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Perhaps it was simply because he was dazed from bleeding out, his vision hazy as a result of a variety of bruises inflicted on his face, but William looked far too dazzling looming above him. Sherlock wasn’t even sure how the professor had found him, being slumped against a brick wall in a dim alley with a myriad of injuries, but he was at least grateful - it was better to be found by someone who knew him, and didn’t feel the need to ask questions like the Yard would.
“Hey, Liam… d’ya mind helpin’ me up?” His plea was breathy, the raising of his arm making him wince. It was nothing he couldn’t handle though - he’d had similar injuries from Baritsu training, minus the still seeping wound to his side that needed tending to.
William’s expressions were an enigma few could understand the depths of: as of now, he wore a smile reminiscent of polite conversation, the twinges of a smirk forming at the edges, yet appearing to have an undercurrent of concern. “Why, Mr Holmes, just what have you gotten yourself into today?” He extended his arm, bearing a personalised handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
It was not a legitimate question, that much was clear from his mildly amused tone. William could figure out what had happened in an instant, connecting the dots with as much ease as the detective would in his place. This was a joke, Sherlock concluded - and he didn’t mind William laughing at his pain a little. It was rather ironic that the probable Lord of Crime had ended up coming to the rescue of the very detective pursuing him, like he was some kind of fairytale damsel.
“You should see the other guy.” Sherlock’s chuckles waned not only from pain, but because the ‘other guy’ had been able to walk away afterwards, even if limping from a bullet to his calf in self-defense. The detective had been repaid by a gash on the side of his chest, which throbbed as he shrugged in a false cheery expression. “It’s no worry. As long as I get back to Baker Street, I'll be right as rain come the mornin’.”
William switched to a more deadpan demeanour, holding the linen closer to Sherlock. “You are in need of stitches.”
“I know.” He groaned, taking the handkerchief and pressing it into his side to mop up the blood (even if he hated to ruin such fine expensive materials). The pressure made him hiss through his teeth, his back muscles tensing and arching from the pain. He began muttering a variety of curses and phrases under his breath to try and hide it from the professor’s sharp ears. “The one day John is busy…”
“Watson isn't home to help you?” Now William appeared more inquisitive, the raising of an eyebrow and a splash of genuine unease in his features.
“No. But I can handle myself, Liam.”
Of course Sherlock wasn’t planning on going to a hospital. He was, in ways both admirable and to a detriment, quite stubborn. William had picked up on that characteristic of his almost instantly when profiling him, and had kept being proven right. But, he considered that Sherlock might accept help if he was the one that offered; the detective seemed rather fond of him.
“Why don't you let me aid your recovery?”
“You don't need to waste your time on me. This was all of my own makin’ anyway.”
Most times, Sherlock wouldn’t dare shun the company of the incredible William James Moriarty, a man of utmost intrigue to his curious mind. But he wasn’t quite prepared for said man to tend to his wounds, seeing a weakness that the Lord of Crime could exploit - William was a kind person, but the criminal he played was further on the ruthless side, toying with his investment in mystery. Plus, he just looked rather pathetic: beaten and bruised by a low-level grunt for a gang he was investigating because he rushed headlong into a fight, reckless as ever. It would look embarrassing on a nobleman’s part to be seen helping him, but William wasn’t any regular nobleman. He had a kind heart, incredibly so. Nothing would dissuade him from coming to Sherlock’s aid now - perhaps the two of them were even more alike than they previously considered.
William got down on one knee to reach Sherlock at eye level, one arm resting on his own leg whilst the other was held out as an offering, his face characterised by a surprisingly gentle expression: the perfect picture of a gentleman. “I insist. Let's get you home.”
And who wouldn't cave to such a selfless gesture? Sherlock found himself especially susceptible to it in the end, given both his admiration of Mr Moriarty and the state he was in. It's not like anyone else would offer, and it could give him the opportunity to delve further into the mind of the Lord of Crime (there was no doubt that William was the mastermind; it simply couldn't be anyone else).
“Go for it,’ was the only request he could muster - non-chalant enough to not seem desperate, the inklings of a challenge woven in. Same as how William liked to do it.
