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“Look, Sherlock! I think I’ve done it.” William turned to the detective stepping into the kitchen, a pleasant, joyful smile softening his face for the first time in a long while. His shirt sleeves were rolled up; one hand rested against the dining table, the other on the rim of a large bowl in which a pale, sticky dough lay after all the hard kneading and long resting.
Sherlock, having just finished in the bedroom, stepped behind him with interest and glanced into the bowl over William’s shoulder. His hands happened to be empty, so he could slip his arms around William’s waist. He rested his head against William’s shoulder so he could lean closer without having to walk around him. His wavy hair brushed against William’s cheek, making him laugh softly. He turned his head away to escape the ticklish strands and, instead of the dough, looked at Sherlock; he saw admiration on his face.
“I never doubted you for a moment.” Sherlock’s lips followed his hair, brushing lightly along William’s cheek and sending a shiver through his whole body with the soft kiss.
William closed one red eye — the other still covered by an eyepatch, even here, at home — and drew a deep breath. He tried to separate Sherlock’s distinctive cool, smoky scent from the kitchen’s gentler, sweeter fragrance.
“Louis would have managed it sooner,” he remarked at last. His smile didn’t fade, but his voice lost its brightness and sounded more like resignation.
Sherlock noticed the shift and tightened his arms around his waist to pull him out of it. He didn’t want to let William slip into uncomfortable memories, because he was still unsteady. Even though he had gotten out of bed, left the house, and was able to talk with him at length, intimately and for a long time, he did not want him to retreat into himself again.
William could only let go of the bitter thoughts slowly and with difficulty, and Sherlock himself didn’t truly know how to help him. He did what he could: stayed by his side, cared for him, coddled and loved him as much as William allowed and as much as he himself could bear to give.
Touches like this embrace had become natural, as natural as the fact that they lay down together in the same bed, but even that didn’t reassure Sherlock. William smiled even in his worst moments, yet Sherlock didn’t want this sad resignation, he wanted that radiant joy he had seen just a minute earlier.
“It doesn’t matter how long it takes, only that it’ll be wonderful,” he said, certain of the perfect outcome. William let out a quiet laugh and shook his head, his face drifting farther from Sherlock’s lips.
“Let’s hope you’re right, Sherlock.” He took the hands clasped around his waist and slid his fingers between Sherlock’s before slipping out of his embrace. “Would you like to help me?”
“With what?” the detective asked. In the meantime, William turned the well-risen dough out onto the clean table dusted generously with flour. His every movement was tentative and slightly unsure, as if he were trying to claim a knowledge he had watched a thousand times but never practiced.
He tried to stretch the stubborn dough that kept shrinking back on itself, aiming to pull its edges toward the four corners of the table, but instead of the neat rectangle he wanted, he could only manage an elongated oval no matter how hard he focused on the desired shape. As William furrowed his brows and rolled the pin over the dough again, Sherlock found him beautiful and truly young. It was so ordinary, so everyday, that no matter how much time had passed, he still caught himself being surprised to see him like this.
William wore a simple white shirt, a thick, tailored waistcoat, and soft trousers of the same fabric, already dusted here and there with flour. He disliked showing his injured eye, and since his vision was not perfect, he preferred to cover it so that the blurred patches would not distract his other eye. He had grown used to the narrowed field of view, but because he could hear Sherlock beside him without seeing him, he eventually turned his head fully toward him when he spoke.
“Please melt a little butter for me,” he said gently as he glanced in his direction. “I can’t get to the stove right now. It’s beside you.”
After a bit of searching, Sherlock found a small pot and dropped in the piece of butter William had cut earlier and set aside for his mysterious purposes. While William struggled with the dough, Sherlock stood at the stove, stirring the melting butter with diminishing enthusiasm so it wouldn’t burn. When it was hot and liquid, he placed the pot on the edge of the table and stopped beside William, uncertain: both of them were rather lost in the kitchen.
