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William and Sherlock have been fighting for six days, and Albert is confused.
They fight, of course. Couples fight all the time, over little things like who’s paying for coffee (Liam, because Sherlock is perpetually broke) or whose car to take (Sherlock’s, because Liam is dangerously exhausted all the time.) There are big fights too, over bigger things; if William will move into Sherlock’s flat or if they’ll buy one for their own (Sherlock’s, because Miss Hudson threw a fit), if Sherlock could be trusted at a bar without John or James (yes, because William is paranoid but Sherlock made a promise.) Sherlock would yell and the words would hit blunt, William would mutter and the words would dig cold.
Sometimes they worked it out quickly. An exchange in the corner of the parking lot or a couple of hours alone at home. Sometimes it took a whole day, enough time for each of them to calm down, then talk things over with someone else (not William, never William) or figure out a compromise (not Sherlock, not in a million years.)
But other than The Fight, it never took more than a couple of days. Never six days. And never over something like this.
Here’s how Albert heard it went down:
William got home late from work. William saw that Sherlock had made dinner even though it was William’s turn to. William got angry. Sherlock got angry back.
And…that’s it.
It was exactly how Louis had recounted the events to Albert, theoretically as told to Louis by John; but Albert’s sure some detail is left out, something that John wasn’t observant enough to notice but that definitely happened. So at this point, he recognises three options.
One, talk to William, already the last resort. William never spoke about the fights he had with Sherlock.
Two, talk to Mycroft, undesirable but doable. He would certainly be biased toward Sherlock, but he would at least know what’s going on.
Three, track down John and try to get details out of him. Probably the most viable option, though John tends to be apprehensive around him and both his brothers.
Albert steels himself and pulls out his phone. Beggars can’t be choosers.
John fidgets with his hands from across the quaint metal table of the upper-end cafe, his knee jittering and occasionally bumping into the table leg, disturbing Albert’s tea and John’s coffee. John didn’t even ask why Albert wanted to meet him; he knows very well, and has probably already undergone a grilling by Louis.
Albert smiles pleasantly. “How are you, Doctor?”
“Pretty well, thanks,” John says weakly. “How about yourself?”
“Well, thank you.”
Albert adds a spoon of sugar to his tea and mixes it lazily.
John seems to take a sudden interest in the patterns on the teaware. “Um. How is William?”
“Doing all right. He’s staying with us at the penthouse, for now,” Albert replies smoothly, taking care not to seem upset. “How’s Sherlock?”
“Oh, you know. Not taking it well.”
“Not making it easy on anyone, I imagine.”
John’s face hardens, and Albert sets down his spoon.
“Now that you’ve put away that scared little mouse,” he says, still smiling, “let’s talk. What happened?”
John’s mouth drops open, then twists into a scowl. “Honestly, I kind of preferred Louis’ stabbing threats. But speaking of, I’ve told him exactly what happened, as I saw it.”
“How did the fight go down?”
“Like it always does. William went all blank and said something pointed. Sherlock got to yelling right away. I booked it when William started yelling, though.”
Albert startles. “William yelled?”
John’s brow furrows. “Did Louis not tell you? A couple of minutes in, William started yelling back. I think after Sherlock said something about a one-off being fine.”
Albert takes a sip of his tea, then a longer one, trying to arrange his thoughts. He doesn’t know why Louis failed to mention William yelling, but it’s something to ask about later, and it must have been that Louis didn’t recognise its significance or something else unintended. But for now, he needs to pull himself together and keep a straight face in front of John.
“Did they mention anything else during the fight?”
John shakes his head. “Not at all. That’s the strange thing, isn’t it? It’s such a silly little thing to fight over, it seems.”
Exactly, Albert thinks. “I suppose he hasn’t told you anything about it, either?”
John’s face falls blank, but Albert can see the frustration behind his eyes. “He has not.”
He chooses not to push it further. “Is there any chance Miss Hudson heard any more of it?”
“Possibly. I don’t want to nose around.” He pauses. “I’m not the type to.” He pauses again. “Nose around, I mean.”
Albert pulls out his wallet. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything of particular import.”
“You too, eh?” Miss Hudson says as soon as she opens the door, not hesitating to herd Albert past the landlady’s office and into her own apartment. “James came by the day after, I figured one of the brothers would be in eventually.”
Albert took a seat as directed and filed away the new information. If James came by to ask Miss Hudson about the fight, it means that Sherlock hasn’t spoken to either of his closest confidants.
“I don’t need to ask, then, do I?”
