirect channels, of course—to make sure it was empty, should they eventually need it for a stakeout. “But carry on.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Right, right. You were also seen walking into his office at around 6:20pm. The letter was delivered at the station at 6:50, and you were found with the body at 7. May I ask what you were doing there?”

“Well, my brothers and I have been going on and on about hiring someone to handle our finances for ages now, but we never got around to doing it. We’re very self-sufficient, in a way.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with something, his eyes not once leaving William’s face.

“I’m sure,” he muttered, and William decided it was wise to ignore it.

 “Then recently, someone referred Albert to Mr. Robinson, so my brother asked me to set an appointment, which I did.”

“At seven o’clock, two nights ago,” Sherlock nodded, one of the corners of his mouth slightly raised. “And I’m sure you didn’t happen to see your name on the planner that was very blatantly left open on Robinson’s desk?”

William narrowed his eyes at the challenge. Denial wouldn’t work here.

“I wouldn’t be able to call myself observant if I didn’t.”

And, great, Sherlock was grinning again. He leaned forward on the table.

“Tell me something, Liam,” he started, after studying his face for a few moments. “Did you kill Warner Robinson?”

“I should be offended that you even have to ask.” William’s frown was almost genuine, though for a different reason. What was Holmes’s angle?

“Just…” Sherlock made a vague gesture with his hand. “Humor me.”

William sighed, but looked Sherlock straight in the eyes and enunciated:

“No, I did not kill Warner Robinson.”

“Great!” Sherlock didn’t miss a beat: “Are you the Lord of Crime?”

William only stared at the detective, for a moment, taking great care in keeping his face unreadable. But then he felt a twitch in the corner of his mouth and, suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore: he burst out laughing.

“You—” William couldn’t finish the sentence, which surprised him. He could not remember the last time he’d let himself laugh so openly.

Why was it always Holmes?

Speak of the devil, the detective looked… dumbfounded? He was smiling, but his eyes were wide. William could have sworn he saw a flash of something in them, but he chased the thought away.

“I—” William cleared his throat. “What’s the point in asking me that? No self-respecting Lord of Crime would say yes to that question.”

Sherlock leaned his chin on his fisted hand, that smile never leaving his face, and said, again:

“Just humor me, will ya?”

William took a deep breath to collect himself for good and leaned forward on the table as well, mimicking Sherlock’s stance. There was only one answer he could give him:

“No,” he said slowly, not shying away from Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. “I am not the Lord of Crime.” If he leaned any closer, he’d be able to count the detective’s eyelashes. Or perhaps he already could? “Now you answer my question. What’s the point behind this little charade?”

Sherlock smirked, which, for a fraction of a second, caused William’s attention to be diverted from his lashes to his lips. Perhaps his face was just a little too close?

“Well—” was it just his impression or did Holmes’s voice sound lower now?—“I needed a baseline for what you look like when you’re lying.”

Moriarty blinked, his brain needing an extra second to catch up, for once. And then he let out a mirthful huff, shaking his head and crossing his arms as he leaned back on his chair again.

“That’s enough, Sherlock.” The detective’s grin somehow widened. “I was promised the clues to solve a crime I didn’t commit and, so far, you haven’t given me any new information.”

Holmes cleared his throat, also leaning away from the table.

“Right, sorry ‘bout that. Maybe I should just tell you how I went about it.” He leaned an elbow on the chair seat behind him. “First thing you need to know, and that also works in your favor: Robinson’s ledgers were gone. All of them. Someone cleared his safe but left the money.”

“That does seem to work in my favor, yes.” William smiled, but what he really wished to do was frown. So the evidence that was part of the reason he’d decided to pay a visit to Robinson’s office in the first place was all gone. He wasn’t surprised, but that was an unfortunate confirmation to his suspicions.

“Yesterday morning, Watson and I went to talk to the witnesses on our own. They all described a man that was… well, you. Three-piece suit, same build, same blond hair, haircut, hat…”

“Those can be faked.”

“Yes, indeed. And funnily enough, no one got close enough to take a good look at your face or make out the actual words that were uttered in the fight.”

One of the corners of Moriarty’s lips lifted in a wry smile.

“How convenient. Almost as if it was deliberate.”

“Well,” Sherlock added mischievously, “too bad ‘you’ miscalculated. There is one worker whose shift leads him to that very street every morning at roughly 9am: the mailman. It’s why I chose to go see the witnesses in the morning—thought I could catch him,” he smirked. “Which I did. And what do you know, he did hear something. More specifically, he heard Robinson yell from the upstairs window: ‘Sounds to me like you lost your clients all by yourself!’ just as ‘you’ stormed out of the building. You really should have watched where you were going, Liam. You ran straight into the poor mailman—almost knocked him over. He still remembers the startled look in those wide, blue eyes of yours…”

Moriarty couldn’t stop himself from mimicking the detective’s sarcastic smile.

“You wouldn’t happen to be colorblind, would you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am not. And considering that the mailman described the man’s suit as reddish, just like every other witness from that morning, I’m willing to bet that he isn’t, either.”

“Very well. So it seems I have a doppelganger with the same taste in suits and a convenient hat making it hard to see his face from afar.”

“The word ‘convenient’ seems to be popping up a lot lately.”

Ironic, considering the first word that came to mind when I found myself alone with a dead body was “inconvenient”.

William shrugged.

“It’s a rather ‘convenient’ word, isn’t it?”

Holmes looked away and shook his head, holding off a smile, and William counted it as a small victory. On what game, he wasn’t really sure.

“Well,” William carried on. “Since the yelling implied that he accused Robinson of ruining his business, we can deduce that this guy worked in an adjacent field to our dead accountant’s, at the very least. I wonder how you narrowed it down from there.”

“I wonder how you would have narrowed that down,” Holmes’s unwavering gaze was a challenge.

Moriarty thought for a moment.

“Well, there’s only so many accountants in London that work for wealthy enough clients that they can afford a spacious, luxurious office such as Mr. Robinson’s.” Holmes nodded along. “My way of going about this would be to use my brother’s contacts and ask around, if I’m being honest. But let’s assume I’d do it your way.”

The detective smiled.

“Ah, yes, the peasant way.”

The corner of William’s mouth twitched.

“The most obvious answer would be to check the ledgers for a list of his clients and then investigate the most recent ones, to see who their previous accountants used to be. The name that popped up the most would most likely be our killer’s. But we don’t have the ledgers, so…” That was a tricky one. London didn’t keep centralized records on each accountant and its respective clients. Then the only chance they had was… “The bankruptcy court. Could you access their files?”

“I could.” Holmes’s approving beam pleased Moriarty much more than he cared to admit.

“So who was it?”

“Harold Pembridge. Struggled for the past year, officially bankrupted last month. Used to have a wide range of notorious clients, but then lost the most prominent ones almost all at once. Turns out his brother, Matthew Pembridge, was arrested for some fraudulent scheme or another around the same time—I suppose Harold’s business could no longer be trusted by association. Now, Harold sure wasn’t the only accountant to declare bankruptcy in the last year or so, but after seeing his brother’s portrait sketch from his arrest files…”

Holmes reached inside his pocket and took out a drawing, sliding it over to William. He felt his eyes widen slightly as he picked it up.

“This is a little uncanny,” he commented.

“You don’t look identical, but if seen from afar and with the right haircut…”

“Yes, I can see it.” Moriarty had already figured out the implications. “Since Matthew’s in prison, I assume you failed to mention that he and Harold are twins?”

Sherlock grinned. “Precisely.”

“So Harold Pembridge has the looks and the motive.” Moriarty set the picture back down on the table. “How convenient, indeed.”

Notes:

Can you tell from this chapter that the only reason I'm writing this fic is so I can make these 2 to interact more? lol

"But alternatime, does that mean the story's over at chapter 4?" nahhhh we still have AT LEAST 8 more chapters to go, I'M SORRY (but this won't reach 20k words, I promise)

Any feedback you could give me on this chapter would be REALLY appreciated, I feel like I'm still "fine-tuning" their chemistry lol. Hope you enjoyed it!

Chapter 5: Sherlock

The case closed itself nicely. When pressed, Pembridge confessed to the crime and Sherlock believed him—he’d solved enough cases to recognize true remorse in a killer’s eyes, though he could have sworn he saw relief in them, too.

In any other case, this would have been a most unsatisfactory resolution.

Liam was right. How convenient it was that the man had recently acquired a similar taste to Moriarty’s, down to the same haircut. How convenient that his noble doppelganger just happened to have a scheduled appointment with the victim (written down with shaky hands, too) at the time of his death. How convenient that no one had been looking when the real Liam arrived at the scene, to discredit the earlier sighting.

Or rather, that no one had seen him walk through the door. As it turned out, someone had been looking.

“Nice job tracking him down, Wiggins!” Sherlock tossed the street kid a coin, in the afternoon after Pembridge’s arrest. The boy saluted him and went on his merry way.

“Do I get one of these too?” asked the beggar who sat at the mouth of an alley across from Sherlock.

“Answer me with the truth and I’ll give you two.”

The old man harrumphed.

“I already told that urchin of yours: I didn’t see anything! The street was damn empty! I wasted almost half an hour going there, didn’t score a single coin.”

“Are you positive you were there right before 7pm?”

