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Sherlock liked to think he was many things. Smarter than the average, a genius as most would claim, an alluring detective. He could also admit he was addicted to the feeling of knowing it all, as he was to the taste of tobacco on his lips. But he was not an envious fellow.
He had a perfectly comfortable life, he liked to think.
Since working on the Lord of Crime’s schemes and solving his murders, his reputation had graciously grown due to John’s bad habit of registering every move of his. Sherlock did not care for attention, but he had to admit that having an easier and less stressful way to pay for Miss Hudson’s rent was nice.
But he was not having his stomach twirl at the sight he was granted with for the past few hours. Sherlock wasn’t planning to come to this extravagantly fancy ball at all when invited, courtesy of some noble whose case he cleared up, but Lestrade had promised him some private information to their latest connections to his rival’s enterprise - that is, if he agreed to attend to the meeting. Call it on being on social cue or whatever. It was a gala to celebrate Duke Whiteley’s daughter birthday, or so he cared to recall.
The raven haired couldn’t care less about noblewomen trying to weasel their way into young and wealthy noblemen lives. As long as it had nothing to do with a certain mathematician, it seemed.
Sherlock knew he was intrigued and deeply interested in the second son of Earl Moriarty since their first encounter on that fated cruise, but he’d rather not to be fond of admitting such high level of his infatuation. The piercing red of his eyes were already a constant remark of the bloody weight of his sin and delusion.
Liam was unfortunately far more pleasant to look at than all the deadly dull women surrounding Sherlock, and it scared him of how bothered he was growing to be of a particular lady who wouldn’t let go of the blond’s arm. Liam had been politely dancing (or so he wished to believe) with numerous noblewomen all night, but this fortunate redhead didn’t seem to quite grasp the meaning and time to let go of his dear professor. They had been swaying together for over three pieces of music by now, and Sherlock’s fingers were growing impatient on his glass of wine.
The detective would like to think he was being subtle at stealing glances at the pair, but the slight curl of the blond’s lips confirmed otherwise. Liam would ever once in a while catch a glimpse of his eyes, followed by a long and infuriating twitch of his lips, as if fighting the urge to grin at him.
Oh how delusional Sherlock had become.
How deeply he wished to escape this tragic predicament and tedious attempt to maintain proper and stimulating conversation with Miss Harrison, who seemed overly eager to talk about the new founded common interest they shared - when a slip of mind had the detective mindlessly mentioning his passion for violin, as he dumbly stared at the mathematician’s direction. Luckily, she was too distracted staring at him to notice the change on his demeanor.
Now he was stuck at listening to this poor woman’s attempt to latch his attention by mentioning every play she’s ever been to.
He had no idea on to how to set himself free of her speech without sounding crudely rude and weary. Sherlock needed not to be scolded by a crowd of nobles paying them their mind - give that to his flashy reputation of not being social. And so he opted for the smartest decision. Or the smartest he could gather to be when all the raven haired could see and sense was the twist and whirl of a good amount of expensive fabric on floor.
He barely wondered how these women managed not to trip on themselves with so many layers to carry around.
A pair of ruby eyes briefly locked on his cerulean ones once more, before he could master his way with words to dismiss the eager woman still going on about Paganini’s greatness and influence on the musical world. As if Sherlock himself didn’t know better of the virtuoso pillar to violin technique.
“Apologies, Miss Harrison, as much as I’m thrilled to hear all about it, I’m afraid I shall take my leave to the lavatory.” He wished he seemed to sound as desolate as the thin frown she wore off, quickly exchanging it for a shallow smile.
“Ah, but of course. With the amount of wine you’ve been sipping is only natural”, she said, the growing red of her cheeks not a so welcomed sight.
He shortly laughed, “Ha! You caught me there, I guess I lost track of count as I was distracted with our conversation”. Certainly not distracted with the way a certain Lord gently chuckled at a short redhead, who couldn’t for the life of her refrain herself to hold onto his upper arm. With that slandered silver glove of hers, as if emulating such atrocity with every move of her fingers, on a thousand mirrors that echoed the sounds of want.
Mirrors which most cruelly reflected the jealousy image of Sherlock, who most definitely not desired to cut Liam free from such clutch.
He was not an envious man.
He didn’t even have the right nor sane mind to feel such thing; towards another man on top of it all. But Sherlock knew better than to imprison himself on ignorance, rather indulging his mind to avert the thought process on escaping his fine companion.
