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Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, one arm draped over the armrest, staring at the ceiling of their apartment. The rain hadn't fallen for days, so the air was uncomfortably warm in the afternoon, and William had been showering more often than usual. He had just finished cleaning his instruments. The violin lay on the low table, its strings already replaced and the rosin neatly stored in its case. They had gotten the violin during one of their assigned missions. Sherlock usually played it for William alone, since they didn't want to receive noise complaints from the neighbors. That was why the only thing occupying his attention now was the sound of the bathroom door opening.
A few minutes later, William stepped out with his hair still damp, strands clinging lightly to his temple. He hadn't brought a small towel, so droplets trickled down from the tips of his hair onto the collar of his pajamas, which he hadn’t fully buttoned. The top buttons were left undone, and the pale skin beneath looked clean, flushed, and warm, like someone who had just stepped out of a sauna. Sherlock watched him silently, quietly intrigued by the sight of William fresh out of the bath, wearing the pajamas they had bought a few days ago from a clothing store Billy had recommended.
"I really want to kiss him right now."
Sherlock didn't say it aloud, but he wondered if this was what it felt like to see your partner wearing something that thin. William didn't seem to pay him any attention and just walked slowly toward their small kitchen, opened the upper cabinet, and took out a box of tea leaves. He wanted to drink something warm before going to bed.
"Did you change your soap?"
William turned slightly while holding the tea box, not quite sure where the sudden question was coming from.
"No," he answered, grabbing a cup and pouring hot water from the kettle. "I used the same one as always. That soap you bought."
Sherlock frowned. Something about William's post-shower scent seemed different from the usual soap he used. He rose from the sofa and walked closer, trying to trace the source of that fragrance. The closer he got, the more certain he became that the scent was coming from William.
There were only a few steps between them now, and William noticed, but didn't move. His gaze dropped to the cup he had just filled with steeping tea leaves, pretending to look busy. Though he would admit to himself that the tips of his ears were growing a little warm.
Sherlock came closer until he could clearly breathe in the scent at William's shoulder. Without thinking, his hand lifted and wrapped around William's waist from behind. Sherlock pressed his forehead gently against William's back, right between the shoulder blades that were still slightly damp. He inhaled more deeply this time.
"Your body scent is amazing," he murmured.
William froze when Sherlock hugged him that tightly. He had no idea what to say, faced with Sherlock suddenly pressing against him like this. His hand, which had just been holding the cup, now hung awkwardly. He didn't know where to put it, or how to respond to Sherlock being this close. Usually, Sherlock only touched him when it was necessary, or when William initiated it.
Sherlock's hand brushed softly against William's waist, and he kissed his shoulder, then let his lips drift slightly down to his neck, making William squirm a little from the ticklish sensation.
"Reminds me of your scent back in Durham," Sherlock mumbled sleepily, like someone who had just woken up.
William held his breath as his heart thumped wildly before letting it out slowly. He could feel the fire creeping up his face. Not just his cheeks and ears, but his chest and nape were also starting to flush red. But there was nothing he could do about it.
"So you've been a pervert from the beginning, huh?"
William's tone was half-joking, though his expression failed to hide the fluster burning across his face. His body was freshly cleaned, with a faint trace of soap still lingering on his skin, and now Sherlock stood so close, sniffing him like a dog.
To breathe in someone's scent with that kind of intensity, without even giving them space to breathe, was already crossing the usual boundaries they never had to formally discuss. William wasn't truly angry, just uncertain about where to place himself. He also didn't know where to look while Sherlock kept his head down, his nose nearly brushing William's sensitive skin.
"What does it truly carry the scent of?"
William asked again, with a curious tone that sounded more genuine than defensive. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to his temple. His pajamas hadn't fully dried either, and the thin fabric gently hugged skin that still held a trace of steam from the bathroom.
Sherlock didn't answer right away. Without a word, he leaned down slightly and kissed William's neck again. He only rested his nose and lips there and inhaled slowly.
William wriggled slightly, holding back a small laugh from being tickled. He raised the back of his hand to hide his face, even though he knew Sherlock behind him couldn't see it. He couldn't stop the embarrassment, couldn't help but want to hide his face.
"It reminds me of lilies."
Sherlock kissed the spot between William's neck and shoulder, and there it was, the strongest point. The part of the body where breath was shallowest, and blood circulation most vivid. Sherlock hadn't noticed it at first. He thought it was just the soap, or perhaps a scent from a clean towel. But after a few seconds closer to William's body, when his face touched the warm side of his neck still flushed with bath heat, he realized something unusual.
The scent of flowers.
But not just any flower. Not the lightness of roses or lavender common in soaps or perfumes. William didn't seem like someone who would wear perfume, and it certainly wasn't a bright citrus scent. This reminded Sherlock of lilies—heavy, rich, and clean in that way white flowers often were.
Sherlock recognized it.
Madonna lily.
The Madonna lily is known as a symbol of purity and forgiveness. In religious paintings, the flower is often held by angels or associated with the figure of Mary. In medieval and Renaissance art, the Madonna lily nearly always appears in the hands of an angel or beside Mary—a motherly figure of mercy. That's where the name "Madonna" came from as a symbol of purity because it never chose hatred and always represented salvation.
And now that scent clung to William's skin.
Sherlock inhaled deeply again, then traced the side of William's neck with the back of his fingers. His skin was still damp. The scent didn't come from an expensive product. Maybe the soap had a hint of lily in it, but Sherlock knew it wasn't just that. It was William's body temperature that brought the fragrance to life. A flower means nothing if there is no life to carry it.
"I know none of this makes any sense. And it makes me wonder whether I'm sensing something that truly exists or if I'm just sanctifying your presence too much."
For someone like Sherlock, being that honest with such open words made William feel conflicted.
"We both know I'm not a symbol of purity or forgiveness. I can be ruthless. So if you're sensing a sacred flower on my skin, maybe you really are too drunk on the idea of me."
"Yes, my thoughts are full of you. Everything about you already lives in the space inside my mind, so don't blame me for being obsessed with imagining you as so beautiful in my eyes."
Sherlock slowly reached for the cup still in William's hand. He placed it soundlessly on the table. Then his fingers touched William's shoulder, and in one gentle motion, he turned William around so they were now facing each other.
William looked at him with an innocent gaze, though both of them knew that William's innocence wasn't as simple as it looked. Sherlock raised a hand, touched the side of William's face, and let his thumb glide slowly across his cheekbone.
"Because you are the greatest mystery that stole my heart. What I think about is you, and only you make me lose my mind like this."
And as he leaned in slowly, closing the distance, William didn't pull away. Their faces were close enough now, and when their lips finally touched, there was no room left for hesitation. William’s lips felt warm and slightly damp. Sherlock paused for half a second, checking if William would retreat. But William didn't move or resist. Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, enough to show that he accepted it.
The kiss was simple. Sherlock pressed his lips against William's with steady pressure, without trying to dominate. They truly savored the softness of the moment. A single point of contact where they were both completely still. Sherlock's hands stayed at William's sides, not venturing further, as if he knew going too far would ruin everything.
William shifted the angle of his head slightly, giving space for the kiss to deepen. Sherlock felt it and followed his lead. The kiss grew longer, still moving in a gentle rhythm. Their lips explored each other's softly, with a sense of purity, untouched by lust.
And that night, the kiss they shared felt, to Sherlock, as pure and untainted as the scent of Madonna Lily that clung to William's skin.