“Of course I was, I could hear the damn church bells! D’ya fancy me as the type who carries one of those shiny pocket watches around?” The man spat on the ground before Sherlock’s shoes.

His bad mood didn’t affect Sherlock in the slightest—he was too eager for this particular piece of the puzzle.

“So you arrived in Moorgate Street at about 6:35, 6:40pm and left when the police arrived.”

“Last thing I needed was to get the attention of that damn army of cops that came stormin’ into the street!”

Sherlock tossed the man three coins, not bothering to hide his excitement.

“Thanks, mate, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear!”

That was confirmation that only one person had used the front door that evening. Now that Harold Pembridge had been arrested, Sherlock knew that it wasn’t Liam, which meant he’d entered the office through the window. The grappling hook was confirmed to have been Pembridge’s way out, but Liam had climbed his way in, too.

As any law-abiding citizen would, Holmes thought to himself with a chuckle, checking his watch as he leisurely made his way to the public administration district, waiting for the sun to set.

He needed it to be dark if he wanted to break into a building the exact same way.

---

It turned out that the evidence Holmes had found in Liam’s cane two nights ago formed a link between the two biggest cases of his career.

“Say, Watson,” Holmes had asked his friend that night, as they stood outside waiting for a carriage to take them back to Baker Street, “you’d know it better than I would: this is Shakespeare, right?” He handed over a folded piece of paper.

Holmes pulled out a pack of cigarettes while Watson unfolded the note with a frown, then read it out loud:

“Tremble, thou wretch that hast within thee undivulged crimes unwhipped of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand.” His frown deepened. “Yes. King Lear, if I’m not mistaken. What are these numbers on the bottom? And where did you get this? You didn’t steal evidence again, did you?!”

Holmes lit his cigarette and let out a puff of smoke, watching it dissolve into the air.

“Did you know Liam’s cane has a concealed blade within? Really well-crafted stuff.” He took another drag as Watson let out an exclamation of surprise. “Sharpened quite often, too,” Sherlock smirked around his cigarette, eyeing the doctor sideways.

“But— but surely that doesn’t mean he did it!” Watson protested, alarmed. “The knife that killed Mr. Robinson was still in the room!”

“You’re right, John: that doesn’t mean anything. If confronted about it, Liam would soon find that it goes nicely with his ‘self-defense’ excuse from earlier, anyway.” Sherlock snickered. He knew he’d managed to surprise Liam, for once, and part of him was still riding that high.

Alas, he digressed.

“I just mentioned the blade to make conversation. What really matters to us are the faint traces of a pattern that I caught on Liam’s handkerchief—it matched the cane’s handle. With that, it was easy to deduce that he’d used the cloth to wipe blood not only from his hands, but from his cane, as well. But I checked with Lestrade: Liam wasn’t holding it when they arrived at the scene. Now what would cause him to pick up his cane before the police arrived, after his hands were already covered in blood, only to thoroughly wipe said cane clean and then leave it on the floor? His hands were back in the victim’s stomach by the time Lestrade burst through the door.”

Watson was frowning.

“I can’t make sense of it.”

“It’s elementary, really!” Sherlock grinned. “Turns out it’s Liam you should be berating for stealing evidence from the scene—he used his cane to stash away that very piece of paper you’re holding, since he knew better than to hide it in a crime scene, bound to be thoroughly searched by the police, and he’s not stupid enough to keep it on his person, either. I reckon the cane was the only choice he had. Or rather,” he corrected himself with a mischievous grin, “he hid a nearly identical note: that one’s a copy. Couldn’t let Liam know I got the upper hand on this one, now, could I?”

“Why all the secrecy around Li—erm, Mr. Moriarty, if you claim he didn’t do it? And why would he steal that note from the crime scene?”

“I’m not a fan of literature, but I do know how to read, Watson.” He tapped the note still in his friend’s hands. “The numbers are all that matters in this note, but… that hast within thee undivulged crimes unwhipped of justice? This is about the Lord of Crime,” he shrugged. “Y’know—Liam.”

“What?!”

Oh, right. He’d never told Watson.

---

Sherlock knew who was responsible for the note; had known it before even reading the words. He’d seen that handwriting before—in a different case, in a different note, in a different year. For the first time, his excitement had been enough to override the anger he usually felt at those memories.

Just like that, that small piece of paper had added at least three more layers of complexity to the death of Warner Robinson.

It was the reason he was now breaking into the one of England’s archive buildings. After years of consulting for the Scotland Yard, understanding the numbers at the end of the note had been second nature: it was how court files were numbered.

Sherlock’s first order of business, of course, had been to prove Liam’s innocence—there had been a killer, after all, and he was now behind bars. But it didn’t end there. It couldn’t.

Not if Charles Milverton was involved.

Chapter 6: Sherlock

Notes:

For the people who only watched the anime: I am NOT a manga person (really struggle to read them) but I went ahead and read chapter 31 because after learning they cut an entire sherliam chapter from the anime, how could I not? And whaddayaknow, I didn’t find it that hard to read this time, for some reason. I even read some other chapters after that, and some things do get better explanations in the manga than the anime. Anyway, what you need to know is that [SPOILER] right after the Riot in Scotland Yard chapter, Sherlock shows up in Liam’s classroom in DURHAM completely out of the blue, just so he can have a chat with William (because why not). They have a little morality debate over lunch and then help a poor prodigy kid get accepted as a student at the university. Pretty cool chapter, you should check it out.

Anyway, canon divergence because I said so: William’s lunch break in Durham is a little longer.

Did I pass your test?

So, Sherlock had come all the way to Durham. What for, exactly, he didn’t really know. After weeks of running around London and beyond, asking questions and collecting clues, he’d spent the last few days with nothing but his evidence wall for company, but there was only so much he could gather from staring at it.

Watson had come into the living room this morning to find Holmes exactly where he’d left him when he’d bid him goodnight and gone to bed some… eight hours earlier? So, finally deciding he’d had enough, the doctor gave him an ultimatum: Sherlock was to either get some sleep or go outside for fresh air.

Mumbling complaints as he went, Holmes had opted for the latter, though his mind never left his living room—still entangled in that delicate web of cause and consequence, crime and punishment. His feet, however, led him all the way to King’s Cross. When Holmes came to, he had a ticket to Durham in his hand.

Right. So maybe there was one element of this case that occupied his mind more than all others.

“Last call to Durham!” someone yelled in the distance.

Tsk. Sherlock supposed he might as well go.

And now here he was, at Durham University, pestering Professor Moriarty during his lunch break for no reason other than because he wanted to. Sherlock wasn’t a religious man but, watching the mocking smile on Moriarty’s face as he cheerfully told him how he’d gotten all his answers wrong in his test, he thought free will sure was a beautiful thing.

He’d shared part of his “Robin Hood” theory to see how the professor would react, gotten into a small debate that ended in a somber agreement that the Lord of Crime must face atonement for his crimes, agreed to track down the mysterious student who had aced that bloody impossible quiz and then, after a few moments of quiet contemplation…

“Say, Liam, speaking of holding criminals accountable…” William raised an eyebrow. “Were you satisfied with the way the Robinson case was closed?”

Liam was still grading tests, making it hard to read his expression.

“I’m assuming you weren’t?”

Classic Liam. Why answer a question when he could just throw one right back? Still, Sherlock humored him.

“Pembridge did have a convenient answer ready for whatever we asked, didn’t he?”

William chuckled at the word that had, at this point, become an inside joke.

“That we can’t deny. He just happened to catch a glimpse of me in the street someday and somehow kept my name in the back of his mind all these months later, and then decided to use me as a scapegoat—showing premeditation in what should be, by all accounts, a crime of passion.”

Honestly, the best thing that came from their introduction back in the Noahtic was the fact that, from then on, William could never play the dumb card around Sherlock. Had anyone else been in his shoes, Holmes wouldn’t have expected them to notice the inconsistencies in the case, but William couldn’t fake the same level of obliviousness—not since he’d proven to Sherlock on their very first meeting just how capable he truly was.

The detective offered him a lopsided smile.

“Quite right.” There were also at least two more dead bodies involved in this case, but Holmes didn’t bother showing his hand yet. He only wished Liam would be looking up for his next jab: “He also admitted that he forced Robinson to write the message to the police, borrowing the Lord of Crime’s name only so that the letter would be taken seriously. But, curiously enough, he also had him write your name on the planner, to point the police in your direction. He had no need to resort to that if he already expected you to be found with the body at 7pm, which makes me wonder… if perhaps your presence wasn’t even part of his plan at all.” He grinned, remembering Liam’s words from the interrogation room. “Timing’s a bitch, huh?”

William did look up at that, but his face was unreadable. He merely raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes? Even if Pembridge did make Robinson write down my name to frame me, I still had an appointment with him that night, coincidentally or not.”

Sherlock knew Liam wouldn’t yield on that front. It was all circumstantial conjecture, after all, since there was no way to prove William hadn’t set an appointment with the deceased. He let out a low chuckle. “It’s always probatio diabolica with you, isn’t it?”

A corner of Liam’s mouth lifted up. Since Holmes wasn’t about to tell him he knew about his coming in through the window just yet, he decided to tease Liam over something else. The detective leaned forward in his seat:

“Back to ‘Mr. Holmes’, then, are we?” He crossed his arms on the table.

Liam tilted his head in a silent question.

