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For as long as Mycroft can remember, the world beyond the window of the study room has always been a fascinating one.
The streets are bustling with people and vibrant with life; at the corner of one street, a little girl chasing after her runaway poodle nearly bumps into a hotdog stand owner. The hotdog stand owner hasn’t noticed because he is currently engrossed in trying to chat up the pretty florist. (Unfortunately for him, she is already married, Mycroft observes, even though she’s not wearing a ring.) Meanwhile, on the opposite side, a businessman is running late for his appointment at the tailors’...
Mycroft could spend hours people-watching and never tire of it.
Piecing together the lives of complete strangers from the brief snapshots he got to see was like trying to solve a neverending puzzle. There was no limit to the amount of detail he could delve into, and Mycroft would try to deduce anything he could about the people outside the window: their occupations, the number of people in their families, why they were here, how they got here, what they were here for – and it was always far more enjoyable than poring over whatever was written in the books.
Naturally, Mycroft gets very good at it. That’s simply what practice does to any skill; there’s nothing to be surprised about.
But Mycroft’s relatives are impressed by the accuracy and depth of his analyses. They called it a gift for reading people. And what a wonderful gift he was blessed with, how they praised it! How useful it would be for his future! For the country!
Always for the British Empire.
Mycroft Holmes is the eldest son of the Holmes family, and thus it is his duty to serve.
.
Albert James Moriarty is the eldest son of the Moriarty family, and it is not his duty to serve.
He does so anyway. And he takes noblesse oblige to the extreme.
Mycroft had considered a handful of potential candidates to assign the retrieval of the stolen documents to, and after a thorough internal investigation – whoever the mission is assigned to will be handling one of Britain’s most devastating national secrets, after all – he came out with Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty, a resourceful noble who secretly wiped out a drug cartel.
A noble who, as a child, had made weekly visits to an orphanage, rather than hefty donations to look charitable.
The background check did flag some suspicious places, and Mycroft had been fairly certain that there was at least one bigger man pulling the strings. But the information he had was sufficient enough to reflect the kind of person Albert is; or at least, the child he had been.
As far as first impressions go, what Mycroft felt for him was a mix of sympathy and pity.
.
At his behest, Albert knocks on the door of his office in the dead of the night. He leaves promptly after accepting his orders, and in the privacy of the dimly-lit room, Mycroft picks up Albert’s file again and leans back in his armchair, closing his eyes with a sigh.
It is too easy to picture a softer sheen to those emerald eyes, a gentler look to a suffocated youth who spent his days indulging in the little things he could do within his power: Help the less fortunate. Help the children.
Albert had been the black sheep of a noble family who perished in a fire.
It’s not hard to put two and two together.
Behind the veneer of the sharp, crisp lines of his uniform lay a man who would have really been more suited to—
Mycroft suddenly remembers why he doesn’t have the habit of learning more about his operatives than what’s strictly necessary.
.
Mycroft observes the world but makes sure to carry himself at a distance from it. Some degree of understanding is required to predict what goes on in the heads of other people; what they think and why they think that way and how the lives they’ve lead so far will influence the way they’ll think from now on.
But too much empathy clouds reason.
And Mycroft’s interest in Albert James Moriarty begins just like that: With a desire to fill out the sketch he has of Albert’s character. To see more of the colors of Albert’s mind.
In other words, it is a momentary lapse in judgment.
.
Being around him doesn’t make sparks fly – Albert carries himself with too much elegance for that. But Albert’s presence is, dare he say, comfortable to be around. When Albert is not discussing work, he is warm like tea on a cold evening, pleasant like the tone he uses to thank the servant girl who brings in a fresh pot.
However, the moment he speaks as one of the “Lord of Crime”, the gentleness in his eyes gives way to a sharp gleam, and Albert becomes every bit the charismatic noble, lordly as the “dirty” blood that runs through his veins. He enables a mastermind who takes the reigns, though unlike other nobles he feels responsible whenever someone else stains their hands on his behalf.
As their plan comes closer to fruition, Mycroft quietly watches, although not too closely – lest he turns molten like Albert does when guilt eats at him – at the flicker of regret and fragility under those lowered lashes.
.
(A vision of the “correct” world seethed in his eyes, and ambition kept him going, but Albert was left empty when they reached the goal.)
.
In the name of taking responsibility, Albert declares that he’d rather be imprisoned. He stubbornly chooses to stand still and dwell in his sins. Or perhaps it’s not by choice. Perhaps the weight of the burden he’s foolishly saddled himself with is simply too much to let him move forward.
