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After William's return, Albert's life had changed once again. He had spent three years of his life mourning the death of his brother, locked up inside the Tower of London. Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, in the late evening, when the only thing providing a dim light was a half-melted candle, the memories of his cell room and all the melancholy and helplessness that came with them overlapped with reality inside his mind and he had to sit down and take some deep breaths.
He didn't like being left alone with his thoughts. Even if William forgave him, he could still feel the weight of his actions burying him, heavy on him like the lid of a pristine coffin. After all, three years of isolation couldn't be wiped out that easily. When he was in prison, he sometimes thought about death. It wasn't something that he could allow for himself, he had to live in order to atone for his sins, but it wasn't something he dreaded. Maybe that was what went wrong with him. Maybe he forgot the value of life. The blood he shed was for a better world, but could he be so sure? After all, William had suffered so much because of it.
Whenever those thoughts occurred, he suddenly started to feel filthy, like he was covered by layers of mud that blocked his movements and stopped him from breathing. At that point he usually had the urge to take a bath, the feeling of the warm water helping him breathe again, even if he couldn't clean himself no matter how much he scrubbed his body.
That night was one of those nights. After a long bath, he had walked into his room and was now sitting on the bed, his eyes scanning the shelves that crowded the walls. Something about them ticked him off. He had reorganized them countless times, but something always felt off. The books weren't the same as the ones he had in his manor, but what was making him uneasy was the fact that they were all so bare. He remembered how were his books back then. William had read his whole library and took joy in annotating his books, leaving thoughts and analysis for Albert to discover as he went through them. He missed those times. Even after he returned, he always looked busy, that detective following him around like a loyal dog. A small smile painted his lips at the thought. He hadn't ever seen William so happy, even before their plan took off. He only wished his brother to be happy, but a part of him selfishly desired for the other to spend more time with him. He will never voice that thought though, he didn't deserve to have such desires in the first place.
He sighed, deciding that it was for him time to go to bed, he couldn't bear to keep his mind active any longer. He laid down on his bed, turning to blow out the candle when his gaze fell on some letters lying on the bedside table. Mycroft, he thought before blowing out the candle.
The next day he woke up late in the morning. It was unusual for him to sleep that much. His body was probably still recovering from the time he spent in that cold cell. He decided to wake up and dress up quickly, to make up for the lost time. Once he was done, he walked to the kitchen, making breakfast for himself. He cracked a couple of eggs in a pan and looked at them fizzling inside it. Then, someone knocked on the main door.
He left the kitchen, opening the door. On the other side stood Mycroft Holmes, his clothes and hair as pristine as ever, with the only difference that the corners of his mouth were curved in what looked like the beginning of a smile. It was almost unnoticeable. The man at the doorstep spoke.
"Good morning, Albert. Am I intruding?"
Albert, who didn't expect the man to show up, was snapped out of his trance as he quickly replied.
"Not at all, Mr. Holmes. Come inside."
He moved out of the doorway, helping the other off his coat and placing it on the hanger.
"I am surprised by your visit, I didn't expect you to show up. What brings you-"
He cut himself off when he smelled a weird scent coming from the kitchen. He rushed there and sighed at the sight. His eggs had turned into charcoal. He started to clean the pan, a defeated expression on his face. By that time, someone had walked inside the kitchen and was standing near a wall.
"Were you making yourself breakfast?"
Albert glanced at him, replying with a sigh.
"I was, but I got distracted."
He left the pan in the sink before turning to his guest.
"Mr. Holmes, may I suggest we discuss what you've come to say inside the living room?"
Mycroft gave him a nod and they both walked inside said room. Albert sat on the couch while the other took the armchair. It was the latter who broke the silence.
"I came to hand a report to your brother, M, but I suppose he isn't home."
Albert nodded
"He indeed isn't, he left early this morning. But it isn't a problem, I can hold to the report and hand it to him once he comes home."
He replied, recalling the note that Louis had left on the kitchen table, the one that told him that he had urgent matters to take care of.
"It's settled then."
Mycroft handed Albert a brown envelope and he quickly stored it away. After he came back, a comfortable silence settled between them. Mycroft was the one to break it, after scanning Albert.
"So, how are you doing now?"
His eyes were fixated on the other, his expression unreadable as always.
Albert hesitated. Knowing him, Mycroft had probably noticed his eyebags and the fact that he seemed as thin as before, keeping the sick complexion he had grown accustomed to during his time in jail. Some phrases from the letters he had received at the time also flew through his mind. I hope this letter finds you well and that you are not punishing yourself more than what the law is already doing. The whole England is slowly changing, you are not the only one who bears this burden. It isn't your fault.
Did he really have the right to tell the truth now? After all, he was the cause for which Sherlock went missing for three years, making Mycroft grieve him. Even if the other said it wasn't his fault, did he really have the right to complain now? He forced a smile, replying.
"I am doing quite alright Mr. Holmes. Since I've come back, I've been finding solace in caring for the house. Now that Louis is busy, someone had to take up on his spot. I might not be as skilled, but I make things work."