“You called me Sherlock, that day in the interrogation room,” he clarified, flashing him a crooked smile. Liam’s face showed no reaction, but his pen had stopped moving. “I’m sure you didn’t even notice.”

Liam watched him for a few heartbeats before narrowing his eyes, his voice an octave lower:

“I apologize, then,” he enunciated his words slowly, taunting Sherlock back with the exact same cadence he’d used that day on the train, “Mr. Holmes.”

The thrill it elicited was also the same.

And even better: there was no Louis, no Lestrade and, hopefully, no murder to interrupt them this time.

...Then Sherlock caught up to his own thoughts.

“Hopefully” no murder? Does that mean I find this better than having a new mystery to solve? The thought caught him off-guard.

And what is “this”, anyway?

There would be time to ponder about this later, he decided. After all, there were more pressing matters at hand: namely, the sly smile that had finally surfaced in the professor’s face. Sherlock pushed the word “stunning” somewhere far away from his traitorous mind.

“It’s a funny coincidence, isn’t it, Liam?” His voice came out huskier, for some reason. William’s pen now lay abandoned—the tests completely forgotten. Being the subject of Liam’s intense stare had Sherlock reminiscing about how, before even getting his hands on Matthew Pembridge’s prison records, he had known the case was over the moment that mailman had called the murderer’s eyes blue.

After all, how could anyone possibly misremember those piercing red eyes?

“That I told you,” he continued, “how I wished you were the Lord of Crime, that day on the train—” he saw something flash in Liam’s gaze at the memory—“only for you to be framed, even if rather poorly, of being none other than the man himself.”

Liam was the Lord of Crime. At first, Sherlock had been drawn to the mystery like a moth to a flame, knowing damn well he was at risk of getting burned—it had always been part of the thrill. But that early excitement was nothing if compared to this. This didn’t feel like blindly flying around a flame; it felt like voluntarily walking into a forest fire. They both knew what was at stake every time they tiptoed around the truth like this, and yet Sherlock knew Liam found this dance of theirs just as stimulating as he did.

It was damn near intoxicating.

Liam's smile got more crooked; his expression unreadable.

“The Lord of Crime didn’t even go by that name at the time, did he?” was all he said.

The euphoria of being William’s sole focus made Sherlock feel inconsequential. With their gazes still locked, he found himself whispering:

“He’s always gone by the same name to me.”

Moriarty was saved from answering by the bells signaling that their lunch was over.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this self-indulgent interlude that adds virtually nothing to the plot lmao
(but fuck it, this is still a sherliam fic)

Like I said in chapter 4, I'm still getting a hang of writing their chemistry (is it too obvious that this is my first time writing romance?), so any feedback you could give me would be GREATLY appreciated. SERIOUSLY!

Anyway, next chapter we'll be all back aboard the plot train.
Probably.

Chapter 7: William

Albert finally had a name for them:

“Percival Fairfax.”

William’s teacup momentarily stopped midair.

“The Home Secretary?” That was surprising.

“So that’s the kind of man Milverton has in his pocket, then,” Louis said, quietly. “The rot really goes too deep.”

Albert shrugged, the gesture somehow still elegant.

“We knew that already.”

For weeks, now, the Moriarty brothers had been aware that Milverton knew about William’s old court case. It had passed several hands before reaching his, but Fred had followed close behind. However, it had taken a more considerable amount of effort to track down where the permission to disclose the file had come from. Whoever had done it had also employed third and fourth parties, and it was trickier to navigate them without raising any alarms.

Albert had still pulled through, of course—and the order had apparently come from the Home Secretary himself.

“But there’s more,” he carried on. “I’ve been compiling that list of Robinson’s old clients like you asked, since Pembridge burned all the ledgers, and…” He let out a short breath of amusement. “I guess all roads lead to Rome.”

William picked up the list Albert had slid across the table, already knowing what to expect. Still, he smiled at the highlighted name.

“Well. Mr. Fairfax sure has been a busy man, lately.”

To William’s consternation, the first thought to cross his mind was how excited a certain detective would look if he learned of this development. His heart ached at not being able to simply walk over to Baker Street and spend the afternoon discussing the case with him.

William’s heart might have been aching a lot over that matter, lately.

To think that he had even considered, at some point, the idea of leaving all his carefully crafted plans behind—a lifetime of work, William’s very driving force—all so he could just work cases with that loud-mouthed detective with sharp eyes and a kind soul…

And a grin that could light up a room, and hair that looked soft to the touch…

William shouldn’t entertain these thoughts. Thoughts weren’t the harmless things people painted them to be; he knew better than anyone how dangerous it was to feed ideas, for they carried the power to raise empires—or, just as William intended, to bring them to dust.

The conversation he’d had with Sherlock in Durham had been… interesting.

It pained William to admit his heart had skipped a beat when he heard the detective’s voice coming from the most unlikely of places: his own classroom. He really ought to do something about the way he reacted to Holmes—every encounter left William more and more comfortable in his presence, and there could be no room for indulgences if Moriarty wanted to see his plans through.

But the detective always made talking to him so effortlessly tempting.

“I’ve a fairly complete mental profile on the Lord of Crime now,” he’d said at lunch, and how come that conversation was the most enticing of them all? They were both performing, well aware of each other’s audience and their respective agendas, and yet it felt as harmless as a stimulating game of chess.

Holmes had proceeded to call the Lord of Crime a “Robin Hood”, and William knew better than to waste the opportunity to ask what he intended to do about it. Moriarty had a fairly good guess at the answer, but Holmes was still one of the few men who ever managed to surprise him—even if only on occasion—, so this was as good chance to check if they were on the same page.

And, unlike in his math test, Sherlock had given him the correct answer:

“There’s no acceptable reason for murder,” he’d said. “He deserves to be arrested, put on trial… and then made to atone for his sins.”

And William couldn’t agree more.

He’d made the right choice picking Sherlock to be the hero to his villain—he was certain he would play his part to the very end.

---

Unfortunately, their plans to do something about the Home Secretary had to be put on hold due to the murder of a bodyguard named Mr. Sturridge—killed by none other than the white knight of London: Adam Whiteley.

It figures, William thought, bitterly, as Albert walked ahead to speak to the disgraced politician, sitting lonely on a bench with blood still staining his face. Nothing good can ever grow in this poisoned land. Even from afar, it was clear that all warm, gentle light was gone from Whiteley’s eyes.

This world won’t let it.

So, Whiteley had gladly offered up his life to William. For atonement.

As he watched the city of London from above, after sticking a knife to Whiteley’s stomach—in much the same way Harold Pembridge had done to Warner Robinson—, William decided that the world he was creating had no room for Charles Augustus Milverton.

Notes:

small chapter again, I'm sorry (I even considered uploading it along with the previous one) but I'll make it up on chapter 8 (I PROMISE), which should be out this friday

As you probably noticed already, I'm rarely descriptive of things that happen in canon bcs, well, they already happened in canon lol. Maybe it's lazyness of my part but oh well, pls try to keep in mind the traumatic experience that was the Whiteley arc for this one (and also pls remember your hatred for Milverton, I hate that bitchman so much that I don't even wanna give him any 'screen time' lmao)

Fair warning I don't feel COHERENT today, pretty sure I'm sick. I reread this chapter (and even these NOTES) 10 times before posting but something feels off but maybe I'm just hallucinating it

one more thing, I'm reeeeeally trying to avoid the angst tag but idk if that's possible when William's involved lol. If you hate angst pls don't give up on this story, keep in mind that it's being written by someone who ALSO hates angst so I won't let it get too overwhelming

Chapter 8: Sherlock

In a quiet living room in Baker Street, a distant bell had just signaled one in the morning as Sherlock sat before his ever-growing evidence wall, elbows on his knees and fingers intertwined before his mouth, a cigarette long forgotten in the ashtray to his right.

Sherlock should get to work soon if he wanted to dismantle that wall before Charles Milverton arrived in the morning to blackmail Mary again. And yet, he didn’t move.

Not even when a quiet knock on his front door interrupted his thoughts.

“It’s open,” he said, glad that his voice carried just fine in the silence—he didn’t want to yell and risk waking John, even if the man slept like the dead. He didn’t turn around as the door opened and closed, his visitor moving to stop at his side with quiet steps.

“Quite the mess you’ve got there, detective,” he said after a few heartbeats, and Sherlock finally looked up, watching the man’s eyes as they took in every evidence and clue attached to the wall. He lit his abandoned cigarette again and took a drag.

“Quite the mess you’ve been making, Liam,” he said in return, blowing out smoke without moving his gaze.

“I should be offended,” Liam said, absent-mindedly, and Holmes wondered why it was such a thrill to witness the cogs turning behind the professor’s fast-moving eyes, as if he were solving an intriguing math problem.

“That your name’s not closer to the center?” Sherlock asked, and snickered when the professor stopped himself mid-nod, realizing what he had almost agreed to.

“That sure is a lot of thread,” William ignored his mocking, approaching the wall to run a hand through all the strings connecting his name to several different cases—including a very recent headline, regarding the murder of Adam Whiteley.

“Miss Hudson will be pissed when she realizes I raided her knitting supplies without asking.”

Moriarty huffed.

“You should be nicer to your friends,” he looked back with a smile that just might have caused Holmes’s heart to skip a beat, “Sherlock.”