She tuts at the kettle, hands on her hips. “You can ask away, but I don’t have much to offer. Of course, I started listening at the door as soon as I heard the yelling start, but the fight wasn’t anything special.” She pulls a suspiciously opaque jar from a cabinet and pitches down her voice in imitation. “‘It’s fine, it was just this once.’” A half-pitch up: “‘We agreed on this, you didn’t even text to ask.’” Down again, “‘Why would I text if I knew you were busy?’”
Miss Hudson sticks her hand in the jar and pulls out an unlabelled tea bag without looking. She pauses, squints at its contents, then shrugs and drops it in a mug as Albert watches on in growing concern. She smiles pleasantly and places the mug on the table, then pulls out the seat across from him.
He takes a sip and internally winces at the too-strong taste of ginger. “Did you listen to the whole thing?”
“Until I heard steps coming for the door,” she confirms. “Probably twenty minutes. But I imagine William and Sherlock both knew I was there even after I hid. If that changes anything.”
If it got to the point where William was yelling, Albert thinks, they probably weren’t noticing, for once. “Not likely. And the topic never shifted?”
Miss Hudson shakes her head. “They were fighting in circles. I’ve never heard anything like it between the two of ‘em. Crazy for them, y’know?”
He does. He really does. He takes a long draw of the tea, enough so that it won’t be rude to leave behind, and checks his watch casually.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” he says apologetically. “Do let me know if you remember anything of interest.”
“Of course. Oh!” She snaps her fingers. “You might want to talk to James. He seemed to have one of those epiphany moments of his, but he wouldn’t tell me if he realised anything.”
Albert smiles cordially through the advance headache forming at his temples. “Oh, wonderful. Thank you very much, Miss Hudson. I hope you have a delightful day.”
“Well, well, well,” James says smugly, leaning against the doorway, arms folded triumphantly. “Look who’s at my doorstep. The debonair, the secretive, the reclusive–”
“Afternoon, Mr. Bond,” Albert cuts him off. “May I come in?”
James steps back and pulls the door open with him, throwing out an arm. “Of course, of course. Mi casa is su casa and all that. Except not, unless you’re willing to pay my rent.”
“If you ever happen to come into financial trouble, I’m certain William would love to aid,” Albert says neutrally, following James into the kitchen.
“Nah, I’m doing just great. Business is going swell and all that.”
“Glad to hear.”
James pulls a mug out of a cabinet and sticks it under the tap. “Brits like tea right? Sit, I’ll get you a ‘cuppa.’” He looks over his shoulder and winks.
Albert can only watch on in incredulous horror as James puts the cup in his microwave, setting it to two minutes and pivoting to face Albert. “So. Sherly. Liam.”
Albert tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement, pushing aside his microwaved-tea thoughts. “I’ve heard from a reliable source that you may be able to offer some insight.”
“Yes, our lovely Miss Hudson. She’s sharper than most people give her credit for, y’know.” The microwave beeps, and James pulls out the mug and drops a teabag in without looking away from Albert. “But I’m a fan of trades—” his eyes glimmer as he sets the mug before Albert— “which you know more than most.”
Albert tilts his head in acknowledgement. “What are you looking for?”
“I want to know what you think happened.”
Albert blinks in disbelief. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Albert allows himself a moment to think. Admission of ignorance is not something he normally does—showing weakness is what it is, really—but when he considers the alternative of having to ask William…
He picks up the mug, leans back in his seat, and announces, “I have nothing.”
James raises a brow. “Pardon me, but I find that hard to believe.”
“I have assumptions,” Albert replies coolly, “but none of them align. Therefore, I have nothing.”
James seems to consider this for a moment, chin on the back of one hand, eyes set on the table.
“I suppose that makes sense,” he says quietly. Then, with a melancholy ghost of a smile on his face, adds, “I suppose you spend too much time with your own thoughts.”
Something in his words strikes cold, and Albert can’t bring himself to respond. So he doesn’t speak, and instead offers a vague gesture for James to continue.
He does not.
Albert takes a sip from the cup and, unsurprisingly, is received with the taste of faintly flavoured water. James continues to say nothing, so neither does Albert. Just to look somewhere other than James, Albert drops his gaze into the mug, an unwieldly thing that he remembers William gave to James as a gift after seeing it in a novelty shop. Through the pallid colour of the unsteeped tea, he can see the words you’ve been poisoned! painted on the bottom. He sighs, and takes another sip.
Albert stands in the penthouse’s foyer for a bit after putting away his shoes and coat, allowing himself a moment to feel helpless. Just one. Then he makes his way toward his bedroom, steps careful just in case William and Louis are asleep.