William began studying the wound, taking a second to gauge its depth and condition. It had torn through Sherlock’s shirt (he hadn't been wearing his suit jacket, which was logical given how warm the day was), as well as a few layers of skin, but hadn't reached bone or major blood vessels. The best solution was to try and pack the gash a little, to which he brandished yet another handkerchief from his pocket and eased it into the wound. That earned a moan of pain from Sherlock, which he then covered his mouth to suppress as William worked.
After a minute or so, the pain dulling and spiking again in ebbs and flows as time went, Sherlock spoke up again. “Liam, can you pick up my gun?”
He certainly didn't want to lose his firearm: a replacement was expensive and he did not have that kind of money right now, especially since he would not be in Miss Hudson’s good books after returning home with these injuries.
William didn't even hesitate: he simply turned around, paced over to the gun, checked its safety functions before returning to the less-injured side and placing it in Sherlock’s pocket within a dozen seconds. That alone was enough evidence that the professor knew his way around firearms, the glimpse at a devilish smirk on his face implying that it was an intentional reveal to the detective. Little clues were often given to him like this, seemingly innocuous acts that held deeper implications that only Sherlock could deduce. So, the Lord of Crime’s games knew no rest, even when the one major player was somewhat incapacitated by injury.
Then Sherlock found himself lifted off the ground, groaning in pain before the ache settled enough to see that William had picked him up with absolutely no sense of struggle - one arm under his knees, the other under his arms and wrapped around his back. He kept the wounded side facing inwards, as a way of keeping pressure; Sherlock knew he'd probably end up staining those fancy clothes with his blood, and felt mild regret for forcing William’s hand by getting into a stupid fight. But he couldn’t say he hated this predicament, all in all.
“You're… stronger than I expected… for a maths professor.” He teased, mustering a wide humorous grin as he wrapped his own arms around William’s neck to keep himself steady as they walked. Hopefully it wasn't far - his side throbbed with each step William took.
“I partake in a variety of recreational sports, for it is important to keep on top of one’s physical health.” The professor remained serious, the hint of a smile on his lips as he spoke. Sherlock knew that was bullshit (to some extent), but that couldn't be proved. Even in his suffering the Lord of Crime was teasing him, with William as his personable mouthpiece. But he wouldn't really wish to call out the man that was actively aiding him for lying, so he kept his mouth shut for now.
He finally caught a glimpse of his ride home, a memorable insignia complimented by the words ‘Je Crois en Moi’ on its central door. He was being hauled to the Moriarty carriage - meaning William had been parked in the area, and potentially had been observing him this whole time. And of course the Lord of Crime would keep tabs on his detective, but now that meant William probably witnessed him getting his ass kicked.
The embarrassment didn't have time to settle before he was placed down into the carriage, the shift in movement causing the wound to sting and prompting a painful hiss, beads of sweat forming on his temples from exhaustion. Because, he had to admit, this wound was worse than usual - it was close to ‘clutching your side and crying from the agony’ worthy. Not that he would cry, especially not in front of William.
One of William’s hands came to rest atop his left leg, which had his own fingers clawing into his thigh to create a distraction. It put Sherlock at ease almost instantly, grounding his mind (even if spiking his pulse a little) as he gazed over to William; who still wore a polite smile even if the concern was much more apparent in his eyes than before.
“Remember to breathe through it.” He advised, in a soft and gentle tone, before slowly pulling away and leaving the carriage to direct the driver.
Sherlock felt himself sink into the cushioned material, leaning his head back onto the wall with a low wavering chuckle as he followed the instructions. If he wasn’t risking bleeding out over the carriage interior, he would have responded with some kind of witty banter, but the energy was being sapped out of him at an alarming rate as he tried to remain awake. If he were to pass out, he was certain his dreams would be interrupted by that line William had just told him - it unfortunately felt like one of the most attractive pieces of speech he’d heard in his life, besides the one he’d told him on the train of course; but perhaps that was a result of shock and adrenaline making his mind spin. But he knew he could not risk losing consciousness now, giving himself a slap to his face in the hopes of rousing himself and pushing away those other thoughts. The bruises on his face burned a little, but that meant it was working.
