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There is no shortage of people who want to see Sherlock Holmes hurt.
This kind of retributive violence comes with the territory of solving crimes and meddling in the affairs of others. Cursed by disgruntled relatives of the incarcerated, revenge attacks from partners-in-crime, hastily scrawled death threats from scoundrels abound. It’s hardly Sherlock’s fault if these people underestimate his proficiency in hand-to-hand combat alongside his massive intellect.
However ! Sherlock is not the only Holmes whose line of work garners this kind of attention, and Mycroft’s enemies are considerably better… err. Organized.
“You just tell your brother that his days are numbered, alright sweetheart?” hisses Miscreant #1 in a thick London accent, gripping a fistful of Sherlock’s hair to keep his lolling head upright. A dark half-mask obscures the man’s eyes, but plenty of other distinguishing features are left visible. Most notably, an iron ring, and a distinct moth-emblem tattoo etched into the side of his neck. Deliberately visible.
“A telegraph would have sufficed,” Sherlock snarks back. Or he would, if the air hadn’t been stripped from his lungs. Carmine red drools out of his mouth, spattering onto the filthy back alley stone below. White heat spreads through his veins from the bruised pinprick on the side of his neck, a sensation like having his mind dragged through marshland.
He blinks blearily, careful not to let his gaze betray his appraisal of his assailants.
There are five in total, all donning masks and similar moth tattoos on various parts of their body. Miscreant #3, the tallest one by far, has recently lost a tooth. Courtesy of Sherlock’s now-scraped knuckles – he may be gravely outnumbered, but it’s not in his nature to make anything easy for anyone else.
Judging from #2’s posture, shoes, and the model of the revolver trained towards Sherlock’s forehead, he’s definitely a rat from the Scotland Yard. Christ, Lestrade has his work cut out for him if these are the colleagues he’s dealing with. And #4…a mercenary, likely served in the army and developed a taste for blood before joining this line of work. The one that plunged a syringe into Sherlock’s neck to tame him.
Sherlock can’t get a good look at #5, who has his arm twisted back, pinning him down into a kneeling position in this decrepit back alley, knees digging into the filthy cobbled stone. But he can detect large hands, a repressed tendency toward left-handedness. The smell of incense - a corrupted man of the cloth?
Sherlock licks his lower lip free of blood. This collection of ne’er-do-wells are just trying to send a message to Mycroft – that is to say, an indirect message to the Crown itself. It wouldn’t serve him to fight back any more than he already has. Right now.
His silence is taken as submission. Miscreant #1 pats him on the cheek, iron ring striking his bruised cheekbone. With his other hand, he drops a card into Sherlock’s lap. “Atta boy.”
Sherlock stays marble-still when they release him from their brutish grasp, but waits until the group has actually left the alley to slump back against the nearest brick wall, grimacing at the discomfort in his spine and his most-certainly dislocated shoulder. It doesn’t seem like any of his bones are actually broken (probably), though his ribs are bruised and it bloody hurts to breathe, even with the chemical calm curdling in his blood.
He exhales a laboured sigh, tapping his head back against the wall as well and squeezing his eyes shut. Now what to do about this predicament?
He’s collected enough data on the individual members just by observing them, but it seems like they’re backed by something larger than your average London firm . He flickers the card between his fingers, loath to inform his older brother that he was just beaten to bait him into a pathetic scuffle.
There’s scant lighting here, with the already-waning moonlight obscured by heavy clouds, and the nearest street lamp flickering several streets away. Even so, he can see the depiction of the same moth-emblem, wings bearing spots like the sunken eyes of a skull. Rather dramatic, isn't it?
Sherlock fumbles through his dress pants’ pockets for a cigarette. Finds one, partially crushed, but still smokeable. He’s halfway through striking a match with shaking hands when he hears footsteps through the midnight hush. Not the same ones as Mycroft’s ‘friends’; a single set of shoes against the cobblestone, with a quiet, elegant gait.
Familiar. Sherlock suppresses a groan. The timing is so bloody bad, it cannot possibly be a pure coincidence. Because after all, wherever there’s devilry afoot, he’s bound to follow close behind.