He sees the door to William’s room is wide open, something neither William nor Louis would ever allow, in the name of paranoia. Albert frowns and reaches inside to close the door as he walks past, then stalls to a halt.
William is inside, strewn across the settee, coated in moonlight. One arm is thrown over his eyes, the other draped over his chest. Though Albert can’t see William’s hands under his over-long sweater sleeves, he can tell that the fabric over his heart is bunched up, clutched tight. His chest shudders faintly on the next breath, but he doesn’t make a sound. He’s most certainly awake.
Albert’s hit with the sudden urge to try to comfort him, something he’s never done and has no idea how to attempt. What can he do? Give William a hug? Say he’s there for him? Anything he can think of is something he’s never done with his brothers (except late nights when Louis was thinking too much and William was busy, but that’s locked away as promised.) It’s nothing he’s ever done, and, he realises, it’s just not something they do.
So Albert stands in the door, imagining pulling William into his arms, imagining offering words of love and support, imagining doing something to help his little brother. Then he closes the door and walks away, down the hall to Louis’ room.
Louis tilts his head. “What about it is confusing?”
“Why they’re so upset about it. Why William got upset. Why William getting upset made Sherlock upset. Everything about it.”
Louis’ mouth forms a silent oh. He takes a breath, seemingly about to speak, then presses his lips together tightly. His brow furrows. Albert waits.
“You know–actually, wait.” Louis realigns his glasses. “What do you think the fight is about?”
Albert stares. “About Sherlock taking William’s turn in making dinner?”
Louis shakes his head. “Oh, that’s where you got confused then. I mean, that is what they’re fighting about, but a fight is never about what it’s really about.” He pauses, laughs, and shakes his head again. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“That’s all right,” Albert says. “Would you mind trying to say it another way?”
“Well, I still meant what I said. But between those two, sometimes there are things that they just don’t fight about. They know that they disagree, and they’ve left it alone. So they pretend not to—or maybe they don’t realise, really—but they fight over them anyways, through fighting over something else.”
Albert raises a brow. “Like making dinner out of turn?”
“Like making dinner out of turn,” Louis agrees. “The fight wasn’t about that, you know? It’s about William and Sherlock.” His face darkens. “As much as I hate to say it, mostly about William.”
Louis pauses. Albert waves a hand, indicating for Louis to continue. Albert is out of guesses.
“It’s about Sherlock wanting to take care of William,” Louis says quietly. “And William not wanting to be taken care of.”
It takes a moment to process. Then it hits all at once.
Oh, Albert thinks. Oh.
“I’m paying for coffee” is I want to do something for you even though it’s difficult, “let me” is don’t make things difficult on yourself for me. “Let me drive” is I want to take care of you, “no I’m fine to” is I don’t need to be taken care of.
“I already made dinner” is I knew you were going to be tired.
Albert knows that William doesn’t like to let himself be cared for. He knows it well from texts crafted too carefully to be honest and a smile too perfect to be genuine; he knows it from the relief of William deciding to sleep early and the jealousy of Uncle Jack being allowed to drape a jacket over William’s shoulders; he knows it from a million moments from their childhood to the present, just as well as Louis.
Somehow, it didn’t occur to Albert until now that William wouldn’t allow Sherlock—Sherlock, who was there for William in the worst of his times—to look after him.
It didn’t occur to him because he remembers the jealousy of the day Sherlock saved William. It didn’t occur to him because he still feels the ache of inadequacy. It didn’t occur to him because he watches them love each other, and forgets that all love has hurt—not just his and William’s, not just William’s and Louis’, not just Louis’ and his. There is a fourth, outside of his circle, who William loves just as much.
“I see,” he says quietly, then stands, resting a hand lightly on Louis’ head. “Thank you for explaining. I’m sorry to keep you up.”
Louis’ face flushes, and he shakes his head slightly. “Not at all. I’ve been up a bit late finishing work this week, so I’m still fixing my sleep schedule.”
Albert smiles gently. “Do your best to get some rest, then. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Down the hall again, back to William’s room.
Albert rests his head against the doorframe and closes his eyes. Sparks of exhaustion dance across his eyelids, and he concentrates them into stars, into bundles of wishes, into the sky he prayed to the night he took his brothers away from the house of bruises and broken bones.
“Fight about what you should,” he whispers, so quietly that he’s not sure William can hear him. He reaches out to the handle, eyes still shut, and closes the door carefully.
“Let him love you.”