It felt earned anyway. He’d miscalculated beyond belief going into that fight, and look where it got him - if it weren’t for William, he probably would have spent at least an hour on the floor trying to stifle the bleeding, fighting waning consciousness, unless someone found him and forced him to go to a doctor. And then he’d be saddled with a medical bill and a lot of questions. But now he had a lead on where the gang was operating out of, and a clue to their background from the way said man fought, from observation alone; so at least he wasn’t going home empty handed. In fact, William was accompanying him home, which was possibly the best result he could gain in the aftermath of being beaten up.
-
Sherlock didn't remember arriving home, nor did he remember much of the carriage ride itself. Vague recollections of bumps in roads making his bruises ache rolled around in his brain, as well as the sensation of being observed at all times by scarlet eyes. William had barely taken his focus away from him, seemingly; a fact both comforting and somewhat unnerving. He was still the Lord of Crime, after all, and being so vulnerable in his presence would be considered a detrimental mistake by many. But not with William. He, to some extent, seemed to care about him.
Now he was settled onto a towel-lined sofa at Baker Street, taking a swig of burning whiskey to dull the sensation before William set to work sewing him up. And he was shirtless - which was necessary for the procedure, and usually not a problem for him, but there was something exceedingly awkward about being half undressed in William’s presence. Perhaps he was just too dazed, but he could have sworn William’s eyes lingered just a little too long on his chest, which did not help the matter of awkwardness.
To make matters even worse, the moment William shed his gloves and poured some of said alcohol onto the wound as an antiseptic, the sting caused Sherlock to fly forward on instinct. He was quickly held back by a strong hand to his core from William, who eased him back down. If it hadn't been a problem before, the fact that William’s hand was on his bare chest was definitely a cause for slight embarrassment (Sherlock prayed that the professor couldn't feel the way his heart jumped at the contact).
Quickly, William got to work on the stitching, with Sherlock watching his every move. His expression was one of deep focus, his hands perfectly stable, his body language being one of confidence in his abilities and an emphasis on pinpoint precision. He worked almost as fast and skillfully as John, a trained professional in the medical field - which would make sense if he was a criminal mastermind by night, especially with subordinates who could not simply pop into a hospital for medical attention (he definitely had a team, but it was unclear of how many).
“You're good at this. How'd you learn?” He jokingly inquired, knowing that a straightforward answer would never be given. This wasn't an interrogation; he was just having a bit of fun.
“A governess taught me the basics as a child. I simply built my knowledge with reading material over the years.”
“And yet you seem rather practiced in the application.”
“Translating theory into physical actions is not as hard as many perceive it to be.” He excused, trying not to bite his tongue from focus. Sherlock continued to chortle beside him, clearly not taking his answer at face value - it wasn’t the strongest rebuttal anyway, because he was much more focused on the task at hand. “Stop laughing. It will loosen the stitching.”
“Whatever you say, Professor.” An elated smirk adorned his face as he followed those guidelines, before throwing his head back as the needle passed through a particularly sore area of skin. A choked sob escaped him unwittingly, his face flushing in embarrassment that he made such a sound in front of William of all people.
Hearing that made William raise his head, placing a gentle hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you wish for me to stop?”
“No, all good. Better to have the pain now than an open wound later.” He reassured with a smile, the ache subsiding as time crept forward. It was impressive how much William was hiding his worry right now.
“My thoughts exactly.” The professor chuckled as he got back to his task, giving further gentle guidance as the needle worked through once more. “Deep breaths.”
Sherlock was pretty certain that if he were to pass out again now, he’d have some kind of stupid giddy grin on his face. And he wasn't one to follow orders, he didn't even do so from John most of the time, but he followed each direction from William to the letter. He hoped that focusing on his breathing patterns would drown out the thumbing of his pulse in his ears - either a result of adrenaline or the fact that William occasionally had to press his hand to his chest to get the adequate angle for the needle. He would have preferred less agonising circumstances for such touches, as would anyone; but that would probably never come to fruition, so he'd take what he could get in spite of the pain.
A rap at the door signaled Miss Hudson’s entry, carrying a few cool towels and a tray of tea for them both. As much as she kept her demeanour polite, she was clearly fuming at Sherlock and his recklessness - but the landlady was not one to anger in front of guests, especially not ones of noble status like William Moriarty. William gave his thanks, as gentlemanly as ever, before Miss Hudson seemed to scutter out of the room; she had never been one to stick around during medical examinations unless necessary, which was understandable.