The footsteps crescendo without quickening, and stop just short of Sherlock’s feet. A silence follows, swollen with violence.
The beat of his heart shifts time signature. Perhaps it’s the drugs. He glances up, brows furrowed. “L-” he tries to start, but the name catches in the back of this throat, copper-tinged. He squeezes his own forearm to brace the pain of speaking.
“Who is responsible for this?”
His voice is soft and cold, void of the warmth he usually lends when speaking to Sherlock. The brim of his hat casts additional shade over his eyes, which stare down, warning red, just below Sherlock’s face.
His own face is moon-pale and carved from ice under the foggy darkness, and no longer does his unwavering, enigmatic, pretty smile hang from his lips.
Sherlock shudders. “Liam,” he tries again, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. He touches his fingers to his throat, and feels a tender hurt there too - there must be visible bruises from the attack earlier. The first few buttons of his dress shirt were torn open, exposing the damage. A few flecks of blood stain the white collar.
The puncture wound where the needle had broken his skin.
Ah. “I don’t want you to -”
“Tell me, now.”
Sherlock clenches his jaw. He hardly wants to notify Mycroft of this incident, let alone the self-proclaimed Lord of Crime. Let alone Liam. Sherlock can clean up his own messes, there shouldn’t be a need for anyone else to get involved – shit .
Liam’s blood-fresh gaze slides over to the card between Sherlock’s fingers. His features hardly flicker, but Sherlock’s spent enough time studying Liam’s face to know that a “blank” expression is just a cleverly sculpted mask. He’s clearly seen all the evidence he needs.
“Liam,” Sherlock snaps, more firmly this time, but Liam has already turned on his heel - ah, sod it all !!
He tries to sit himself up, but a sharp, twisted pain in his knee cripples him before he can grab at Liam’s hand to pull him back. His fingers meet air instead, the flutter of Liam’s black coat as he strides away.
Desperate, Sherlock fumbles for an appeal. “Aren’t you going to comfort me?” he drawls, goading and arrogant to cover the tremor in his voice. Stupid. Idiot .
It, miraculously, gives Liam pause. He turns back for the breath of a moment, lips parted. “Later,” he mutters.
And then he’s gone.
SHIT .
Goddamnit it all. Sherlock presses the heel of his palm into his eye jaw muscles tensing as he grinds his molars together. His flimsy cigarette still unlit between his fingers. With his free hand, he smooths back his hair, straining it away from his face. SHIT SHIT SHIT.
It’s not a face he’d wanted to Liam to make. Blood spills on the streets of London, nightly still.
***
It takes some time, with his injuries teeming and his nerves frayed, but Sherlock picks himself up and limps back to 221B. He chews on the prospect of sending a messenger to Mycroft, but the thought of Liam on the hunt stays his hand.
It’s not uncommon for Sherlock to return home late at night, but as if by some intuition, he’s ambushed by his concerned landlord and roommate who’ve stayed up well past their respective bed times.
Between Watson’s medical expertise (helpful) and Miss Hudson’s fussing (less helpful), Sherlock finds himself cleaned and patched up. His shoulder returned to its right place, ointment on his more severe bruising.
“What the devil happened to you?” Watson murmurs, expertly dressing the scrapes along Sherlock’s knuckles. “And you’ve been drugged, no less?!?”
“I got mixed up in my brother’s affairs,” Sherlock mutters back, trying to slowly breathe away the tension cramping his abdomen. He’s long overdue for a cigarette. “It’s really nothing to fuss about.”
“Mycroft ?! Should we go alert him at once ?”
“No, I,” Sherlock grinds his hand against his forehead, like he can massage away this feeling of helplessness. “It’s being dealt with.”
Watson seems to concede to temporarily dropping the subject – “Just make sure you get plenty of rest and don’t do anything strenuous!” – though Sherlock imagines this will come up tomorrow morning when he’s less of a mess.
He’s wearing a clean shirt now, partially unbuttoned. His neck, wrists, and legs have been bandaged in some places, and the blood cleaned off his face. As the drugs in his system withdraw, so does chemical temptation call to him sweetly, a lullaby. Bitterly, he resists. Instead of indulging, he reads. Or rather, tries reading. Paces and smokes. Fusses and flounders over his latest experiment (is there a way to discern a culprit’s identity from their skin or hair ?!). Paces and smokes some more. Tries practising the violin (quickly veto’d by an exhausted Miss Hudson).