After all, Albert is too kind and gentle, and weak. He is the type of person who doesn’t have the courage to take a step forward by himself, yet he isn’t able to stand by indifferently and watch injustice unfold before his eyes, then look away and pretend he didn’t see anything.
Albert is quite the troublesome man, really.
His resolve to accept a harsh punishment may be noble, but it is a terribly inefficient way to atone when Mycroft has a country to run.
There are not many men with the insolence to refuse a direct offer from the queen, and even less that can make such a thing happen. The Holmes family is dedicated to serving the country, but in spite of that Mycroft thinks that he can give this to him. He wants to.
More accurately, this is only thing that Mycroft has the power to give. There isn’t much else he can do for Albert, the same way nothing could possibly soothe away the pain of losing Sherly.
So, time to grieve, at least.
To Albert, who has a heart filled with too much compassion for the dirty world they live in, who hasn’t grown numb from erasing threats the way Mycroft has.
To Albert, who still is naive enough to think the world will forgive those who don’t move forward.
Mycroft lets him be.
Eventually, Albert will have to come to terms with the fact that the world won’t sit around and wait for a man to finish regretting his mistakes, especially ones that he’d still do all over again even if he could redo the past.
.
The sins of the Holmes has always been his cross to carry. But at times like these, Mycroft is glad that the weight of it tethers him to reality.
Mycroft moves on, with Louis as the new face of ‘M’.
In between Mycroft’s paperwork regarding heinous criminals and criminals who are not heinous but simply operate on a different philosophy because their loyalties lie someplace else, and his own operatives who continue to do heinous things in the name of justice for the British Empire, always for the British Empire—
Ten minutes.
Mycroft rubs his temples and pours himself a cup of tea. He allows himself a brief retreat to the far-flung corners of his head.
Not a day goes by without Sherly’s face crossing his mind, sometimes at the most inopportune moments. Big brothers always want better for their little brothers, and Mycroft wanted for Sherlock to live true to his desires, bright and unconstrained, to do as he pleased no matter where that took him, even if the chosen path ended with his little brother chasing the Lord of Crime into River Thames.
With Sherly, to love is to give freedom, have him spread his wings and fly. Let Mycroft be the only one to bear the sins of their family. Let the possibilities be endless for Sherlock.
It is a completely different case for the other man who constantly weighs on his mind.
Over the course of clipped conversations, the pity that Mycroft once felt for Albert has grown into something resembling fondness, then morphed into something intensely selfish and even somewhat rude.
At least in the tower, Albert is safe.
Secluded in the tower, Albert will remain undisturbed by the ugly happenings outside, the ulterior motives of people who twist words and use each other and step over each other; the Moriarty brothers have changed Britain but the aftermath isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
Albert doesn’t need to see that.
Sometimes, Mycroft almost catches himself thinking so.
To have in him such blatant favoritism is quite novel. Mycroft has never experienced such visceral feelings about wanting to keep someone close, to think them precious and to feel protective of them to the point of arrogance.
Because Mycroft wants to hold onto him. Tightly. He wants to shelter Albert’s mind and heart and erase any causes of potential hurt before it can reach him. He desires to occupy Albert’s thoughts the way Albert has taken root in his, even when they don’t see each other anymore.
.
(Given the present circumstances, Mycroft has no right to criticize Albert for chasing shadows.)
.
The carriage drops him off at the street opposite the Tower of London. Mycroft wanders up the staircase, and stops before the oak door that separates them. His knuckles are held up, poised to knock. He hesitates.
His words aren’t what Albert will listen to.
His forgiveness isn’t the one that Albert seeks. The one who can provide salvation to Albert isn’t him.
Mycroft lowers his hand and flexes his fingers around the keys in his coat pocket. He doesn’t try to act on that urge. Albert won’t allow himself to be comforted. Not by him, anyway.
Because Albert is also a big brother, albeit one connected by bonds above blood. He is a stubborn noble who discarded his title and threw himself into a prison cell to atone – and Mycroft strongly suspects, it is less about the crimes themselves and more about pushing his burdens onto his missing little brother.
Speaking of little brothers, perhaps Sherly would have crossed the threshold regardless, Mycroft can’t help thinking with a pang, as he makes his way back down.
But Mycroft is Mycroft and not Sherlock. He was brought up to be careful and calculating, not headstrong and recklessly brave. Besides, a forceful approach may not be appreciated.
So he doesn’t chase. Instead, Mycroft returns to the Holmes manor with heavy footsteps. Charlie coos a welcome when he enters the study. As Mycroft feeds the messenger pigeon some canary seeds, another possibility comes to mind.
Mycroft opens his drawer for a piece of paper, smoothing it out on the table. He picks up his fountain pen.
To Albert…
For now, this is what he can do.