It would be a few more minutes before William finished up the stitching, pulling away to place cold towels on the worst areas of bruising. He was incredibly gentle with it, in a way that surprised even Sherlock - for the Lord of Crime, he hadn’t expected such a level of care. To the point he might have to revise some of his profiling.
Then again, what was the point of constantly judging William with the metric of the Lord of Crime in the back of his mind? He still had no proof, any evidence was circumstantial at best and conjecture at worst. The mastermind had his brain wrapped so tightly in red threads to follow that he was trying to find tide-turning clues in the simplest actions, when the more reasonable explanation was that William did care for him. He’d picked up on that ever-present apprehension in his eyes instantly, an uncharacteristic slip in his composure. Not about a hitch in a plan or the risk of a pawn being taken off his chessboard, but of worry for a friend. He knew John would advise that he should perhaps try to be more openly appreciative of William’s efforts.
Apparently he’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed how William left his side and sat across from him, legs crossed and posture impeccable, sipping at Miss Hudson’s prepared tea like he didn't have blood staining his clothes and cuticles. He really was impeccable at acting like nothing was amiss, shielding most of his ongoing thoughts - which Sherlock considered quite essential for an undercover crime lord… and there he went again with the metric. Force of habit, he supposed.
There was a blanket across his shoulders, helping manage his temperature alongside the cool towels easing the bruising; a change he had barely noticed until now. He was usually much better at taking note of his surroundings, but William just had a way of getting into his head and making everything else unimportant. So, when he glanced down at his stitching, he was taken aback to find the cleanest work he’d ever personally seen on a knife wound, even if only illuminated by sunset by now.
Perhaps he had looked too baffled by the sight for too long, considering William looked up from his tea with a raised eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Admirin’ your handiwork. Even John would be impressed by this.”
“Its not a note on the capabilities of a professional, I'm afraid, but it should suffice.” He deflected the praise, continuing to sip at the tea with a faint smile.
“Are you kiddin’?! This is incredible, Liam!”
William took a pause before replying. “Thank you very much, Mr Holmes.”
It was always ‘Holmes’. Sherlock had always wondered if it would kill William to call him by his first name, considering they’d solved a murder together by now and the fact he’d literally been stitching up his side not more than a few minutes earlier. They were definitely close enough to warrant less overtly formal pleasantries, but that seemed to be all William knew how to do. As for a nickname, there would probably never be a day where that would happen, Sherlock concluded, but he didn’t necessarily need it. As long as he could call him ‘Liam’, he was happy enough.
“I should be thankin’ you. You just saved me from a horrible night.”
That was when it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually thanked William yet. Now, it had never been the easiest gesture for him, but he really should be trying harder given the situation. And yet he still wasn’t doing so, perhaps out of waiting for the right time.
“I thought you were certain you could handle yourself.” Placing his cup back down onto the table, William added an almost teasing lilt to his voice. Sherlock knew he’d probably picked up on the bluff immediately, but he hadn’t expected it to come back to bite him like this.
“That was more of a formality, really… I’m hopeless at stitches.” He shrugged. The one time he’d tried (a result of an experiment gone mildly wrong) he’d made an absolute mess of it, and that was annoying to explain to the doctors.
“That’s surprising. I was of the belief your skill in violin would translate well to the activity.”
As much as William’s logic was sound, Sherlock dismissed the notion. “Then I fear you have too much faith in me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Despite what circumstances would imply, you are rather extraordinary in the field of deduction. Your inability to properly tend to your own wounds does not negate that.” William’s lips curled into an oddly soft smile.
Oh. William was praising him. Not that he hadn't before, but something about this in particular just felt so… genuine. But again, thank you’s weren't his strong suit.
“Just in deduction? Nothin’ else I excel in come to mind?” He teased in return, considering giving him a wink but abstaining in the end (even he wasn't sure why, really).
William gave a polite hum. “Well, you’re quite the fighter. You made only one minor slip up in your fight earlier that gave your opponent an opening with his knife, which is unfortunate, but hard to avoid when fighting styles clash. Your Baritsu training doesn’t quite account for bladed weapons, does it?”
After a few seconds of staring with wide eyes, raucous laughter roused from Sherlock’s throat, a wide grin on his face at the sheer irony that he hadn’t noticed anyone else’s presence in the alley, let alone William himself. “So you were watchin’. Why did I expect anythin’ less?”
