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The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending,
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go."
— Emily Brontë, Spellbound
(1846)
London Tower, 2nd May,1882. Day 1094 of self- confinement.
The Tower of London seemed to echo Albert's own inner turmoil. Its cold, unyielding walls mirrored the weight of his guilt, pressing on him from every side. He had come here willingly, after all. Seeking atonement for sins that felt as though they had stained his very soul. Each day in the Tower was a step further from the life he once knew, a quiet surrender to the punishment he felt he deserved.
The space was cramped, with just a few necessities to survive: a simple bed, a small table to eat, a worn out chair, and a window. More than he deserved, but it was the Director's demand. He has always been awfully nice to Albert, to this rotten man.
He would stare out that window for hours that seemed like an eternity. He loved to gaze at the stars, loved to feel their presence in the sky up above. And yet, for all the time he's been in the tower, the sky has always been gloomy and dark. No star in sight.
That night, as usual, Albert couldn't sleep. He sat by the narrow window of the Tower, his back straight against the cold stone and his gaze fixated on the sky up above. As usual, the stars were completely hidden by thick clouds. He couldn't help but laugh softly. ‘I don't even deserve to look at them, do i?’ As he looked on the table on his right, he saw a tray with some plates of simple food untouched. He hasn't been eating in…a while. And yet he didn't feel hungry at all. Next to the tray, he kept some letters stacked. He slightly smiled, carefully taking a few. His thumb gently tracing the letters, and a name.
“Mycroft Holmes…when are you going to give up on me?” he says, his voice a bare whisper as he reread some lines. Mycroft’s words, once cold and professional, now carried a warmth, a faint whisper of the man Albert once knew…a man whose concern for him seemed to grow with every passing letter, a man who never stopped reaching out, even though Albert had put up every wall he could muster. A man that doesn't seem to give up anytime soon.
‘Dear Albert.
I hope my dainty idea of keeping in touch won't affect your atonement in any way, as it isn't my intention. I too, wished for a different outcome for you, but if this is what your heart is craving, so be it. One thing for sure, I won't leave you grieving and struggling alone. It's the least I could do. One grieving man to another.
I will let you know about any changes in our lives and in the world outside. In the meantime, take care of yourself. As there are a lot of people who are waiting for your return.
M.H’
- First letter
Albert smiled softly. He recalled the time where he thought Mycroft would write two or three letters, then completely give up on him.
‘Dear Albert.
Louis is doing a wonderful job. You ought to be proud of him. He talks about you a lot, every time he has the chance. I've come to know everything you did for them: you were a marvelous brother to both.
He does not loathe you a single bit, I’m aware you're worried about that. He misses you terribly.
Mycroft Holmes'
-Ninety-third
letter
Mycroft Holmes, the stern and cold Mycroft Holmes had incessantly written him letters throughout the days of his imprisonment. He wrote everything starting with quotes from authors he knew piqued Albert's interests, to simple thoughts. Simple thoughts that always moved something in Albert's chest. Despite his guilt, he started to feel less and less alone.
‘Dear Al,
London may not need you, but some of us find the world lesser without your interference. It's already been two years. You are missed in more places than you realize.
Come back when you're ready. I will wait, as I've always done.
Yours truly,
Mycroft'
-seven hundred and
thirty-fourth
letter
Albert carried the last one to his nose, still smelling the refined ink Mycroft used to write it. ‘Al’, he thought as he looked at that simple nickname, feeling some inexplicable heat in his chest.
Inexplicable, is it? Albert deep down always knew. That invisible string tying them together from the first encounter. He isn't a fool, he knows what love is. And as much as he denied it when he was still a free -yet caged- man, it's getting harder and harder to do so as the letters always come by. In their late night meetings, they were free . Free of any title, free of any responsibilities. Just enjoying each others company with a wine glass and some brandy. They laughed and joked around, and Albert saw for the first time how beautiful Mycroft looked when he smiled, with his dimples and his unruly lock. And how beautiful he was, when he warmly looked into Albert's eyes. In those moments, Albert wished for time to stop and never go on again.
He felt his chest clutch at the thought, his hands softly grasping the simple camise he wore. How could he even feel something so pure…as he's one of the greatest sinner London has seen in the last century?
He's dreadful. So dreadful, to even think about happiness as his little brother has died for their sins.
William…how he missed him. His soft and elegant laughter, the way he always found his terrible jokes funny. A kind soul, an astounding man, and yet, his older brother took it all away. His mother once said that whatever he touched would turn into ashes, and he's starting to find truth in her words. Albert James Moriarty was supposed to be a miracle child, a prodigy ready to carry the Moriarty name to the top. Instead, he was the greatest error his parents had ever made, an error that he tried himself to erase, before erasing them. Not to forget his youngest, his sweet Louis. How much suffering is he going through? He asks himself. He had so little time to grieve before taking his place as the MI6 commander, all without his brother. all without William.
