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The gentle hum of London outside was muffled by the heavy walls of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was seated in an armchair in the Strangers Room. He was looking at some of the reports Louis gave him: his eyes skimmed over the words, but nothing stuck. His mind was elsewhere, anchored stubbornly to a name on his lips he hadn’t dared speak aloud in three years.
Albert James Moriarty.
It was absurd how a single name could linger with such weight in his mind. He knew that by now, William probably went to his older brother and lured him out. And that in the next days Albert could be here, right in front of him again.
Three soft, unsure knocks pulled him from his thoughts. He sighed quietly as he stared at the door. "Come in but make it quick" The door opened slowly, and there he stood. For a fleeting moment, Mycroft forgot how to speak. Albert smiled faintly at him, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Mycroft rarely allowed surprise to touch his features, but in that moment, he could feel it cracking through the careful mask of control he wore. Albert was thinner, after long days in isolation. But those emerald eyes still glowed, piercing and beautiful as ever.
"Albert," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I wasn’t expecting visitors this evening. Much less you..." Albert’s lips curved into a faint smile. "I imagine not. It's been a while, hasn't it?" There was a pause. Long enough for Mycroft to catch the slight tremor in Albert’s hands as he removed his gloves and his hat. Albert stepped inside, his presence soft but unyielding, like a ghost reclaiming a place long forgotten as he let the door click shut behind him.
Mycroft watched him carefully. There was still strength in the way Albert carried himself, but a subtle fragility lingered in his frame. Three years in self-imposed imprisonment left shadows, even if they were for atonement. "You’re thinner... you don't look well, Al." Mycroft noted, unable to keep the observation to himself. He gestured Albert to sit in front of him, as he got up to make some tea: Earl Grey, as he knew it was Albert's favourite. "Three years in the Tower does that to a man, doesn't it?" Albert replied, his voice soft and his eyes soothing at the familiar nickname. "But I assure you, I’ve endured worse."
Mycroft's grip tightened around the teacups as he stopped. "You shouldn’t have endured it at all," he said, softer than intended. Albert’s eyes lifted to his figure, a flicker of surprise in them. "It was my choice, Mycroft" Albert replied. "And, in a way… it wasn’t entirely miserable." Mycroft looked back at him as he offered a teacup to Albert, which silently thanked him. "I read them, you know. Every one of your letters," Albert said quietly. "They arrived like clockwork, even when I wasn’t sure if I deserved to read them. But they were… a ray of light in that prison, something to hold onto while i was wandering, trying to find myself"
Mycroft swallowed. He remembered each letter vividly—at first formal, carefully composed, but as the months dragged on, his words had softened, becoming more intimate than he ever intended. He wondered if Albert had noticed. "I wasn’t certain they’d even reach you," Mycroft admitted, his eyes softening at the revelation. Albert smiled faintly. "They did. And I thank you incredibly much for them." Albert finally lifted his gaze, and for the first time in years, Mycroft saw it: the quiet vulnerability beneath that carefully constructed façade. For a moment, silence settled between them, soft and almost fragile before a small flutter of wings startled them both.
From the side perch near the window, Charlie, Mycroft’s loyal carrier pigeon, cooed loudly at Albert’s presence in his silver cage. Albert laughed softly as he got up, walking around the sofa as he reached him, opening his cage. “Good to see you too, old friend, for the first time I'm the one coming to you, and not you to me” Albert chuckled, holding out his hand. The bird flapped, hopping closer until it landed on Albert’s outstretched hand without hesitation.
Leaning back on the sofa, Mycroft replied with a faint smirk. “It appears Charlie has declared his loyalty. I suppose I should be grateful he hasn’t abandoned me entirely for you.” “Can you blame him?” Albert teased, glancing at Charlie. “I did offer him the finest crumbs from the tower’s bread.” Mycroft smirked as he got up from the sofa "Ah, bribery. I should have known." His eyes lingered on Albert for a moment longer before he approached. Charlie let out another delighted coo as Albert was petting gently his head.