With one last compelled smile and short bow, the detective made to leave Miss Harrison’s radar and the ballroom altogether, in a deep need for a smoke and space to ponder alone.
But as much as fate appeared to mock his very bane existence, two gentlemen cornered him with very exquisite questions on the case he last solved for the Yard. And who was Sherlock Holmes to pass upon on the opportunity to explain his very logical and obvious deductions to the boring and common brain of others?
The famous Baker Street’s detective got to describe a considerate amount of conclusions long before a sacred voice evaded his physical form and frame, heading straight to the lines of his very attentive ears, ardent to hear more about that angelic presence that sported such hauntingly aura.
He was glad to subtly take his leave when a servant came in with offering drinks on a platter, and the gentlemen he had been entertaining turned their focus on the young lad who tragically tripped on someone and spilled some of its content to the older’s tailored pants.
Sherlock wondered if the poor kid would come to survive the rage that vaguely spluttered from the noble , when a very welcome and very familiar came to speak to him, “Very unfortunate for such exquisite clothing to be stained, don’t you think?”
The detective wished to have contained the grin that struck his face as he moved to face Lord Moriarty, who sported a contained smug smirk of his own. Sherlock scoffed.
“Liam, you scoundrel”, he exhaled, “You did not have to make the poor servant’s job a lot more troublesome than it already was”.
“Whatever do you mean? The poor child merely tripped in this remarkably crowded room.”
The blond’s eyes had a glint of mischief, indicating he had no remorse whatsoever as to have conducted this outcome when he passed by the tray in order to grab a drink. One he now held highly in his slender fingers, taking his time to leisurely draw it to his plump lips, never once withdrawing eye contact from Sherlock - who was having an embarrassing hard time not to audibly gulp at the sight.
“Besides,” he backed down from sipping, and moved his eyes towards to the scene unfolding in front of them - another servant had appeared to assess the situation as calmly as required, muttering words of apology to the noble who was still very much exasperated to have his pants ruined. “You clearly needed saving from all the unwanted attention being directed at you”.
Sherlock barked a laugh and slightly narrowed his eyes at the professor innocently smiling at the crowd who were now resuming to their previous affairs, the incident watering down the commotion. “Are you saying you were observing me, Liam?”
“Perhaps.” A hurried waitress passed trough them with a concerned look, and Sherlock had the mind not to pull a face. “I was only returning the favor, Mr. Holmes.”
Ah. So he did notice the staring.
Now he was left to wonder if he the shared looks were meant to denote any displeasure from the blond, but the way his lips were placed on a thin line itched Sherlock to believe the mathematician was suppressing the urge to beam at his actions.
Liam returned his gaze at him at the same time a flash of red catch his line of sight, and he couldn’t help himself not to ask: “Did you need not to keep company to that young lady still?”
And Sherlock knew his response was the expected reaction when the blond openly grinned at him, “If you are worried about Lady Lance requiring more of my regard, I’ll let you know she was kindly introduced to my older brother Albert, who I might daresay was rather pleasant to have a new dance partner.”
“As you were not?”
“I was rather drained to have to waltz all night, to be honest.”
Sherlock longed to say he wasn’t relieved to not have to witness any more of the previous predicament, but he was not about to succumb to honesty, like Liam humbly did. That would introduce a whole new issue about his deep and rooted desire to be the one waltzing with Liam. The detective could not allow himself to admit such thing, otherwise he would be in trouble to impulsively act on it, like he almost did before.
The professor was looking at him like he knew his darkest secrets, and maybe he did.
And maybe Sherlock was all but too naive to let himself be dragged outside, after gracelessly suggesting they leave for a smoke, which he was originally planning to before this whole ruckus initiated.
Sherlock admitted to be many things but he did not expect greed to a part of them, as he showed not to contain himself from wanting solely attention from the professor. Perhaps he was no better than that redhead that latched herself onto the opportunity to have Liam spare his awareness to her.
Perhaps he was an envious person, after all.
Well, let it all be damned, for the little he cared. Liam didn’t seem to mind sharing a silent walk with him towards one of the distant balconies down the hall. Away from the lively and chatty ballroom.
Away from prying eyes.
Sherlock leaned against the balusters and grabbed the pack of cigarettes he had been itching to for the whole entirety of the evening. Luckily John was not present to stress him over his composure on such “high leveled gatherings” - as he claimed earlier when the detective left for the misfortune of his week.