“I had an associate in the vicinity who witnessed much of the debacle and fed back what he’d witnessed to me. I simply happened to be nearby for him to report back and guide me to your aid.”
Even with the revelation that it wasn’t William directly, Sherlock’s laughter did not let up. Maybe out of embarrassment or entertainment at the idea of William hearing of his injuries and running to his aid. In fact, he was laughing so much that his side started to sting, pressing a hand to it on instinct and muttering mild curses once again at the ache.
It was a matter of seconds before William was at his side again, kneeling on the floor with his eyes flicking between observing the stitches and gazing into Sherlock’s eyes with mild unshielded panic. “Are you alright?”
The sunset rays somehow made William look even more beautiful to him, blond hair alight and red eyes dreamy. Maybe it was seeing him fret about his health and bearing witness to his softer side that made Sherlock feel even more attracted to him. That or the mild head injuries.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Bloody hell, you’re like a mother hen.” He waved his hands, giving a weak smile to back up his claims of being okay - despite the fact that it did still hurt a little. But it would pass, as all physical pain did.
A relieved chuckle left William’s lips, a smile forming along with it. “And here I was about to inquire if you needed me to stay the night.”
Christ, it was the fourth time conversing with each other and William had seen him shirtless, and now he even wanted to stay over. To Sherlock, that seemed… optimistic.
The more Sherlock considered the option, the less fitting it looked. This wasn’t really optimal accommodation for a nobleman, even if William wasn’t the usual aristocrat by any means. Hell, Mycroft could barely deal with staying a few hours, and he wasn’t even a noble (Sherlock had always considered him to be playing the part, what with the accent and all). And even then, William was a busy man - was playing nurse really his desired activity for the night? It was probably just an offering born of courtesy.
“I’m sure you have much better things to do than this.”
“I have no other requirements tonight. If you need someone to keep check of your injuries until Watson returns, I’m happy to oblige.”
Sherlock gave a quiet sigh - not of discontent with the idea, but because he knew William wouldn’t let up unless something truly urgent came up. Which he deep down really appreciated, but didn't want to seem too… needy, he supposed. “Well, as long as it doesn't inconvenience you to sleep on the sofa I almost bled out onto. Unless you'd prefer my bed?”
He knew that sounded inappropriate in spite of meaning well (that he would sleep on the sofa instead), but found himself out of words to correct himself as he mulled over the idea of actually sharing a bed with William. If he wasn’t in the presence of another individual, he would have slapped himself again.
“The sofa will suffice. You are in need of rest more so than myself.” William smiled - had it always been so radiant, Sherlock wondered, or was it the lighting?
“Alright. You'd best go and tell your associates of your plan for the night, though.”
“Yes, I suppose I must. I'll be back in a moment.”
Sherlock’s gaze tracked William all the way to the flat’s door, his ears honed in on his footsteps as he made his way through the building. The reality of the whole situation began to sink in and an overwhelming feeling of giddiness took over - whether it be at the irony of it all, or as a result of an excitement reminiscent of a school-girl crush. He, Sherlock Holmes, was feeling utterly exhilarated about spending a night with a man. Well, it was because it was William Moriarty; not that it would lead to much more than conversation, but that was the greatest part. Further glimpses into his fascinating mind with a bit of late night discourse seemed more than ideal. Perhaps they’d come out the other side of this as proper friends at least. A step in the right direction.
That reality was shattered the second William re-entered the flat, an unusually defeated expression across his face that he hardly made an attempt to cover up. “Unfortunately, something urgent has come up and I must take my leave. I'm terribly sorry for the change.”
It had been too good to be true after all. The universe and the Lord of Crime couldn’t let him just have this so easily; he needed to earn it - to ‘catch him’, as it were. One day he would. A day where he didn’t have fresh stitches and when his whole body didn’t ache, perhaps.
“It's alright… Thank you for helping me out and all that.” Sherlock replied, finally having mustered the words for his appreciation, to his delight and relief. And even if he couldn’t see William’s face from this angle, he just knew the professor was smiling.