“Right.” The detective abandoned his chair and went to stand by Liam’s side, both of them facing the wall. Sherlock half-smirked. “Friends don’t accuse friends of being criminal masterminds.”

Liam hummed in agreement, a corner of his mouth lifting up.

“In that note you had your errand boy throw into my window with a rock—”

Sherlock’s snort interrupted him. “Was the window open or closed?”

“You don’t deserve to know.”

Sherlock’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Your family seems like the overprotective sort. I didn’t want them seeing the note and convincing you it was a trap.”

“Is this a trap, then?”

Holmes let out another puff of smoke.

“What do you think?”

“I think your note said this was about Warner Robinson’s murder, and yet a big chunk of your ‘murder wall’ looks like it’s dedicated to me.”

“So? The accountant’s right there.” He pointed at the name. “And I’m sure you already know all the hidden truths behind the Robinson case, at this point. You didn’t have to come, but you’re here anyways.”

“I see one name I don’t recognize.” Moriarty followed a piece of thread with his fingers, ignoring Sherlock’s veiled accusation. “Thomas Briggs?”

“Matthew Pembridge’s old cellmate.”

“And he’s dead.” That wasn’t a question, but Holmes nodded nonetheless. “So that’s the leverage Milverton used against Harold—he had his brother’s cellmate killed just to show how easily he could get to him.”

“Familiar with Milverton’s ways, are we?”

William finally turned to face the detective, his face now devoid of mirth.

“We both know I’m far from stupid, Sherlock. You obviously found Milverton’s note in my cane.”

Sherlock smiled around his cigarette.

“Anyone with eyes knows I found Milverton’s note. There’s a copy right here.” He moved closer to William to tap at the wall.

“Am I here to be arrested, then?”

“Would you honestly be here if you thought that were the case?” Sherlock rebutted, leaning forward to put out his cigarette on the ashtray next to Liam’s arm while returning his intense gaze.

Distracting.

Holmes took a step back, making a dismissive gesture with his hand—and dismissing his own thoughts, as well.

“You know that court case of yours wouldn’t mean anything in a trial. Though I do have a fairly good idea of what you’re planning now, I have just as much tangible evidence against you as I did when you took one look at me and said I played the violin.” William half-smiled at that.

It was true, unfortunately. If the kid in that court case truly was Liam—and it was obvious to Sherlock that he was—then that would make him an adopted son. But Sherlock had been thorough in his research, and the official story was that the child adopted alongside Louis by the Moriarty family had been the one to die in the fire. That could only mean one thing: Albert Moriarty knew. It was clear to Sherlock that both of Liam’s brothers were involved in his crimes.

After his digging around, Sherlock also came to know that the deceased members of the Moriarty family had been an unpleasant sort—not unusual in aristocratic families, but still enough to fit the pattern of the Lord of Crime’s victims. And, as that court case confirmed, William—for lack of a more accurate name—had always been as brilliant as he was ruthless in his pursuit of justice.

And after he took the blame for that massacre at Whiteley’s residence and then killed the man himself… Sherlock had a fairly good guess as to where all his plans were headed.

Still, that wasn’t why he’d called Liam here.

“Look,” Sherlock tried to convey his seriousness in his gaze. “This isn’t about the Lord of Crime. Which, by the way, I already know isn’t a single person, but three.” He nodded at the Moriarty names on the wall. “Though I must admit it hurts my pride to let you see just how much information I’m still lacking, I’m asking that we put aside our game of cat and mouse, for now. There’s a third party who’s been working hard at picking a fight with the both of us.”

William slid his gaze back to the name closest to the dead center of the wall.

“Charles Milverton,” he murmured, eyes flashing with constrained fury.

“He forced your hand, didn’t he?” Sherlock asked, his voice just as low. “With Whiteley.”

Liam didn’t say anything, only stared at the various pieces of thread that converged on Milverton’s name. His head moved down in the faintest of nods—a gesture which, conveniently, would never hold out in court—, and Sherlock saw grief in his eyes.

“I don’t know these people.” William turned away from the detective, reading the names scattered on the further side of the wall. Milverton’s victims.

“Most of them are nobodies. People who couldn’t afford to pay Milverton’s price.” Sherlock thought of the still fresh memory of a treasure chest sinking into the Thames. “No one ever can.” He could hear the bitterness in his own voice. “Some of these were my clients, once. There’s rarely anything that can ever be done to help them.”

“So Milverton’s an old enemy.”

Sherlock nodded. As much as he enjoyed calling the Lord of Crime his nemesis— as well as his equal—, only one name had ever carried the title of Sherlock Holmes’s enemy, and that name wasn’t William James Moriarty.

Liam was… fun. Challenging, stimulating… exciting. And maybe Sherlock did have a second mortal enemy, but its name was boredom and, before Liam, he’d always had a nagging feeling that that was the opponent meant to eventually lead him to his grave. But meeting Liam had somehow been enough to turn his boredom to dust, which meant that Sherlock was now left with only one enemy still standing. One that wasn’t fun, nor challenging, nor exciting.

Charles Milverton was just evil.

“Before the Robinson case,” Sherlock started, and Liam looked back at him, “I used to keep two evidence boards, and they couldn’t be more different from each other. The most recent one was all maybes, gaping holes and question marks. I started it the moment I got home from our journey aboard the Noahtic, and…” He chuckled fondly, his gaze lingering on the Lord of Crime portion of the wall. “It was by far my favorite board.”

Sherlock let his eyes wander to the opposite corner.

“But the older one? It was just names. A pile of victims, stacked on top of each other. I was forced to literally stick all the notes together at some point, because I was running out of room.” The detective didn’t try to conceal the anger in his voice. “That board had no question marks and barely any gaping holes. It was…”

Mysteries had always been Sherlock’s one true love. Unlike with the Lord of Crime, there had never been any mystery there. He’d always known the full extent of Milverton’s crimes, since the man barely tried to hide them—he knew he’d always come out unscathed. Milverton was…

“…so utterly boring.”

“Ah, yes,” William muttered, and Holmes looked up to find that he was smiling fondly. “The greatest sin of them all.”

Sherlock half-smiled, his anger subsiding.

“But then…”

“…then Warner Robinson happened,” Liam finished the thought, and Sherlock nodded.

“And suddenly, there was a link between my two biggest cases, so I had to move my things to this wall."

“So, you knew from the start that the note came from Milverton,” Liam mused.

“I’d seen his handwriting before. He’s not really shy about it.” Sherlock scoffed. “Knows he’s untouchable.”

“And how did you get to Percival Fairfax?” William motioned at the name linked to both Milverton’s and Robinson’s.

“Ah, the Home Secretary.” Sherlock smirked. “You Moriarties aren’t the only ones with connections—I’ve been collecting plenty of strings to pull after working so many cases over the years, so I have my own ways of climbing the bureaucratic ladder. Fairfax was the one who gave the green light so Milverton could get his hands on your file.”

William looked momentarily impressed, and Sherlock voiced his most likely theory:

“You were already keeping track of whoever checked out that file even before Milverton’s little note, weren’t you?” He laughed. “I had to be cautious either way since I knew you were aware of the file’s existence after the note, at least, but… had I found it before Milverton, using the ‘proper’ legal channels, you would have been alerted, wouldn’t you? Your name being blurred was just too damn convenient.”

“Are you saying you got your hands on that file through illegal ways, detective?” There was hidden laughter in Liam’s eyes. “And I’m guessing that’s how you saw the registry for the day it was checked out, too?”

“A little breaking and entering never hurt anyone. You would know—it’s how you got into Robinson’s office.” William smiled, but wisely didn’t admit to anything. “Did you know I laughed out loud when I was reading that transcript? Had to cover my mouth to keep from making noise in that dusty archive—no wonder Milverton quoted bloody Shakespeare in that message. A pound of flesh, Liam, seriously? You were a scary kid.”

Liam’s smile turned more mischievous, but still he didn’t say anything. Sherlock huffed in amusement but carried on.

“That’s not where Fairfax’s part ends, of course—as I’m sure you’re aware, since you said it yourself that you could have used your family’s influence to track down Robinson’s clients. Well, I’ve been keeping tabs on the most renowned accountants in the city, now that his old clients were bound to go flocking to them after his death, and Fairfax’s name showing up again sure was an interesting coincidence, wasn’t it? I’m certain that poor accountant came across the exact dirt Milverton’s been holding against the Home Secretary’s head. If that got out, Milverton would have lost one of his most valuable pawns; so Robinson and the officer he’d contacted had to go. But then Milverton realized how the ruined accountant he intended to use as a scapegoat bore such a striking resemblance to you, and the opportunity was too good to pass up—don’t think I don’t know how you frustrated his plans with the Jack the Ripper business, too. So, by killing the accountant and framing you, Milverton figured he’d be killing two birds with one stone.”

“And you went as far as to find out what the dirt on Fairfax was.” Liam sounded impressed, unsticking a note that read “secret family” from the wall. Sherlock didn’t conceal his smugness.

“He keeps them in a mansion on the countryside. Has been embezzling public funds to hide the expenses from his wife, but Robinson must have noticed something wasn’t adding up in his books.”

“You know, detective, I wondered at the time why you’d gone so far as to request Matthew Pembridge’s prison records before knowing what he looked like, but it was because of Milverton, wasn’t it? Since you knew he was involved from the start, you were going through the suspect list you got from the Bankruptcy Court and looking for leverage Milverton could have used against them.”