"I feed him daily, but he sings for you.” Albert raised a brow, glancing at Mycroft. "Jealous?" Albert looked at him, enjoying himself. "Hardly," Mycroft replied, though there was a warmth in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. "But I suppose I’ll have to accept the competition." Albert’s laughter filled the room—soft, but genuine. Mycroft found himself smiling bigger and bigger, dimples forming on his cheeks.
Albert looked back at the bird, smiling softly. “Perhaps he missed me" he whispered softly as Charlie flapped his wings. “He’s not the only one.” The words slipped out before Mycroft could restrain them, Albert’s eyes widened for a second before softening as he gazed back at him. There was a tense silence of unspoken words. Albert reacted first, taking a folded envelope from his waistcoat pocket, setting Charlie gently on the window perch.
“Of course, I didn’t come empty-handed.” Mycroft arched a brow yet being glad that the previous moment was over. "A dinner invitation,” Albert said, extending his hand to him. “William thought it was appropriate to host a gathering. It seems he’s grown even more sentimental since his return, perhaps it's Sherlock's doing.” Albert smiles softly, the bare mention of his younger brother makes his face light up. “And you?” Mycroft asked, fingers brushing with Albert's as he took the envelope. Albert’s expression softened, looking at the place were their hands touched, even for a brief second. “I suppose… I’ve grown sentimental as well.”
Mycroft paused, his eyes lingering on Albert’s hand a beat longer than necessary. “I’ll be there,” Mycroft said simply. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He opened the invitation as his eyes stormed through the ink written lines. “Ah. A reunion of sorts,” Mycroft mused, turning the envelope over in his hand. “I trust Louis will be there to keep us all in line?” “Of course. I believe he considers it his life’s work now.” Albert smiled. "He's grown up. Thank you for looking after him" “You asked me, i complied. And yet, he resembles you and William so much. He talked about you two so much" Albert closed his eyes for a moment, his façade dropping. "I shouldn't have left him alone"
Mycroft frowned as he got closer to Albert, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Regretting the past is trivial now, be present for him from now on, recover all the memories you've lost in these three years with both of them" Albert smiled softly, his hand reaching out to cover Mycroft's one on his shoulder. "You too, I'm sure you two have lots of things to talk about too." They got interrupted by the clock that resonated.
Albert looked at the time. "It's already so late, i fear that I'll have to go. Louis told me he had to come by to give you some reports." Mycroft nodded, retracting his hand. "You're right, I will see you tomorrow then" Albert nodded as he ruffled Charlie's head before going near the door, putting back his coat and gloves. "I'll see you tomorrow" he said as he went out, leaving Mycroft once again alone. The office door clicked shut, and Mycroft Holmes let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He remained standing for a moment, gazing absently at the space Albert had just occupied.
The faint trace of Albert’s presence,his voice, his touch as their fingers brushed still lingered in the room like the echo of a melody that refused to fade. Mycroft exhaled slowly and returned to his sofa with practiced composure. His eyes drifted to the envelope Albert had left behind, its edges precise, yet somehow feeling heavier than a simple dinner invitation ought to.
Three years.
Three years of letters carefully written and sent by the hand of a man who seldom allowed himself the indulgence of personal attachment. Three years of uncertainty, never knowing if those letters were being read, or if they were discarded the moment they arrived at the Tower.
Three years.
Three years apart, and yet the sight of him had unraveled something deeply rooted beneath Mycroft’s carefully maintained exterior. The lines of Albert’s face were sharper now, his figure thinner, but his eyes,those brilliant green eyes, had not dimmed. If anything, they seemed brighter in contrast to the pale color of his skin. Three years.
Three years,
and Albert still had the power to get him to his knees with a single glance. It was absurd how easily Albert dismantled his composure, how effortlessly he slipped beneath the layers Mycroft had spent years perfecting.
Three long, unbearable and excruciating years.
And yet, the moment their eyes met, it felt like no time had passed at all. And what was worse—Mycroft didn’t mind. He had never minded.
Yet today, Albert’s quiet confession unsettled something within Mycroft, a part of himself he rarely acknowledged. He had been prepared to be ignored. He had not been prepared for gratitude...or for the way Albert had looked at him.
Hope.
