I never loved myself like I love you

2

Sherlock's never really been good at comforting people.

He's never really been good at dealing with emotions in general.

He's always been awkward when faced with emotional people. He has run away from his own feelings for a good part of his life. He's always tried to avoid situations where he would have to offer comfort or words of advice to people. He'd always been blunt and straightforward. Even when he'd have to face the occasional weeping clients asking for his help, he would let John do most of the talking—the doctor's always been better than him at interacting with people, anyway.

But when Sherlock notices the first tear fall down William's cheek, then another and another until he can't stop them anymore, all he wants to do is to reach out and wipe the damn things. He wants to pull William close and tell him jokes until the blond would smile again, until he would see the wicked smirk he witnessed on the Noahtic all those months ago, when the professor had seen right through him.

And when William glances at him with pure confusion written on his face, as if he himself is surprised of the tears falling down his cheeks, Sherlock doesn't hold back anymore. He ignores the part of his brain that's screaming at him to sit still because he might be stepping over the line, his father's voice whispering how he's a disgrace—he pays those things no mind. Instead, he hesitantly reaches out, giving William enough time to decide if he wants to reject the touch or not. The professor looks at his hands but doesn't pull away, so Sherlock wraps his arms around his thin body, careful not to put too much pressure on any of his wounds.

William simply buries his face against Sherlock's shoulder and weeps, his body trembling, every wretched sob coming out of his mouth breaking Sherlock's heart piece by piece. The detective flinches when a pair of arms wrap around him, fingers almost painfully digging into his back, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he lets William hold him tight as he runs a hand through his blond hair in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, clinging to each other. He doesn't know when he started murmuring words of comfort to William, or when he stopped talking at all and just resigned to rubbing soothing circles along the other's shoulder blades and back. But he knows that, despite the thoughts running through his head telling him that it's wrong, he can't help but feel as if William belongs in his arms.

It might've been mere minutes, it might've been hours, but when the tremors finally stop and William's breathing slowly returns to normal, Sherlock gently tries to push William away so he can look at him. To his surprise, the professor fervently shakes his head and stubbornly continues to cling to the detective, hiding his face.

Sherlock hums softly and whispers, "It's alright, Liam..."

He continues to caress William's back. He can not force the man, but he can still offer comfort. After a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, Sherlock feels William let out a long sigh against his shoulder. The blond reluctantly lets go of Sherlock's waist and lets his hands drop into his lap, then finally looks at the detective.

Sherlock's heart gives a painful squeeze at the sight. Although he would never admit it—maybe not even to himself—, he has spent a lot of time observing the man during the few days he's taken care of him, but it's only now that he's finally awake that he realises how... different William looks. Slumped shoulders and tear-stained cheeks, slightly flushed from crying and from embarrassment, Sherlock assumes; scarlet eyes dull, lifeless, missing the light they held when they first met; lips pressed in a thin line, no sign of the mischievous smirk Sherlock so desperately wishes to see now. It reminds him of the William he saw on the bridge that night. A man tired of serving justice. A shadow of the cunning man Sherlock knows.