“Damn it, Liam. You don’t miss anything, do you?” Sherlock grinned. “That’s right, Pembridge was a good candidate, but I was having a hard time finding anything Milverton could have used against him. He was a ruined man already, with barely anything left to lose—except maybe his imprisoned brother. It was a long shot, but it paid off: the case wouldn’t have been closed nearly as fast if I hadn’t seen that sketch.”

“And Harold Pembridge was nothing but a poor puppet who happened to look like me,” Liam murmured, bitterly. His eyes had gone hard again when he looked back at Sherlock. “I’ll ask you this one last time, Holmes: why am I here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock took one step closer to William. “I want the two of us to take on Milverton.”

“The legal way?” Liam flashed him a humorless, one-sided smile, taking a step back. “You can rest assured, detective: he’ll get what’s coming for him.” The softness of his voice contrasted with the hardness of his words. “I won’t let you become stained like so many of Milverton’s victims. You are the hero of this story, after all.” Liam offered Sherlock one last nod. “It’s been an enlightening evening, but I must be on my way, now. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

With that, he turned around and started heading towards the door.

Sherlock didn’t let him. He grabbed his arm—maybe a little harder than necessary, but sometimes Liam could be infuriating. Dismissing Sherlock’s help just because that wasn’t the part he was meant to play, as his little pawn?

To hell with that.

“Will you stop—” he spun Liam back around—"acting like you’re the devil incarnate and I’m a fucking saint?”

The bite in Sherlock’s voice surprised them both—William’s eyes were the widest the detective had ever seen them. Still, he had to restrain himself from shaking him in exasperation. It was always unnerving how the general public was so quick to put his actions on a pedestal after those damn articles about his detective work, but Liam should know better. Sherlock did follow the law, and maybe the outcome of his actions tended to help, more often than not; but he had always, always been a selfish man. He didn’t take cases for altruism, but for the thrill of the mystery, and he never tried to hide it.

But for even Liam to miss something so blatantly obvious meant that he was so focused on seeing himself as an irredeemable monster that the detective could only be an idealized hero by comparison.

It made Sherlock furious.

“Despite what you like to think, Liam, you’re not hopeless, and I—” the laughter that came out of Sherlock was a dry, biting thing—"I am far from fucking perfect.”

So, maybe out of spite, maybe out of instinct—or maybe because part of him had wanted to do it from the moment Liam got here—Sherlock pushed him against the evidence wall.

“And quit calling me Mr. Holmes,” he said, and then kissed him.

Maybe that would make Liam see him for the flawed, selfish man that he was.

Notes:

I’ve said this in a comment before but I was NOT JOKING in the tags when I said I had to make a murder board to plot Robinson’s murder, lol. If any bits of the explanation confused you, or if you’re just curious, here it is ! (red thread means murder :)) Ofc, I didn’t add Liam and Milverton’s canon crimes bcs I’m lazy (and also not crazy enough to do that, the list is WAY too long) and yall know what’s canon already anyway, so picture this just as a smaller snippet from Sherlock’s wall.

Fun fact about this chapter (funny af in my opinion): when I first wrote this, Sherlock was alone in the room THE ENTIRE TIME. It was an introspective chapter, for him to explain his train of thought and stuff. And throughout the entire process I kept thinking ‘ugh, this is boring. Sure would be nice if Liam was here’. And yet I still I wrote the entire chapter before it hit me…

My dudes. My loves. I FORGOT that I hold godlike power over this shitshow

So yeah, I rewrote the entire thing only after realizing that if I wanted Liam in the scene, all I had to do was fucking PUT HIM THERE, and then I just let these two take it from there 🤷🏻‍♀️
(Hope they didn’t disappoint :))

Chapter 9: William

The so-called art of prediction was all mathematics, nothing but numbers and percentages that, if applied correctly, could almost always be trusted—there were exceptions, of course, but those tended to be few when one excelled in statistical reviews and probabilistic analysis, like William did. However, being good at predicting events came with the unfortunate side-effect of, oftentimes, making life rather dull—which was why William had always been fascinated by the unpredictable.

And what good were his numbers now, when the detective had him pinned against the wall like another piece of evidence; when he felt Sherlock’s fingers in his hair getting tangled with the thread that connected William’s name to so many of his crimes?

How could Sherlock not be revolted—instead, biting his lower lip in a gentle request?

Unpredictable, indeed.

And William couldn’t help but love it.

So, in a way that was equally unpredictable to William, he found himself kissing the detective back, stealing his breath out of his mouth like the criminal that he was. He’d been aware of his own attraction like one is aware of a sore throat, but never in a million of his predictions did he see himself acting on it. And yet here he was, pulling the detective closer as he kissed him for what could be minutes or hours, his mind going blissfully empty of any plans or machinations for a little while. Sherlock… just might be the most selfish indulgence he’d allowed himself in his entire life.

In a flash of boldness, he used the hand that had already found its way to the back of Sherlock’s neck—he didn’t even know when—, and untied his ponytail, his fingers finally learning the texture of his hair.

“Liam—” Sherlock groaned in-between kisses, and the way he said his nickname, the way he always said it, made him want to…

Oh, to hell with it. He was already being selfish, anyway.

William used his hand in Sherlock’s hair to wrap it around his fist and pull, and the detective groaned as he was forced away from his mouth—half in pleasure, half in annoyance. William didn’t waste any time, using his other hand to get Sherlock’s collar out of the way as his mouth easily found its way to Sherlock’s neck, and William knew, just before biting it, that part of him had wanted to do that from the moment he’d met him.

Feeling the detective’s quickened pulse against his lips, he told him as much, eliciting another low groan, and thought that he could gladly spend the rest of his days just figuring out all the different sounds he could draw out of Sherlock Holmes.

But…

The rest of his days were numbered, and there weren’t many left.

That line of thought was, unfortunately, more sobering than a bucket of cold water, causing William to slowly pull himself away.

The detective’s chest was heaving as William assessed him, and his hair was disheveled—like he’d just run a marathon. Sherlock always looked a little like a calculated mess, but seeing him like this… with his shirt crumpled, his lips swollen, pupils dilated… William thought he’d never looked more achingly beautiful.

Sherlock could probably read the sorrow in his eyes already, but he gently stroked his cheek anyway.

“Hey, Liam,” His voice came out rough, so he was forced to clear his throat. “The law says this is a crime, doesn’t it?” He grinned. “Does that mean your precious hero is ‘stained’, after all?”

As William chuckled at his awful joke, he thought, grimly, that if he could walk away from this, then meeting his end for the last act of his plan would be easy in comparison.

“I meant what I said, Liam,” Sherlock told him, reading something in his eyes. “Quit treating me like I’m a saint. I can help you bring down Milverton.”

“No, Sherly.” Liam had also meant what he said: Milverton would get the punishment he deserved, and the only blood to ever stain Sherlock’s hands would be his own. William was resolute in his intentions to be the sole carrier of the burden that were the sins required to fix this broken world. “The ending is already written.” He didn’t leave any room for discussion, even as he gently took Sherlock’s hand away from his face and pressed it once before letting it go.

Sherlock’s expression was dark as William stepped around him, but he didn’t move to stop him this time.

“Goodbye,” William said quietly, with finality, as he walked to the door without daring to look back. Before leaving, he stopped for a second with his hand on the door handle and found himself whispering: “Perhaps in another life.”

---

William had never expected to see Sherlock again so soon. This time, it was from behind the barrel of a gun—as if things were back to their natural order.

What a comforting, sad thought.

Milverton’s voice was background noise as Moriarty stared in the detective’s eyes, his only worry being whether Milverton’s leverage over Sherlock would be too damaging if William went ahead with his plans and murdered him anyway. Even if the detective did arrest William after that—or even killed him—William was confident that his friends wouldn’t let him down; his only regret would be not sparing them from the burden of executing the Final Problem.

The King of Blackmail went on a tangent about William and Sherlock’s “unpleasant habit” of derailing his plans—first with Jack the Ripper, then with his own frame-up for Warner Robinson—before demanding that Sherlock arrested him and that William went quietly. Sherlock’s eyes stayed unreadable the whole time, as Milverton went on and on about his “flawless” plan that failed to account for the crucial detail that William didn’t care if his identity was outed—and that Sherlock probably despised the King of Blackmail far more than he did the Lord of Crime, anyway.

William was proven correct—and then some—when Sherlock did the unthinkable: he shot Milverton. Not once, not twice, but enough to empty his gun.

After that, even when Sherlock had his back to him as he lit himself a cigarette, Moriarty didn’t let any feelings show on his own face.

That unpredictable bastard.

Unpredictable enough that William couldn’t even rule out the possibility that he’d only just killed a man out of stubbornness. He’d made it clear that Milverton was the man he despised most in the world, of course, but William found that he couldn’t put it past Sherlock to have done it out of spite, too—as if to prove William wrong.

Part of him wanted to laugh.

“I’ve been two steps behind this entire time, my every action dancing prettily to your tune. But…” Sherlock didn’t look remorseful in the slightest as he faced him “…even you couldn’t foresee that I would murder Milverton.”

Indeed, he couldn’t.

“I’m finished playing this game by your rules,” Sherlock continued, his eyes gleaming with a sort of incandescent rage William had never witnessed in his face before—he only just managed to keep his own expression from showing how taken aback he was. “I will not let you have your way any longer!”