“I’m glad I could be of assistance. If you get the chance, please thank your landlady for her hospitality on my behalf.” As he began to slip into his outdoor coat, William took note of the way the detective’s eyes continued to watch him, a hint of disappointment within his gaze when he glanced over. He did not let their eyes lock to begin with; Sherlock was too sharp for his own good. If he could deduce anything about where he was going, he might try to follow in spite of his condition, which would end worse for them both. But was leaving the man he’d just helped without a proper goodbye worth that? Oddly enough, he’d decided it wasn’t.
He approached the sofa and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, to which the man himself looked up to meet his gaze with such a warm and bright expression, sapphire eyes with the renewed shine in them a testament to the improvement of his condition. William found he could only return a faint smile. “Until we meet again, Mr Holmes.”
“See ya then, Liam.” Sherlock smiled, drawing back from having his own hand meet William’s or even pressing a kiss to his knuckles (‘where had that idea come from?’, he wondered, ‘He’s bloody well not royalty...’). Not that he had time to - William left the flat quickly and quietly enough that some people would confuse him for a disappearing apparition, the whinnying of horses and the clacking of hooves indicating his departure from the streetside for the night.
For a few minutes, all Sherlock could find it in his capabilities to do was quietly laugh at the absurdity. So close to some actual quality time with the professor and it was ripped right out of his hands with no remorse. Fate was a cruel bastard. But he was still awake enough to deduce that this was likely a Lord of Crime venture, so the excitement of having a mystery to greet him in the morning bloomed (even if he’d also have to explain his predicament to John and probably be yelled at by him and Miss Hudson).
The chase continued on. Maybe soon enough he’d visit the professor’s home turf in Durham. Maybe his biggest clue was waiting practically around the corner. Only time (and a bit of healing) could tell. For now, his eyelids began to feel heavy as he drifted off into sleep, lacking the energy to make his way to his room despite the recommendation. Slumber took him much quicker than usual with William’s kind actions on his mind.
-
As William gazed out of the carriage window back to the door of 221B, the foggy London night beginning to envelop the surroundings as they marched on, there was a sinking feeling in his gut. Duty called, an unexpected occurrence shifting plans for another staged crime scene up by a day. Actually, there were two stops tonight - those original plans, and a gang to sort out. The group Sherlock had been investigating, and ultimately been wounded by, had been in their sights for quite a while; a telegram from Fred to Universal Exports with information regarding the incident had prompted full scale responses, with the decision that tonight would be the chance to kill two birds with one stone. Of course, they had not accounted for any personal plans in the decision making, but William agreed with the strategy.
It came down to who needed him more - a sickly Sherlock, or the agents of MI6 and the Lord of Crime’s team. And despite any wavering feelings, William knew there wasn’t really any other option - he’d signed up for this the moment he took on the mantle of ‘criminal mastermind’. The Lord of Crime was no easy role to play, involving sacrificing any sense of a personal life that wasn’t for the sake of noble image or gathering intel. But today he’d almost spent the night at someone’s house for once - well, not just anyone’s, but Sherlock Holmes’ flat (and not that he really deserved that chance either). Yet he was leaving to create another mystery for the very detective to solve.
Sherlock was a grown man, he could take care of himself. Plus, he had a very sweet landlady and, by morning, a practicing doctor as his roommate. He would be fine. Even with those mental reminders he gave himself, unease continued to sway in William’s mind. A sense that he should be by his side in case anything went south, even if the desire was foolishly sentimental. Had he been too open with his emotions?
The most surprising thing was that he had actually wanted to stay - to spend a night casually conversing over tea, sleeping on a sofa, caring for Sherlock’s injuries, perhaps even offering to make breakfast (even if his skills in the kitchen weren’t the greatest). A sudden craving for the mundane domestic nature of it all made itself known, seeping into his bones and becoming harder to ignore. The way Sherlock made him feel was so hard to ignore. And it was ever so dangerous.
The blood on his hands and clothes now, for once, wasn't borne of his violence, but a result of his aid. He knew that well, but it was not the easiest to see when it was clouded by spills from the Lord of Crime’s victims. Whatever happened to Sherlock from here on out was his doing, he decided - he'd roped Sherlock into a mystery of countless sprawling threads with dangers he needed to control. If anything else hurt him, William was certain he'd probably never forgive himself.
He would never admit to anyone else that he’d keep the memory of this slightly giddy and very shirtless Sherlock alive in his mind for a long while, and find himself pondering on the various possibilities of how that night could have gone.