And why would Mycroft even accept the feelings he bears? Albert doesn't have anything to offer him, nothing more than a shattered man who's a long way from finding the atonement he's desperately trying to find. The man who abandoned his brothers, this selfish man. Mycroft Holmes couldn't settle down for something so…crushed, so gone. He deserved the world, and Albert could just give him dust. The thought of Mycroft feeling something for him was just so foolish, he would have too much to lose.
In the window in front of him, he saw his reflection. His mouth edges forming a small smirk as he looked at the figure he hated the most. He felt someone behind him, someone that resembled his little brother so much. Albert’s breath quickened as the room around him seemed to constrict, the walls pressing in with an oppressive weight. His chest tightened, as if an invisible hand had closed around his lungs. His heart thudded erratically, the beat so loud in his ears. He couldn’t focus on anything, not the words on the letters, not the ticking of the clock, not the sounds of the bustling city outside even at night time. He could only focus on the hands circling his neck.
‘Breathe. He's not here. He couldn't be here’, he told himself, but the words felt distant. His hands started to shake uncontrollably, desperately gripping the edge of the small table. And then, through the haze of his spiraling thoughts, a soft fluttering sound broke through the chaos. A light tap on the window. Albert’s mind barely registered it as his chest heaved in shallow gasps, but the sound grew persistent until his eyes lifted toward the source.
Charlie had returned.
The gray pigeon cooed softly, tilting his head as if to greet him. Tied to his leg was the thin roll Albert hadn't come to expect so late at night. For a moment, Albert didn’t move,his body frozen in the paralysis of panic but then, instinctively, he reached out.
His fingers trembled as he unfolded the letter, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his chest still constricting. But then, there were the words: delicate, composed, as if Mycroft had written them with the very intention of offering support in the midst of Albert’s anxiety.
‘Dear Al,
It is late, and I should be in bed, but something told me I must write to you now. Perhaps it is the silence of the night, or perhaps the unsettling quiet that I know you must be enduring in that tower. Either way, I felt compelled to send you these words, no matter the hour.
I understand that your nights must be long, and I imagine the weight of your thoughts, heavy as they are, must feel endless. Please, know that even in this stillness, I am thinking of you. I do not believe I need to explain that you are not alone, but I feel it necessary to remind you anyway.
The darkest nights pass, even if the dawn seems far away, and sometimes the darkness is brighter when shared, Albert. And though I cannot be there beside you, I send this letter to remind you that you are not forgotten.
Take care of yourself, and know that I will be here tomorrow, as I am today, and as I always will be.
Hold on, if only for a little longer. Tonight, London offers us two stars in all its vast sky. I hope they are as comforting to you as they were to me this evening.
Yours truly,
Mycroft’
-one thousand
ninety-fourth
letter
The words felt like a bridge across the void Albert found himself in. His breath, though still shallow, began to find a steadier rhythm. The chaos in his chest didn’t immediately dissipate, but the weight of the panic seemed lighter, as though someone had reached across the storm to offer him an umbrella to hold.
With trembling hands, he pressed the letter against his chest, letting the warmth of Mycroft’s words ground him, a steady reminder that someone was there, even if they couldn’t physically reach him. He gazed up above, to find the two stars staring right back at him. He smiled, as he felt his eyes water a bit.
He looked back at Charlie, who was cooing as he looked at the bread on the table. Albert dried his tears before they even managed to fall as he took the bread from the tray and started crumbling it. “Tell me, Charlie, why does he always know what to say?” he asks the bird who was way too occupied devouring the small crumbs. He smiled as he patted his head softly with his thumb, then he looked outside again.
Two stars, glimmering more than ever in a dull sky. “Charlie”, he said without looking at the bird. Charlie paused for a moment, his beak frozen mid-peck, as if listening to Albert's words. The silence stretched, the room filled with the soft rustle of the bird's feathers and the quiet hum of the night. Albert's gaze remained fixed on the stars outside, his mind drifting in a sea of thoughts he couldn’t quite grasp.
“They say the stars are a reflection of what’s inside us,” he continued, almost as if to himself. “But I wonder, Charlie... if that’s true, then why do I feel so empty?” He blinked, looking back at the confused bird that was now on the window as he smiled. ‘I get it, it's too late for answers and you need your beauty sleep.” He said getting up from the chair and cupping Charlie in his hands. He kissed his little head softly. “Give this to him on my behalf, will you? I know you're good at making yourself understood.” The bird cooed softly before flapping his wings as he started to fly away. As the night wore on, Albert felt a strange peace settle over him. With Mycroft's words, the quiet companionship of Charlie and the distant stars, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just for tonight, that was enough.