Or rather now found most precious fortune, as he got to spend time with Liam. He hated to acknowledge how his heart stuttered a bit every chance he got to share spaces with William James Moriarty. Though he was the only one capable of comprehending his thought process, after all. The one person who most perfectly understood him, indulged and even entertained him. Leaving Sherlock amazingly speechless since that first energizing meeting of theirs.
“Allow me?”, Liam breaks the quietness that has built around then, as he gestures to the cigarette Sherlock’s lighting up in his mouth. He barely has the time to react on it when Liam’s index and middle finger reaches out to tuck it away from his now parted lips, as the blond carelessly inhales the cigarette that was just seconds ago in his tongue.
He watches dumbfounded as the professor partially flutters his eyes for a second, as if taking in the smell and taste of the tobacco. Really taking in.
Sherlock tries and fails to not think hardly on the way the blond’s throat moves as he exhales a puff, and pierces the detective with a devious semblance. “I didn’t know you smoked”.
“I do not.” A pause. “On most occasions.”
The statement itself sounds sinful enough with the way Liam’s voice seems to dance and encircle Sherlock’s clouded mind, as he moves to light another cigarette for himself, and is yet again surprised by the blond as he extends the hand in his direction, offering back the treat he deliberately stole.
“Do pardon me, Mr. Holmes,” Sherlock inches closer to take the cigarette back. “I was only curious as to taste this one brand you seem to appreciate so much. No need to waste another.”
So he had even noticed his unique taste on tobacco's brand?
Sherlock chuckled as he placed it back to his mouth, looking for a new taste as it from where it was landed, as if he could feel the soft and pale skin of Liam’s lips on his own. The drag he took was the most delicious one he had ever taken in all these years of appalling addiction. The detective discovered he had yet unlocked another one - the sensation of sharing something with Liam. Something he was so attached to and that now tied the both of them in a secretive share of sorts. A intimate one.
Oh Sherlock was most definitely losing sense of his already thin and scarce sanity.
He exhaled and rearranged himself back to the wall, now completely facing the other man who leaned his slim frame closer than before. Sherlock felt caged like this, even though there was a large amount of space between them. But the other’s eyes felt like a burning stake flaming trough his soul, the red consuming all of his being.
“So, how was it?”
“A bit sharp tasted, I daresay.” Liam hummed as in thought, “but very appetizing. I suppose I understand why one would take liking to it, considering your very tendency to enjoy unusual habits.”
A genuine grin was what Sherlock gave him, eyes as bright as the moon atop their heads. “Oh? Do tell, professor. What other unusual habits do I partake in?”
A sly grin, “Other than the chemicals dependency and constant need for mind stimulation? I would deem to mention your aversion to social ballroom conventions, for one.”
“Oh?” The detective wasn’t certain if he enjoyed the way this was going, but oh was he excited to see the outcome of it. “Say, Liam, which aristocrat rule did I stumble upon today?”
“I’m afraid I did not see you dance not even once.” Sherlock’s breath hitched as he was not expecting this response. Was Liam teasing him for dismissing the ultimate common norm of balls?
The blond subtly inched closer as he graciously draped an arm over the railing, as he did back at that train, piercing his gaze solely on the detective. “Don’t tell me is a domain you lack mastering at it?”
Liam was definitely teasing him. Specially with the way he tilted his head to the side to smirk at him, effortlessly stealing away the poor raven haired’s breath and mind.
He was so thoroughly condemned.
Liam was certainly the Lord of Crime. He had no other sane explanation as to how this man in front of him could turn from his angelic and polite frame from when dancing with noblewomen, to this devilishly seductive form of his. But now was not the time to fawn over this beautiful man mastermind, or Sherlock would find himself hard to restrain from touch.
Liam was just a tad too far away, yet so frustratingly close.
He decided to risk, to test his luck, “And what if I said so? Would you help me avert the situation?”
“Are you possibly asking me to teach you how to waltz, Mr. Holmes?”, said Liam with smug glint in that crimson eyes of his.
“Perhaps.”
The other man seemed to pause at that, considering it for a moment, humming as he glanced over Sherlock’s idle posture on the wall.
He then took a meaningful step closer to the detective’s personal space, only within his arm’s reach limit, yet unmoving any further. The professor extended a hand and slowly placed it on his shoulder, waiting for his reply. Waiting for a sign to move -whether away or closer he quite couldn’t tell.