Mycroft kept his gaze on him, a light frown now painting his face. It was clear that he wanted to say something but was keeping silent. Albert didn't like it. He didn't like having others worrying over him, especially someone such as Mycroft Holmes. Yet, the other was the one that kept sending him letters for three years, to which he never replied. He should've expected the other to be one of the most worried ones now too. He grimaced. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve it at all. Suddenly, a voice broke his train of thought. It was calm but laced with care.
"Al, are you really doing alright?"
The nickname echoed in his head. Al. He remembered Mycroft calling him like that in a couple of letters, when he was trying to comfort him. He looked up. The other man hadn't taken his eyes off him. He swallowed. For a second he forgot how to breathe and instead of replying, he said.
"When a bird is kept in a cage for a long time, it slowly forgets how the outside world feels. That works for humans too, whether their cage is a real one or something their mind makes up."
"Is your mind your cage then?"
Albert looked at Mycroft. The other's expression was as composed as ever, but his tone was laced with a hint of seriousness, that masked the real meaning of the question.
"It is."
There was a beat of silence after his answer, both parties lost in their own thoughts. Surprisingly, Albert was the first one to speak up.
"Have you ever killed a man?"
Mycroft looked at the other, thinking back to the jobs he took on for the Queen.
"I have."
"Did you feel something after it?"
Mycroft stopped, thoughtful.
"Not that I can remember. It was an order that came directly from the Queen, I can't feel something for it."
"Me neither."
Albert fell silent before beginning again.
"Or at least that was until now. I don't regret any of the kills I've done during my life, but recently, I've started to wish that I was the only one to bear this sin in my family. Even if William appears tough and resolved, he has actually suffered a lot, withstanding an enormous guilt. And it is all my fault, I was the one who roped him into this. I should've done everything by myself, but I couldn't bring myself to. I lack talent compared to William, but I wish I was able to protect him nevertheless. Whenever I think about of much he has suffered, I forget how to breathe. It becomes unbearable, so much that sometimes I can't even fall asleep."
His voice cracked at the end when he realized what he had just said. He looked down, his gaze focused on the coffee table as his own words echoed in his mind. This time it was Mycroft who broke the silence.
"When Sherlock was presumed dead, I had a hard time falling asleep. Everywhere I looked, there were traces of him. The guilt for letting him deal with everything alone started to settle after a little more than a year. It was as if the dust floating in the air suddenly started to set, slowly but surely, onto my mind, making everything clearer. I had come to realize that it had been his choice to follow the Lord of Crime to his grave."
After that, his voice started to soften, taking a more reminiscing tone.
"You know, since he was a kid, Sherlock was incredibly lonely. Not because he had troubles making friends, but because none of them seemed to truly understand him. That didn't matter to him at first, but a lot of people seem to fear the ones that are more cunning than them. It's in human nature to avoid possible threats, but that didn't make Sherlock happy. Luckily, there were people like Doctor Watson who came into his life and put up with his antics no matter what, but I dare say your brother was the one to ever truly understand him outside of his family. As you may know, once you give a beggar a mansion, they'll never be able to go back to beg on the streets. The same was true for Sherlock. After finding William, the thought of losing him became unbearable and he did what he did of his own volition. No one could've stopped him. This way of thinking made the weight of guilt lighter for me."
Albert listened intently, his mind racing with thoughts. Could this reasoning be applied to William too? It didn't feel like it. They had all agreed to die together back when they were just kids and William had changed his plan because he couldn't bear the weight of their sins and had lost his will to live. But he was the one who suggested it... or was he? Thinking back, William had made up his mind when he was just a kid, would have this happened even without Albert's help? He didn't know. Maybe it was better for him not to know. But that didn't change the fact that William tried to commit suicide because of what they perpetrated together. It didn't feel right. A lump started to form in his throat, his voice sounding hoarse.
"Still, he wanted us to live and decided to try to take his life in order to do so. It was his choice, but it didn't feel right. It was selfish of him, and I'm probably being selfish now too with what I'm saying, but I can't bring myself to not feel guilty. He was presumed dead for three years, and even if now he's back, I feel like I can't apologize to him enough."
Tears started to run down his cheeks before he could stop them. Years of bottling up finally coming out. Someone touched his hand, holding it. He didn't notice it earlier, but Mycroft had moved to sit beside him and he was now holding an arm around his waist, holding him close. He instinctively hugged him, his face resting on his shoulder as he cried silent tears. His breathing was irregular but he could feel a hand rubbing his back. It lasted for a while but his breath eventually started to steady. He didn't let go of the hug, basking in the warmness of the other. It was nice. He felt protected. When he felt the other calm down, Mycroft looked at him and spoke in a quiet and careful tone.
"It could be your fault like you said. But William has already forgiven you. He loves you dearly, he isn't able to blame you. That should be at least comforting. If nobody thinks it's your fault, you shouldn't either. It's easier said than done, but if even need someone to help you out of the cage that is your mind, I am here for you. I have always been."
At those words, Albert looked up. His eyes were red and slightly watery. Mycroft looked down before tightening the hug, on his face a comforting smile. Albert closed his eyes, letting himself be comforted. He felt a pair of lips brush against his forehead. He glanced up, a small smile bringing some light to his spent expression. He shifted, repaying the forehead kiss with a small peck on the other's lips before bringing his head back to rest on his shoulder. Mycroft touched his lips, but didn't say anything. A small whisper came from below him.
"Thank you, Mycroft."