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The Tower of London stood immovable before the Thames’ placid stream. Its colossal keeps seemed almost detached from the tangible, veritable world — to think of the many prisoners who suffered behind those thick walls, who spilled their flesh and blood suffocated by their screams. Albert could almost hear their strained voices and picture the horror in their eyes. He must have not been so different from them, he figured. All men, when faced with reclusion and repression, are pathetic in a very same, yet somewhat outstanding, way.
He needed to repent. He needed to shout and bleed and die; die a different death each day. Some mornings, he’d drown his senses, almost as if taken by arsenic. In the afternoon, he’d be strangled, strangled until his last breath was nothing but a feeble, miserable plea. As the Sun set, he’d suffer from the dizziness only a miscalculated gunshot would induce, slowly seeping into oblivion. And at night, at last, he’d sweat and pant out of an incurable disease, one that would leave him awake until that cursed cycle repeated.
Repent again, again and again.
The ample window gave him a partial outlook on his surroundings. There was twisted peace in staring mindlessly at the browning sky, in that helplessly continuous monotony that held him captive.
Clouds, and sunlight, and rain, and wind. All the same. It was all the same.
One day, however, novelty presented itself. It was stored in the fluttering of white wings, in a cooing sound and the shimmering of a tiny, cylinder-shaped recipient.
Charles…?
Albert had received a visitor, and with him a small piece of paper with neatly written words. He sat down on his wooden chair and read through the contents of the missive.
Mr Albert James Moriarty,
The brevity of this letter is but a consequence of the limited space
I have available, but I’m positive you needn’t this warning to tell.
I have known you enough to recognize your resolute nature — that
attitude which led even the great Prometheus to the depths of despair.
I merely wondered if the depths had to catch you yet, if there was
a possibility for your mind to escape.
Yours Truly,
M. Holmes
---
My respected friend,
I must say your letter has taken me by surprise, but I reckon
this is not the first time an event like this happened. As for my
so-called resolute nature, wouldn’t you say this is much similar to
a pot calling the kettle black? I might lack your observational skills,
Sir, but I’d proudly suggest I know something more about you, too.
These depths are what I seek, but if your ‘escape’ was to mean
a brief moment of quietude, then I’d say the possibility exists.
How is my brother Louis?
Your Prometheus,
A. J. Moriarty
The odor of ink filled the enclosed room; that was a sensation Albert would become accustomed to feel.
Thus begun their short exchanges, testimonies to three years of penitence and expectation.
Mr Prometheus,
Mr Louis Moriarty is quite the leader. He is in pain, but he has
quickly taken the reins his older brothers have left behind. As true as he is
to himself, there’s a determination in his eyes that reminds me of you.
His words, however, they are much more akin to the ones W.J.M used to
tell. Moreover, I find your remarks about knowing me quite alluring.
Yours Truly.
M. Holmes
---
My dear Holmes,
You have my most sincere thanks for your reply.
I have always known my beloved brother was clever and
capable. I wish for his pain to go away, though. I wonder,
were I to shoulder more of this suffering, would his go away?
About your last statement, I believe I have known parts of you
that are far too intimate to be considered shallow.
Your Prometheus,
A. J. Moriarty
---
Mr Prometheus,
There’s no need to thank me — those are merely my impressions.
I shall say, though, that your current, pointless suffering won’t
save Mr Louis Moriarty from the reality of things. No, I’d say
it'd be much worse.
Those parts of me which you talk about, what are they? Are you
so sure that what you’ve witnessed was my true self?
Yours Truly,
M. Holmes
---
My dear Holmes,
You call my suffering pointless, and yet you have
still to find yourself in my shoes. Indeed, what I say might be
a reverie, but one much needed for a criminal like me.
Do not privy me of this sweet thought, Mr Mycroft, or the time
I spend here might as well be a fraud.
I remember those parts of you well, Sir. They are branded with
fire in the back of my mind. My memories are too
clear to be anything but true.
Your Prometheus,
A. J. Moriarty
---
Mr Albert James Moriarty,
Our modus operandi might be clashing, however I, too, have lost
something I care about. I, too, have missing family.
The relationships we share with our respective brothers are different, but
one does not surpass the other. Make sure you remember that as well, Albert.
Yours Truly,
M. Holmes
Albert winced at that last letter he had received. It was obvious he had touched a sore spot. The tone of their exchange had quickly shifted — he was clearly at fault. He was sure, obsessively so, that what he and his brothers shared was forged by years of crime and support, they seemingly always stood on the same ground, they were each other’s missing piece. Yet, was it even excusable of him to ignore Mycroft’s silent suffering? He had dedicated his life to protect Sherlock from binding ties with the Government, after all. Charles, whose quiet steps clattered on window’s stool, stared at him, curious. Albert caressed his tiny head with the index finger.