Well. The detective had surely gotten to the point where he could be persuaded to kill him far quicker than William had anticipated.

He tried to convince himself this was a good thing.

Still, he’d better put that rage to good use: “My answer to that remains the same.” With his gun still raised, he offered the detective a smile designed to be infuriating. “Catch me if you can,” he taunted as he slowly crept backward towards the door, “Sherlock.”

“I will,” Sherlock said, unimpressed and without a trace of his usual good mood, and once again made no move to stop William as he left.

Notes:

So, copyright disclaimer (?): most of the lines spoken in this last bit were taken from the actual scene in the manga.

Oh and sorry for the angst, I hate it (BLAME WILLIAM, THAT ANGSTY BITCH). "The ending is already written"? Yeah, Liam, by me MWAHAHAHAHA
(though technically the ending is only sort of written and I still got a lot of editing to do)

Btw I’m not here to shame angst enjoyers, I read plenty of it, I just don’t like writing it ig. I be craving that lightheartedness

Anyway, there’s stuff coming so pls don’t give up on me just yet :)

Chapter 10: Sherlock

Notes:

And thus, the REAL canon divergence begins! So far I’ve been carefully performing plastic surgery on canon with a scalpel but now IT’S CHAINSAW TIME!!!
*cue maniacal laughter*

Watson didn’t accompany Sherlock to Milverton’s in this au, I’m SORRY! I love Watson and I know he would never miss the opportunity to help save Mary, so let’s pretend Sherlock never told him he was going due to his beef with Milverton being a liiiitle more personal this time

Anyway, Watson was never there so the police aren’t coming just yet. How convenient, huh? :D

So, Sherlock thought as he watched the flames engulf Mary Morstan’s name, I just killed Charles Milverton.

Now what?

Just a few nights ago, Sherlock was angrily unpinning newspaper cuttings and scribbled notes and miles of thread from his wall and throwing everything into a small box, hoping he could at least catch a few hours of sleep before he had to deal with that blackmailing snake in the morning. He soon reached the Lord of Crime’s side of the wall—which had been partly taken down already, with the subject’s “assistance”—and crouched down to pick up the fallen clues and pins, eyeing the notes he had added most recently:

Sturridge. Adam Whiteley. Common enemy.

How troublesome, that Liam had made himself a notorious enough target that the crown wouldn’t hesitate to terminate him if needed. Forget a fair trial and a proper sentence; Liam was likely to never see the inside of a court room now. And even if he did end up arrested… wouldn’t that be a waste? A mind powerful enough to change the world—if Sherlock was right in his deductions about his master plan—, left to wither away in a forgotten cell.

The finality in William’s words before he left had been enough for the detective to know that there would be no getting through to him tonight. It made Sherlock realize what should have been obvious after their conversation back in Durham: that he had failed to add one crucial word to his wall, one that Sherlock himself had uttered that day and that translated into the very end of whatever Liam had in store for England.

It was why Liam killed the corrupted and why he’d agreed to end Whiteley’s life—why he was most likely to deal the final punishment to himself.

Sherlock tsked around his cigarette. “Waste” wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

Before putting away his box, now full, the detective decided to add one last note to it. He was far from having all the details to solve the mystery that was William James Moriarty, but it still felt like sliding the final piece to a puzzle into place.

That single word stared at Sherlock as he closed the lid.

Atonement.

---

And now, just as Sherlock was about to throw the burning documents onto the curtains, more than ready to rid the world of all traces of the evil that once was Charles Milverton… a thought stopped his hand. Or, more specifically, a memory:

I won’t let you become stained like so many of Milverton’s victims.

As Sherlock considered it, he felt one side of his mouth tilting slightly upwards at the irony. First, the white knight of London had become irreparably stained because of the King of Blackmail, and now so did Liam’s precious little hero. Did that make Sherlock Milverton’s victim as well? Perhaps the final one?

Well, Sherlock smiled as he blew out smoke, I’m sure Milverton wouldn’t find the irony quite as amusing as I do.

A plan was rapidly taking form in his mind. If Holmes truly was “stained”, as Liam would call it, then… well, the night was still young.

So Liam was willing to atone for his sins—that was more than fine. He wanted to change the country? Great! There was plenty of rot that needed to be dealt with, anyway. But he would not die for those ideals—Sherlock had already decided that he wouldn’t allow it.

So, instead of starting a fire, he left the remnants of the evidence against John’s fiancé to harmlessly burn away to nothing in a nearby ashtray and headed to an adjacent room, ready to begin his search.

It was going to be a long night.

---

The sun would be out any moment now, and Sherlock couldn’t help a small limp to his step as he walked. How annoying. Reaching his final destination for the night, he allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief—though it came out too shallow.

Maybe in another life? Sherlock thought, spitting blood on the gravel before the gates to the Moriarty mansion. Like hell, Liam.

Just as Holmes was about to search for the bell pull, he saw movement in the dark—there was a blond figure coming from the house towards the gate. Towards him.

While hoping for it to be the one Moriarty he’d come here to see, Holmes idly wondered if the stranger had just coincidentally been going out or if Sherlock had already been spotted before even reaching the gates. As the man finally made himself seen under the dim light coming from the street illumination, the utter shock in his face was all the answer Sherlock needed.

“Hello, Liam! Rising early today?” Holmes eyed his dark clothes, wondering if he’d caught him just as he was about to go handle some “Lord of Crime” business. Any day Sherlock managed to derail Liam’s plans was a happy day, so he grinned, wondering if there was still blood on his teeth as horror started to replace the surprise in the professor’s features.

“What the hell happened to you?"

Notes:

Sherlock is taking none of Liam’s shit. That’s all I have to say.

I was going to be a consistent author and upload every Friday but this chapter is so short and the last one was as well... so fuck it, here it is (but from now on it WILL be Fridays only, since there won't be any more chapters as short as this one)

also, upon revising this chapter before posting, I noticed that this ending may have sounded slightly… hannibalesque? lol. So just in case you’re wondering if you accidentally missed a gory tag, no you did not, don’t worry abt it

Chapter 11: William

William assessed the damage as he lent Sherlock his shoulder for support and made his way back to the mansion with him:

Black eye, split lip, bruised neck, ill-disguised limp, possible broken rib…

And Sherlock refused to tell him what happened. Instead, he asked if his brothers were home—as one would ask about the bloody weather—and wondered out loud if he would have the opportunity to finally meet the oldest Moriarty.

William was learning that the heart was a rather peculiar thing, indeed—for how could Sherlock’s mere presence cause it to ache so much, while simultaneously making William want to smack him in the head? Sherlock was lucky William had years of experience keeping violent intent from showing in his demeanor.

“So,” Sherlock asked conversationally once they were inside, “who were you off to kill on this lovely morning?”

William took a breath through his teeth to calm himself, pretending it was from exertion as he lowered Sherlock onto the living room couch. Here was Sherlock Holmes, in his house, all beaten up, doing the unpredictable for the second time in less than 24 hours and effectively thwarting William’s first act for the Final Problem, all in one go. On any other day, William might’ve found the challenge exciting, but this wasn’t any other day—just minutes ago, he had, indeed, been on his way to kill a man; and now here was Sherlock, looking like he’d lost a fistfight to a gorilla and blatantly avoiding telling him what happened.

It prompted William to reply, with the sweetest smile he could muster:

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Despite the state he was in, Sherlock threw his head back and laughed. William seriously didn’t know what to make of him. Had he perhaps lost it? Did killing Milverton affect him far more than he originally let on? He didn’t reek of alcohol or any other intoxicants.

“William?” Louis’s voice interrupted Sherlock’s laughter, and they both turned their heads to stare at where William’s brother stood frozen at the door, his mouth hanging open in shock.

Sherlock snickered.

“Y’know, I can’t believe how anyone bought that Louis is the only one who’s adopted, Liam—your face looked exactly like that when you saw me at the gate.”

Can you blame me? a tiny part of him wished to yell. Sherlock had looked just fine when he’d left him in Milverton’s mansion some eight hours ago; only to greet him with a red, toothy smile at the break of dawn—and he still found the time to have his fun trying to get a rise out of Louis.

“What is that man doing here?” Louis was barely trying to conceal his own fury as he came towards them.

“Is William still home?” came another voice from behind him, and Sherlock’s grin grew larger. “I thought he’d left alrea—"

Albert cut himself short, stopping at the door just like Louis had—though he at least did a better job toning down his surprise.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock smirked.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’ve already met before. Albert Moriarty, I presume?”

Albert smiled, unfazed.

“Ah, my apologies. My brothers have told me about you, of course, but you also bear a strong resemblance to your brother.”

It was a nice save, though unnecessary, for William was certain Sherlock had recognized Alberts’s voice from behind the confessional of an abandoned church. Still, Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly at his words; but then he murmured, with an eyeroll:

“Of course you know Mycroft.”

Honestly, William supposed he should be glad that the others were gone already—they’d all been assigned their first errands for the Final Problem, so the only ones left at the mansion were the three Moriarties. Even Jack was out, taking advantage of their last few hours of peace before the world knew of the Lord of Crime’s true identity.

“But where are our manners?” said Albert. “We couldn’t possibly leave Mycroft’s brother in this state. Louis, would you please fetch us an emergency kit?”

