I never loved myself like I love you

8

His nerves are fraying at the edges. If he was a book, he is sure he would feel as if his pages are slowly being torn free of the spine.

He just wanted a cup of tea, really. Wanted to offer Albert some of the porridge he had baked earlier in the day.

And he just couldn't help himself, no matter how wrong he knew it was to eavesdrop. Not when he heard Mycroft Holmes inquire as to why Sherlock speaking with him might not be easy, when he thought they were equals—when he thought they perfectly understood each other.

Clearly, he was wrong.

A part of me wonders if saving him was the best choice.

He eyes the detective rising from his seat with as much of a neutral expression as he can muster. But he knows he's failing. He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, he can feel the way his lips quiver as Sherlock takes a step towards him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers Albert and Mycroft heading for the door.

Sherlock reaches for him, and an unfamiliar ache tugs painfully at William's heartstrings as he gets reminded of the night of the fall. "Liam..."

Perhaps if his emotions were not so high-strung, perhaps if the one person he was finally ready to fully let his guard down around and offer his heart to hadn't just uttered the most gut-wrenching confession—perhaps then, William might have listened to his logic-ridden mind instead of his confused, wounded heart and stayed to listen to what Sherlock had to say. If he had anything to say, at all.

But he doesn't. His heart wins over his mind, and he steps out of Sherlock's reach with a simple "Don't" that conveys more than he would have liked just how hurt he feels.

In the split second it takes to turn towards the door, he sees Sherlock's expression crumble. And yet he doesn't let his resolve fall apart. He heads for the door and steps through it before Mycroft or Albert. By the time the two follow him out, he is already inside the carriage waiting at the front of the manor.

Albert sends a sympathetic look his way, but William refuses to acknowledge it out of fear of breaking down. He refuses to let the tears fall until he is safely locked into a room of his own where no one can see this... this weakness.

Two weeks of domestic bliss and an enlightening talk with Albert had him thinking he can finally have what he has so desperately yearned for, but Sherlock has shattered every bit of hope he had with those words.

If even the detective, who had jumped after him to save him, has given up on him now, what remains of him?

The first day since his departure finds him in his new room at Universal Exports, sitting by the fireplace with a book in hand. Louis sits in the armchair across from him with his own volume, nursing a cup of chamomile tea. William's own sits on the table between them, untouched.

He knows Louis will be able to tell he has not turned to a new page in about six minutes, but, truthfully, he cannot bring himself to care. Every time he has tried to focus on reading, the words have bled into one another, creating a cacophony of shapes he lacks the will to try to understand. He has not been able to focus on anything, recently.

It's as frustrating as it is unnerving.

Why must he think of Sherlock Holmes? Why must he be constantly reminded of what he cannot have?

Life had been so devoid of color before he met the detective on that fateful day, and yet it was also so, so much simpler. His only cause of anguish had been the blood that coats his hands and the sins he has to carry, free from worrying if the man he had come to befriend will kill him in the end. Free from feeling sorrow that this was the path they were destined to walk upon.