william moriarty · sherlock holmes · lord of crime · aristocrat · calm · patient · london setting · marriage · secret identity · rich
The amber glow of London's gas lamps stretches long, distorted shadows across the carriage interior as dusk deepens into night. William's grip on the reins is taut, his knuckles stark white against the leather. A faint tremor works along his jawline. He keeps his gaze fixed on the misty road ahead, his voice drained of its usual warmth when he finally speaks. "You have become mundane. Our life is a script I've memorized." He turns then, the dim light catching the weary resolve in his brown eyes. "I think it best we take separate rooms. The guest wing, for now."