Louis looked insulted at the idea, but before he could say anything, Sherlock beat him to the punch:

“No, don’t leave just yet. Not when I finally have the ‘entire’ Lord of Crime in a room, for once.”

Louis looked livid, and even Albert went still for a moment. William hadn’t yet found a way to mention what Sherlock had learned since uncovering that court case file; not without implying that he’d paid the detective a visit in the dead of night without telling anyone. Seeing their reaction, Sherlock’s eyes momentarily met William’s, full of mirth—he’d figured it out instantly, of course.

“There’s something I ought to discuss with the three of you,” he carried on, mercifully not addressing their surprise, “and it’s a rather urgent matter.”

“I’m afraid we have to deal with some urgent business of our own,” Louis all but hissed.

Holmes made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“No, you don’t—I saw to it, myself. Milverton’s article isn’t getting published anymore.”

“That’s bullshit…” Louis started, and even Albert was frowning, but William just blinked. Sherlock didn’t appear to be lying. Still, Milverton owned several papers. William had immediately discarded the idea of silencing each journalist involved, since it would mean killing innocent workers for the sin of doing their jobs. How could Sherlock possibly have kept the article from being published?

“You see,” the detective started, “Milverton always liked to brag about knowing the secrets of every single citizen of London.” He rolled his eyes. “Hyperbole, of course, but he did make sure to only hire employees he had some sort of secret leverage over. It wasn’t enough being their boss—he needed to feel like he had them completely under his thumb. Tuns out Milverton’s mansion had an entire hidden archive meant for that disgusting ‘hobby’ of his, so I thought I’d borrow some things.” He shrugged. “Already killed a man last night, figured I might as well commit a few more crimes before dawn.”

“So you’ve been ‘counter-blackmailing’ journalists all night,” Albert guessed, and Sherlock grinned, somewhat proudly.

“Precisely, and they all eventually agreed not to publish that article.” He leaned his elbow on the armrest—and immediately grimaced, wincing in pain. “Of course, not everyone takes too kindly to being blackmailed, and I didn’t have a small squad of sadistic minions watching my back like Milverton used to. Who would have thought?” he chuckled, though it came out breathless. “Some journalists can really throw a punch.”

“You didn’t fight back,” William murmured, his hand moving on its own to graze the outline of Sherlock’s swollen, black eye. For a moment, at the gate, when he’d first taken in Sherlock’s battered state, William had felt nothing but white-hot rage, making him want to hunt down whoever was responsible. He didn’t care for reasons nor for justice, as he usually would—no, William had only wished to find the person who’d dared touch Sherlock and make them bleed.

He didn’t know what to make of his feelings then, and he really didn’t know what to make of them now.

“Of course I didn’t.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “They’re victims. Threatening them was bad enough.” With that, the detective turned his head to look at Louis and Albert, and William was reminded, with a start, that they weren’t alone. He quickly pulled his hand away, choosing not to face either of his brothers just yet. “I wouldn’t have followed through with those threats, obviously,” Sherlock told the others, “but I made sure to be persuasive.”

William could picture it with clarity: Sherlock ringing doorbells in the dead of night, showing off evidence and deducing what he couldn’t prove with surgical precision; making it clear that he would not hesitate to take his information to his friends in the Scotland Yard should they publish Milverton’s article. “Your boss is dead anyway,” he must have told them. “So he can’t do you any harm anymore—but I can.” With Sherlock’s reputation for bringing people to justice, who would have dared call his bluff? Even the most hot-headed ones—the ones who’d dared take out their anger on him before thinking things through—would have eventually agreed to his terms, which weren’t particularly unreasonable to begin with.

“Why go through all that trouble?” Louis still sounded suspicious, but some of the bite seemed gone from his voice, now. Before Sherlock could answer, however, William interrupted him:

“Nobody asked you to,” he found himself saying, sharply. Perhaps what he was feeling was rage, again—only it was now directed at Sherlock. “I said I was fine with the article being published, I was even going to use it—”

“Good thing I’m not a chess piece, then,” the detective lifted his chin in challenge, “only moving where its master commands it. I told you, Liam, I am not dancing to your tune anymore.”

Forget ‘endearing’; sometimes Sherlock could be infuriating.

“Well, too bad.” William never raised his voice, despite his anger. “The newspapers are about to receive a signed declaration from the Lord of Crime, along with a list of devils soon to be eradicated from this country, one by one, so it seems your efforts were all futile.”

Sherlock dared to laugh, looking delighted.

“Oh, you must be really angry. I can think of three problems with that statement right off the bat! Shall I enumerate them?” He grinned, and William opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock spoke over him, putting down the first of the three fingers he’d just raised. “For starters, your letter hasn’t even left the property—from the look of his clothes alone, it’s obvious that Louis here was about to go out to deliver it just before I arrived." He put down his second finger. “Just as you were probably about to go deal with the first noble on your list, to give your statement credibility. And now that I’ve delayed you, you can’t send that letter until you’ve killed the poor bastard. And like I just told you—” final finger—"for the time being, I do sort of own the media, so your letter wouldn’t get published either way.”

William didn’t say anything, stunned. Sherlock was right. Every action William had ever taken as the Lord of Crime had been based off of righteous fury, so William was far from a stranger to keeping a clear head amidst his own anger—he’d long ago learned to harness it, refocusing it towards his goals with sharp precision. And yet, everything the detective had just told him was obvious, but he’d been so focused on Sherlock that he’d missed it. He’d never felt this sort of anger before; capable of clouding his judgement so thoroughly.

A slow clapping dragged William and Sherlock’s attention away from each other.

“It appears you have what it takes to be quite the evil mastermind, Sherlock Holmes,” said Albert.

Sherlock scoffed.

“It was Milverton who did what he did for evil’s sake, so don’t make the same mistake those newspapers made in their articles about me, looking for something grand behind my actions. I know you lot do it for justice, in a twisted sense, but that’s not me, either: I’m just being selfish.”

William would be a hypocrite if he denied understanding the feeling: logic dictated that he should have immediately left Sherlock to his brothers’ care and gone to kill that corrupted noble anyway, newspapers articles be damned. There were other ways to make the world aware of his name, and the media was nothing but the most practical one. It was William’s own selfishness, which only seemed to surface when Sherlock was involved, that prevented him from leaving—even now.

“Running around London getting yourself beaten up by angry journalists all night doesn’t strike me as selfish, Mr. Holmes,” said Albert.

William almost missed it—the way Sherlock’s gaze flicked to his face and back for a fraction of a second.

“It is.” His tone was final.

What a headache.

“Despite what you might think,” he carried on, “me running into Liam at the gate was just a coincidence. I originally came here to see Louis.”

That caused everyone to pause.

“What could you possibly want with me, of all people?”

Probably to try to sway him to his side, William figured.

“I’ve seen your over-protectiveness around your brother.” So that was his approach? “Your blood brother, if I might add,” Sherlock smirked. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you considered stabbing me with a butter knife on the very first time we met, just because of a bluff.”

Hadn’t it been for William’s anger, he might’ve smiled—Louis’s eye was twitching.

“…So?”

“I know your brother’s end-goal, now. The plan is to unite the country against one common enemy, and then—” without looking at William, Sherlock mimicked raising a gun against him and firing it—“have me kill him, for all to see. Liam has always had a knack for spectacle, so I’m sure he could come up with a suitable stage.”

The detective was acting as if William wasn’t even in the room anymore, in a clear attempt to irritate him further—which may or may not have been working.

“But, funnily enough,” Sherlock’s voice got less lively as he spoke, “though I’m sure your genius of a brother is quite capable of convincingly forging his own death, something tells me he intends to die for good.”

Suddenly, with his gaze momentarily acknowledging William again, it was Sherlock who looked furious; enough to give William pause amidst his own anger. It was the same look he’d given him the night before, when he’d promised not to let him have his way anymore.

“So,” he turned back to Louis, his tone nonchalant again as if nothing had just happened. “My plan was to come here with an offer—just for you, initially—based on a very simple fact: I don’t want your brother to die, and I believe that neither do you.”

Silence took over the room.

William was stupefied. Sherlock had made it abundantly clear before that he was intent on capturing him his own way—proper judicial channels and all that. Most of all, William knew he wanted to win, and he supposed his signed confession and following self-inflicted punishment would prevent the detective from unraveling the mystery all on his own.

Perhaps William had severely miscalculated the lengths Sherlock would go for his little obsession.

The detective finally broke the silence, this time addressing Albert:

“I was going to single out Louis because you and I had never crossed paths before, so it’s not like I had a good read on you. But you’re all here,” he shrugged, “so I might as well extend the offer to you.”

Sherlock failed to voice what was clearly obvious: that after meeting Albert, he now deemed him worthy of hearing him out, as well; which meant that Sherlock wouldn’t put it past the oldest Moriarty to agree to something for the sake of William’s life, just like Louis. William decided it wise to only think of the implications later.

Albert cleared his throat, his eyes unreadable.

“I see. And just so we’re clear, detective, what exactly is it that you’re proposing?”

“If I am right about where all your plans are headed, what I’m proposing are modifications.” He narrowed his eyes, and William felt déjà vu over a similar conversation he’d had once—though William and his brothers had been the ones making the proposal, at the time. “I’m willing to let you to carry on with most of your plans for the country,” Sherlock continued, and William considered pointing out how much his Holmes blood was showing—if only to get under his skin. “I’ll even play my part nicely, if you still want me to,” he added. “But no one else dies.”