“What would you like now, Liam?” he asked, brushing aside the long fringe that kept falling into his face. William took the pot from him and began drizzling it over the rolled-out dough, which only vaguely resembled a rectangle. He no longer turned to Sherlock when he spoke, because he was to his right and noticed him in his peripheral vision.
“Please mix the cinnamon and the sugar for me, then the remaining butter with the cream cheese and the powdered sugar. My hand’s gotten a bit tired for the last one,” he admitted, looking apologetic. Once he’d finished, he turned, resting his red eye on Sherlock’s back as he watched him obey the request.
When Sherlock handed him the plate with the cinnamon filling, William brushed his fingers lightly. Warmth washed over Sherlock again, unrelated to the oven that was slowly heating the kitchen to an almost suffocating degree. He swallowed, leaned back against the counter, only a step from where William worked at the table, and watched him spread the sugar over the generously buttered dough.
“What exactly are you making?” he asked. He loved listening to him speak, but he had managed to pay only half attention the previous night when William described his plans for the next day. He’d seemed happy and determined for the first time in ages, and Sherlock regretted being so tired that only every third word had reached him.
“I’d like to make cinnamon rolls,” William said cheerfully, leaning closer to the table with his brows drawn in concentration again, “but we’ll see, Sherlock, what comes of it.”
Louis certainly hadn’t done it this way.
Sherlock could almost hear that soft, yielding sentence as if William had not only thought it but actually spoken it aloud. He shook his head, but this time he didn’t worry. William had changed in countless ways, and some of those changes, even if only slightly, had shaped him for the better.
He had not expressed real doubt, but Sherlock still wanted to encourage him. He stepped closer, careful not to get in the way of William’s elbow as he sprinkled the sugar over the dough with great attention, yet he witnessed the spoon tilt in his hand and William pour a heap of cinnamon onto himself under the table.
William stopped and looked up. His red eye fixed on Sherlock’s face with the dull gleam of complete resignation, then he let out a little laugh. Sherlock could see that this small mistake did not irritate him at all, he was simply amused by his own clumsiness. The warm sweetness of his voice stirred a pleasant feeling in Sherlock’s chest as well.
“My leg is all cinnamon now,” he noted with the same helpless confusion that showed in his eye. William, brilliant in every area of life, proved utterly inexperienced in the kitchen after so long without needing to look after himself or feeling any urge to meet even his most basic needs.
He had never truly learned to cook, and baking was entirely unfamiliar territory for him, but Sherlock was captivated by the gentle determination with which he had decided to give them a proper, beautiful Christmas, even if they lived alone together, abandoned in a foreign country.
In the past year and a half, they had had little reason to celebrate. After both of them became occupied with the tasks assigned by the Pinkerton Detective Agency, along with the occasional company of Billy, who counted as their only acquaintance in the New World, they barely had time to dwell on their losses. At least, they did not speak of them often with each other.
Sherlock thought very little about those he had left behind because the one person for whom he would have sacrificed his life without hesitation was beside him. Yet whenever London crossed his mind, his mood clouded, and to avoid that he generally kept such thoughts at a distance.
William was different. He had prepared himself to lose everything, but only if he could count his own life among those losses. After surviving, he felt confused and abandoned. He had never learned to take care of himself, but at that time, aside from Sherlock, only his own person existed, which he was forced to get to know and accept.
His perception of himself took on a new light beside Sherlock, who illuminated him and filled his world with colour—he no longer feared appearing so clumsy and vulnerable in front of him.
Sherlock laughed softly in disbelief and bent down to wipe the spilled cinnamon sugar from William’s leg. The blond man endured it without moving until he finished, then he helped him up, warming his hand in Sherlock’s for a brief moment.
After he finished filling the dough, he tried to roll it up, and Sherlock, who could clearly see he could not help, stepped aside a little to make room for him and encouraged him from there. William answered with the faint, incredulous smile that would not leave his face:
“There is nothing to fear as long as you are here,” he said, but a few seconds later he corrected himself before Sherlock could truly take joy in the kind words. “Actually, Sherlock, I think I do have something to worry about.” The detective tried to look over William’s shoulder to see what was wrong, but it was unnecessary, because he added in a plaintive voice, “It is all running apart. I do not know what to do.”