He lights another cigarette at three strokes past three. Reclines against his desk, with his back facing the room’s window.
It’s almost frightening how quietly Liam can break into a room. He’s certainly more stealthy than Sherlock himself, more of a shadow than a man.
“I ought to have you arrested,” Sherlock says, without turning around right away. Smoke curls around his fingers and dances under the candlelight melting by his side.
“Whatever for?” Liam replies as he pads silently over the carpet to Sherlock’s side. He’s shrouded by an unsettling calm, none of the bloodlust that had been rolling off him earlier tonight. He drops something into Sherlock’s palm. "Breaking and entering?"
“You know whatever for. Multiple homicide,” Sherlock retorts dryly, inspecting his hand. An iron ring inscribed with a pair of initials. The same one that had struck his cheek and bound his throat, rendering him speechless for once. What a grim souvenir. “What are you, a cat delivering me the spoils of your hunt?”
“Moths that flock to flame will get burned,” Liam says lightly. He’s still clad in that dark, fluttering coat of his, sword cane gripped in his hand. “A combatant such as yourself wouldn’t get in that state without foul play. It seemed prudent to return the favour.”
Sherlock flicks his gaze over to Liam. He can get a better look at him now that he's in his own flat, illuminated by candlelight, instead of in a dark alley, shrouded by mists.
Liam’s smiling again, and the flame in his crimson irises is still burning, though it no longer casts any light. A dull, smouldering glow, embers of arson. These eyes are framed by sleepless bruises. He’s lost weight since they’ve last met.
He can’t carry on like this.
“They were trying to send a message to my brother,” Sherlock sighs, passing his half-smoked cigarette to Liam. With his hands now free, he smooths his bangs back, only for them to fall back over his face. His hair is still a little damp from his bath earlier. “I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of letting it go through.”
A pause. Liam accepts the cigarette. “You were going to try and handle it your own way. I know,” he murmurs, and takes a drag. He purses his lips to exhale a thin stream of smoke. “They’re nothing but a swarm insects that think themselves a pestilence against the queen. Nothing to bore yourself with.”
“You think I’m that soft, eh?” Sherlock huffs out a laugh. “Even after I’ve killed Mlilverton?” His mouth still tastes like iron.
Liam’s smile tilts. “No,” he breathes, sharp as when he’d demanded to know who’d hurt Sherlock. The cigarette is still perched between his gloved fingers when he takes Sherlock by the hand and guides his hand to his throat. His adam's apple throbs as he swallows. “You shouldn’t dirty your hands on anyone but me, Sherly.”
Sherlock twitches. Liam’s skin is cool to the touch, but the tremor of his pulse dances against the slight pressure of Sherlock’s palm. “Is this your idea of comforting me, Liam?”
Liam doesn’t respond. Or perhaps it’s that he cannot respond. He’s so assertive when it comes to shedding blood or putting himself in the crossfire or putting his rival's hand to his vulnerable point. There’s sweetness in him, it's just a little madness tinged.
Sherlock knows, because he’s the same way. He admires the smooth, delicate flesh of Liam's throat for a moment, then slides his hand to cup the side of his neck. With his free hand, he plucks the cigarette out of Liam’s hand, raises the filter and touches it to Liam's frowning lips. Where a kiss may have been laid.
Crimson eyes widen, but Liam tilts his head and inhales obligingly from Sherlock’s hand. The poison lingers between them, intimate.
And what would Sherlock do? If it was Liam sprawled on that alley floor, dishevelled and bloodied, painted in plum bruises where men had laid hands. Probably wouldn’t hunt them for sport. Probably wouldn’t need to – Liam can handle himself.
But is that really true? Sherlock takes a final drag, and the cigarette butt burns hot against his thumb. Moths to that flock to flame get burned. Liam drowns himself in sin and violence because he doesn’t believe he deserves to live outside of it. If it were Sherlock, he’d…
The kiss comes after a heartbeat. Tender as a wound.