William was about to protest, but Sherlock wasn’t finished. He introduced his offer like a businessman would:

“I’m proposing that we give them a different Lord of Crime.”

Notes:

Hey remember back in chapter 4 when I promised this fic wouldn’t reach 20k words?

lol

I’ll answer that with one of my favorite quotes—from a fucking Dr. Stone fic:

The worst liars in the world and the most honest men could both make promise after promise after promise without anyone to say for certain which was which; so, was a promise a truth or a lie?

Neither. Both. Promises were nebulous things—balanced ever so carefully right between a truth and a lie with only the future to tip the scale.

(The fic is Walking With My Eyes Open by Killthespare)

Anyway, future has arrived to call me a liar and the scales now say 25k, sorry
(but eh, not sorry)

And what’s worse, I’m not even finished writing my first draft for the epilogue so that number might go up AGAIN (but not to 30k, hopefully). I’ve learned my lesson, tho, so I’m not making any promises this time

Please share your thoughts in the comments—you would not BELIEVE the amount of times I've edited this chapter ever since its first draft lol

OH AND ONE MORE THING (I'm gonna hit the word limit on this thing lmao) I've been thinking about writing a sherliam au for a while (probably modern days) but I'm STRUGGLING with ideas, any suggestions? Even the simplest concept you can think of might help, srsly

Chapter 12: Sherlock

“Evening, Lestrade!” Sherlock grinned, echoing the words he’d said not so long ago, when he’d handed the inspector Harold Pembridge’s name. “Got a suspect for you!”

Ignoring the man at Sherlock’s side, the inspector openly stared at Holmes’s bandages and bruises, his mouth agape.

“The hell happened to you?!”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture.

“Fell down some stairs. Shouldn’t you perhaps be addressing your other visitor? He’s your superior, after all.”

Lestrade’s eyes went comically large once they took in just who exactly Sherlock had brought into the station with him.

“Mr. Fairfax, sir!” he stammered.

The Home Secretary offered him a curt not.

“Inspector Lestrade.” The man didn’t smile, his expression sour. “I’m here to give you a statement.”

---

After Holmes’s declaration that he wished to offer the world a different Lord of Crime, Liam had promptly tried to kick him out of his house.

“That’s enough, Sherlock.” There was a hidden bite behind his words. “I’ll still patch you up, so please follow me, but then you must leave.”

How Liam could have the nerve to be angry at him, when he was the one who had every intention of making Sherlock kill him, was beyond him. Oh, yes, how dare I try to save you, Holmes wanted to say, but Louis spoke faster:

“No, brother. We must, at the very least, hear him out.”

Both Sherlock and William gaped slightly at Louis’s immediate support. It certainly felt uncanny.

“We’ll deliberate carefully, of course, and discard it immediately should his proposed modifications interfere with our desired outcome,” added Albert. “But we should hear what he has to say first, William.”

Maybe Sherlock could grow to like the guy, despite his apparent association with Mycroft. He faced Liam again with a grin:

“I believe that means that two-thirds of the Lord of Crime have agreed to listen to my idea?”

William didn’t deign to answer. Instead, he appeared to engage in a silent conversation with his brothers. Eventually, he sighed, defeatedly.

“Fine, then.” He faced Sherlock again. “But I’m patching you up, first.”

“Then I shall get the emergency kit,” Louis said, leaving the room.

“Uncanny,” Sherlock muttered as he watched him go.

“Have you eaten breakfast, Mr. Holmes?” Albert asked.

“I’m afraid I was…” Getting hit in the shin by a vicious lady with a surprisingly sturdy umbrella. “…busy.” He was lucky he’d only gotten that limp after he’d already paid most of the other journalists a visit, or that would have slowed down his progress tremendously.

“Then we must have this conversation over tea. Do you need any help standing up?”

Honestly, Holmes had felt more comfortable with the veiled Moriarty hostility before than he did now with their hospitality.

“No, I’m alright.” As he leaned forward with a grunt, he could have sworn he saw Liam roll his eyes—how undignified, Mr. Moriarty—before he supported a knee by Sherlock’s side and unceremoniously took his arm. “Oi, I said I’ve got this!” Holmes protested.

“What you’ve got is a broken rib,” Liam placed Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders again, his touch far gentler than his voice, pulling him up and taking most of his weight as they stood. The detective tried his best not to wince at the pain. Damn it, Liam. Of course he’d noticed the rib.

If Sherlock was getting better at reading Albert, as he suspected he was, that meant the feeling the older Moriarty was trying to conceal as he watched their exchange was mirth, which caused Sherlock to decide that he was still on thin ice.

When Louis returned, just as Sherlock took his seat at their table, the sun was finally rising, slowly filling the room with pink and orange light. The younger Moriarty placed the box he was carrying at the tea table before unceremoniously approaching the detective and pressing a bag of ice against his eye.

“Ow!”

“I’m sure you know better than to let it swell, so please hold this while I apply an ointment to your bruises. Should I start with your neck?”

It took Sherlock a moment to respond—never in a million years would he have pictured William’s murderous little brother tending to his wounds.

“I’m fine,” he coughed once. “I’ll make sure John gives me a thorough check-out later, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

Louis looked unimpressed. With fingers that weren’t particularly kind, he ignored the detective and lifted his chin to assess the state of his neck.

“I’m assuming whoever sucker-punched you in the throat is the one responsible for your injured ribs?” Before Sherlock could say anything, Louis added: “And is that a bite mark?”

The hand that came up to cover that particular bruise moved fast enough to give the speed of light a run for its money—Sherlock did not need Louis noticing how that mark wasn’t quite as recent as the others.

“Ah," Sherlock cleared his throat. He knew better than to meet Liam’s eyes, but he couldn’t just let this opportunity go to waste. “I’ve come to learn that, if provoked, even the most well-mannered of gentlemen can become rather savage.”

“Louis,” Liam spoke up immediately, his voice deceptively calm, “we took the liberty of offering Mr. Holmes breakfast while you were gone. Our tea might still be hot enough to serve; would you mind checking it for me, please? I can take it from here.”

As Louis left the room again and William moved to take his place, Sherlock finally dared to look at him. Despite the faint, wonderful blush on his cheeks, Liam’s eyes were murderous. Wondering if that was usually the last thing his victims saw before William killed them, Sherlock waited until his figure completely blocked him from Albert’s view before flashing him a shit-eating grin.

Liam’s anger made Sherlock want to cackle with delight. It was so much better than that emptiness that had been slowly creeping into Liam’s eyes over their last encounters, making him appear… blurred at the edges, in a sense. It was as if he had begun the process of truly morphing into the Lord of Crime: an idea rather than a man, only meant to scare and unify and nothing else. Sherlock had known that, if he stood aside and let that happen, then he would lose Liam forever.

Luckily, it appeared that Sherlock might have acted in time. When he’d arrived, he could only wish that he wasn’t too late, but the fury in Liam’s eyes now gave him hope. The Lord of Crime may have been the one Holmes had run into at the gate, but it was Liam that now spread ointment over his bruises and—oh, so conveniently—covered his bite mark with gauze. Sherlock smirked when he caught him staring at it for a moment longer than he had to.

Noticing the smirk, Liam caught him off-guard by slapping him at the back of the neck.

“Hey!”

“Hold still,” he said, as an excuse for Albert.

Said man chuckled.

“You two appear to have a closer relationship than I initially realized.”

They both shared a look at that; neither said anything.

Soon enough, breakfast was served. Once everyone else was seated, Holmes went straight to business.

“Let the record show I’m a far better media boss than Milverton ever was. Part of the reason why those journalists all agreed to my request was because I also promised them something in return for their troubles. I can still give it to them on my own, but I sure could make it a much better gift if you lent me your assistance.”

Albert tilted his head.

“And what is it that you promise them?”

Sherlock grinned.

“Scoops, of course.”

---

“Did you see the news?!” a boisterous voice asked from near a newspaper stand, as Sherlock made his way through the street. “They finally uncovered the Lord of Crime’s identity!”

“Of course I heard,” someone answered, “who hasn’t?!”

“It’s all over the news!” a third man practically yelled.

It had now been a week since Sherlock had presented his alternative plan to the Moriarties, and there wasn’t a single person in sight who didn’t have a newspaper on their hands. The detective didn’t need to guess at the headline—he knew his “friends” at the media had done a good job. He could only hope they’d be pleased, since his black eye had only just begun to fade and he wasn’t even quite free from the limp yet.

He still had much more in store for his journalist friends.

“And he seemed like such a respectable man, too…” Sherlock overheard from a different group, after turning a corner.

“Not quite nobility, but not quite working class either, is he? No wonder he’s been targeting both.”

“I’m surprised the police didn’t make the connection sooner—it should have been obvious!”

“It says here he is even responsible for trying to frame a respectable professor for a murder committed under his orders!”

“He tried to frame him for being the Lord of Crime, too. The nerve!”

Sherlock kept his head down as he walked, smirking around his cigarette.

Oh, yes, he thought. The nerve!

Notes:

guys I was TERRIFIED of how you would take my canon divergence since this work starts only as a case fic but the reception of the last chapter has been so GREAT oml thank you so much for the comments!!! ♥️♥️ You guys are the best!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Something Selfish