“Perhaps wait a moment until the butter cools and holds the filling together,” he suggested, but he had no better idea either at the sight of the dark brown streams trickling down.
William nodded. He carefully rolled up the rest of the dough, pressing the edges together with care to stop the flood.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand to brush his hair away from it. He left a small smudge of flour on his face, which Sherlock wiped off with his thumb without a word.
“You did well,” he reassured him, standing now in front of him, between William’s feet clad in soft slippers. He did not let go of his face, and he did not mind that William gently wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him only by the wrist so his dirty hand would not touch his clothes. He wouldn’t have minded even if William got him completely covered in the pastry or in himself: Sherlock simply wanted to have him close.
He bent down, rested his forehead against his and kissed him softly on the mouth. William smelled of risen dough and the cinnamon that permeated everything, but his lips were sweeter, carrying the warmth of familiarity and home. Sherlock had begun the kiss without passion, but he could not suppress a quiet sigh when William’s tongue slid along his lower lip.
Shortly after that William drew back from him and pulled his hand from his waist as well, earning a plaintive sound from the detective.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Sherlock asked when William turned back to the table. “Do you not want to wait a bit longer before dealing with the pastry?”
“No,” William shook his head, his voice thickened by the kiss. “I want to finish this and then join you.”
With sure hands he sliced the roll (he was obviously better with a knife than with a wooden spoon), and his mouth twitched only once when he saw the filling begin to seep delicately to the bottom of the tray. He sighed. He placed the cinnamon rolls into the oven and wiped his forehead again with the back of his hand when he felt the heat of the fire so close.
“It's all going to burn,” he remarked without anger. He washed his hands and went over to Sherlock, who had been looking at the pastry but, hearing William, turned straight toward him.
“It won’t,” he reassured him, “and in fact, Liam, I’m certain this will be the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life!”
“Don’t exaggerate.” William gently stroked Sherlock’s warm, flushed face. “If that were true, I’d be disappointed you’ve never had anything delicious before.”
“You are very funny.” Sherlock was pleased that William could tease him. Their relationship was relaxed and intimate enough for such conversation, and it seemed William felt comfortable enough to joke. Sherlock was satisfied. He felt many emotions from him that he had not before, but which he would gladly have glimpsed on his face at other times.
He seated William with a cup of tea in their bedroom, even though he was so happy to have him nearby, and studied the open cookbook. Sherlock eventually managed to prepare the cream William had asked for earlier, leaving all the ingredients in front of him.
By the time he finished, the apartment was filled with the sweet scent of cinnamon, and the pastry seemed ready when he glanced at it in the oven. Sherlock did not like to admit it, but baking was harder work than he had first thought, and he was truly grateful that William had not made him whisk egg whites for a sponge cake.
William set his cup on the nightstand. He had not finished his tea and it had cooled by the time Sherlock returned to the bedroom, satisfied with the cinnamon rolls. William lay on his side. His eyes were closed, and his face looked soft and angelic in the cool, muted winter sunlight. A long lock of blond hair stuck to his lips; Sherlock gently brushed it away but did not remove his hand from his face.
He sat beside him and simply watched for a while, listening to William’s even breathing. He looked calm, not moving even when Sherlock stroked him.
Everything was so ordinary. Sherlock enjoyed these moments, though quiet life promised boredom and meaninglessness. Yet beside William, there was a constant, pleasant excitement within him, and he was grateful to be there with him.
He removed his jacket, which bore small white spots of buttered cream, and lay down behind William on the bed. He drew him into his arms, pressed his face into his blond hair, and kissed the nape of his neck, careful not to wake him.
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the closeness, which now felt entirely natural.
William took hold of the hand resting on his stomach and interlaced their fingers. He said nothing, but there was no need: he simply did not want to leave the embrace.