Mr Mycroft Holmes,
I apologize for my condemnable behavior. Where we should
be uniting in our mourning — or in our wait, hopefully — I put inexcusable
strife.
I’m sorry, Mycroft.
I wish you well,
A. J. Moriarty
He did not write much, but then again, apologizing should never be too far from the words ‘I’m sorry’. And he truly was. The next missive came in later than usual.
Mr Albert James Moriarty,
I thank you for your words. Tell me, Albert, what
does it mean to live within the walls of the Tower? Is it as
anguishing as the media suggests? I would like to add that
my inquiry is that of a friend, one who unites in waiting,
as you put it.
Yours Truly,
M. Holmes
Albert did not deserve to smile, but he did so anyway. That question, posed elegantly amidst white paper, was the perfect portrait of Mycroft’s enchanting poise. His mocking smile, harsh and sweet; the preciseness in his choice of words, often masked by an accent that did not belong to him; his cruel and caressing hands.
Ever since his brother had disappeared, Albert had set his mind on carrying out his self-punishment. There was no space for triviality. Yet, as he read that missive, he felt a pang in his chest. It expanded up to his reddening face, as he dared remember the baritone voice of the man behind that letter.
Ache. Ache. Ache.
Ache some more, for his desires could not be accomplished.
All this commotion, over something so simple. How pathetic indeed.
He entrusted his next message to Charles, and then proceeded to rest on the prison bed.
This time, the accursed malady turned into debauchery, as he lulled himself with the picture of warm lips hovering his chest.
My dear Mycroft,
The Tower is filled with sorrow.
But again, isn’t it hypocritical of us to blame this feeling
on the building itself? The culprit, I daresay, is the crude
humanity that reeks in every corner of this place. But so you know,
that question you posed made me a bit more inhuman, in the best way
possible. Do you know where the noun ‘desire’ comes from?
Your friend,
A. J. Moriarty
---
Mr Albert James Moriarty,
‘De-sidera’, the absence of stars. One desires when
one lacks something, isn’t it correct? What an odd thing to ask of me.
Do you have something you desire? Something you lack and ache for?
On the matter of Latin, by the by:
‘Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.*’
Yours Truly,
M. Holmes
Mycroft was merciless. He had used that very same word — ache, — the one Albert had been chanting for himself during an endless night. How could he know? Why did he know? He even attempted to imply that he was, indeed, human. The Moriarty brothers had spent ages of their life to turn themselves into monsters, as they planned the only ending to their story capable of breaking the paradox. They were devils, the devils that breathed and laughed and cried and hid behind a sheet of skin. Louis and William, they were kind. But Albert, he could not be saved. He had to believe himself a monster, or else he’d destroy the cocoon he had built around himself.
Mycroft,
I ache for many things. Isn’t ‘desire’ a most
terrible punishment? I desire what I lack.
There was something I asked you to do, during one of our
encounters, do you remember what it was? It seems that
I’m insatiable, for fulfilling that desire did not make me any more satisfied.
If only, I want it more.
Your friend,
A. J. Moriarty
---
My dear Albert,
You have been flooding me with questions for months,
and you have yet to answer properly. So tell me, Albert,
what is it that you told me? What made you so insatiable, you
can no longer be satisfied?
Yours Truly,
M. Holmes
Ah, to be cornered like this. Albert felt delirious.
My dear,
‘Disintegrate me,
I want to forget what lays outside this door,
what lays outside this room.’
It seems I only met ease when I was next to you.
Perhaps that’s why ease from you is what I crave.
Yours,
A. J. Moriarty
Writing that plea down seemed like admitting to a crime. Albert reminisced correctly, how the words had been spoken and the effect they had cast upon Mycroft. The man’s face was flushed, and his curly hair appeared more disheveled than usual. Under that gaze, Albert could unravel and disappear, he could affirm himself and exist as flesh and bones.
He was not sure how long he’d survive in that Tower. These letters could as well be the only testament he’d leave behind.
He at least hoped Mycroft would be as entranced by them as he had been.
Albert wished for a reaction out of him, one of those he’d manage to capture during their shared evenings — since he, too, had paved his way around the Director’s senses.
Albert,
You always spoke so much during our encounters. I enjoyed that.
I, too, have discovered something with this distance between us. No matter
who I seek, who I touch, it seems I can only find myself truly thrilled
by your presence. However, this time, it seems you won’t be shouldering
this punishment alone. I desire what I can’t reach, too.
If we were ever to meet again, I would like for us to exchange true
ease.
Yours,
Mycroft