Sherlock then wasted no time in placing his own the blond’s waist, certainly not as he had been dying to do since first seeing him dance all the way across the ballroom. Except now, there was no noblewomen in their way to intrude the moment. There was no else but the two of them.
“Follow my lead”, Liam whispered, as he positioned his other hand on Sherlock’s lower back, and the detective swore a part of him died on spot. He grazed the other’s hand as Liam gestured him to, locking their palms upright in a tight embrace.
Given their same height, Sherlock felt extremely sweaty as he locked eyes with the man holding him closer than the socially appropriate, nor required for a public ball. But the detective was not about to comment on that, they both knew it, just as they both knew it that he was vividly grateful to not had needed to watch such setting with Liam’s previous dance partner.
The blond averted his gaze first, and as much as did soothe Sherlock’s nerves a chunk, its absence made heavy to be felt.
Though it was better this way, to maintain at least the bit of decorum that was left amidst them. Neither remarked on how such arrangement also didn’t correspond to an appropriate and traditional way of waltzing, were they to be dancing with a woman.
Then Liam stepped back, dragging Sherlock with him, moving with ease and grace as he did before. Perhaps Sherlock was no longer an envious man, as he had been blessed to waltz closely to Lord Moriarty, to feel his even breath nearly his own mingled one, as they unhurriedly swayed back and forth.
“You're familiarly aware on how to waltz just perfectly fine”, stated the professor. Not an accusation, but an observation. A resolute one at that, with a tone of amusement.
“Obviously.” Sherlock smirked greedily, “But you already knew that.”
“Evidently.”
They stepped further away from the baluster, and Liam’s tone had grown lower, as if he didn't originally intended to share such confession of his part. “I’m afraid I should let you know that you’ve been the best companion so far, given you have yet to step on my shoes.”
“Ha! Do not relent on it, my dear mathematician. Probability tells I could yet come to ruin such perfect image of my whirling skills as you seem to have constructed”.
“Then I shall also let you aware of the consequences of such act were it to take place in the nearer future, Mr. Detective.” With that, Liam twirled them on a harsh turn, causing Sherlock to drastically bend backwards, clawing at the baluster at his left in order not to fall - as the blond oh so beautifully laughed at his demeanor.
He openly cackled as Sherlock sent him a dirty glance, composing himself back up as Liam elegantly covered his mouth with the back of his hand to contain his splutter. The red of his eyes glinted with such genuine mirth that the detective couldn’t find in himself to care about being ungraciously tossed to the ground.
So yeah, Sherlock considered himself to be many things, and at that moment he was the luckiest of them all. To have the Lord of Crime himself play him a dumb and simple trick made his skin prickle and burn to a thousand degrees of desperation and delusional want.
And made him a very much certainly envious person, because he decidedly did not want to share this version of Liam. This delicate side of him that seemed to exist solely on the rare out-view of the world, where time paid no importance nor relevance.
Sherlock did not want to have to share the Liam who slowly but gradually composed himself, and not so subtly checked his pocket watch as a darker trail of light restricted his vision. As if he seemed to recall the ballroom they long have left behind. As if the time he granted himself to spare with Sherlock had come to a halt end.
So the detective found himself wishing to have, to have time and guts to spill all his buried wishes and pleas, to be able to look into Liam’s eyes and say it aloud what they both have been meaning to utter.
But not tonight.
Sherlock would have to be the cautious person tonight as to not to ruin the odds of anticipating any of this, whatever it was, or would it turn out to be. This silent agreement they seemed to have sealed long ago, mindlessly enough to make Sherlock desire to be more of a envious person.
Because then he would take what he ached for, he would dare reach an inch closer to the blond who pointed to leave, to the man who patiently pleaded with his eyes as to keep Sherlock silent. As to not ruin these sacred and rare moments they were able to maneuver, given their respective positions on the greater scheme of things.
“I’m afraid I shall return to aid poor Albert in escaping countless ladies’ endeavor to court him into marriage”, Liam stated. And he stood tall as to look back at the detective’s face, briefly smiling as he made way back to the large halls. “Thank you for entertaining me on such frivolous pursuit. I was quite pleased to teach you such valuable skills, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps next time I shall watch you leading a proper, conventional dance partner on the ballroom.”
“I’d rather not have to engage on such activity at all.”
“But you just did ”, a sly grin, “with me.”
“Yeah.” Sherlock whispered, then averted his look from the blond as to not share any raw emotion, “with you.”
Sherlock really tented to be less of a cautious person, sometimes.