It crept in uninvited, threading its way into the quiet corners of his thoughts, dangerous and persistent. His fingers lingered over the invitation, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to picture it: a life outside of letters and fleeting encounters. But as the thought emerged, Mycroft dismissed it. "Foolish," he murmured to himself. Albert had thanked him today.
But gratitude was not love, and Mycroft would not mistake one for the other. Albert spoke to him like an old friend, he reminded himself. And yet, there had been something unspoken in Albert’s eyes, a softness that Mycroft found himself dissecting long after the moment had passed. It was dangerous, this lingering doubt...this desire to believe in something more.
Charlie, curled on the window sill fluttered his wings and let out a soft coo. Mycroft glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re lucky Albert tolerates you,” Mycroft continued, crossing his arms. “Frankly, it’s insulting how much attention you give him compared to me.” Charlie fluffed his feathers indignantly, as if to say ‘Can you blame me?’
“Traitor,” Mycroft muttered, but his lips twitched. The truth was, he didn’t blame the bird. Not one bit. Albert James Moriarty could draw the affection of anyone that crossed his path. Including the perpetually cold and untouchable Mycroft Holmes. His mind has been filled of Incessant thoughts for three years: It wasn’t about politics or diplomacy. It was Albert, and Mycroft had always been a fool when it came to him.
'They were a ray of light in the solitude of the tower', Albert's voice rang clear in his ears. And yet, Albert's whole presence has been a ray of light for him for all the period they worked together:
When Albert first entered Mycroft's office as his subordinate, he was nothing more than a name on a dossier; efficient, composed, and dangerous in the way only a man burdened by his own morals could be. As their eyes met for the first time, Mycroft’s instincts screamed mistrust. Men like Albert, refined, eloquent, with eyes too sharp for their own good, were often the most dangerous pieces on the chess board. Albert was charming, yes, but Mycroft knew how to read between the lines: no man wore perfection without a reason.
Mycroft watched him closely during their initial encounters, analyzing every movement, every carefully chosen word. Albert Moriarty carried himself with the grace of someone who had long since learned to survive without leaning on anyone. His exterior was flawless yet beneath it Mycroft saw glimpses of something else: a man who bore the weight of sins that weren’t entirely his own. At first, it was nothing. Professional respect, admiration for Albert’s sharp mind and unwavering dedication.
But as the months wore on, Mycroft found his gaze lingering a second longer during their briefings. He found himself listening more intently to the venom of Albert’s voice. This man is hiding something. It wasn’t until Albert revealed himself that the pieces fell into place. Albert James Moriarty. The Lord of Crime. Their meetings after that were different. More direct. The games they played now were no longer concealed beneath polite formalities. “Shall we drop the pleasantries, Mr. Holmes?” Albert had said once, leaning back in his chair, eyes glittering with something akin to amusement. To Mycroft’s surprise, he didn’t mind.
Perhaps it was the way Albert looked at him: not as the British Government, but as Mycroft Holmes. For the first time in years, Mycroft found himself face-to-face with someone who wasn’t afraid to challenge him, to dance dangerously close to the line between ally and enemy. It was irrational. Mycroft knew this. But each time they crossed paths, each time Albert spoke his name with that deliberate calmness, Mycroft’s walls cracked just a little more. Albert was dangerous. But Mycroft could not deny that danger had never looked quite so appealing.
When the news reached Mycroft Holmes that his brother had disappeared into the Thames alongside William James Moriarty, the world around him seemed to completely freeze. The words of the report echoed in his mind. He sat alone in his office for hours after, staring at nothing in particular. His hands, always steady, trembled faintly as he reread the report for the fifth time. It wasn’t grief, not yet. No, this was something colder. Regret.
Sherlock had followed his instincts, as he always did. And he did so very little to stop him. 'Come home alive' he told him, as he watched his brother's figure disappearing in the Buckingham's Palace hall. But deep down, his instincts were telling him how this story would end. If William James Moriarty was stubborn, Sherlock Holmes was ten times more so. And when Sherlock started feeling something for someone (a very rare event) there was no way he would let them disappear just like that...at least not alone.
A day later, a face he had long come to expect entered his office. Albert stood with his usual calm, though something in his gaze had shifted. There was a hollowness there, a weight Mycroft couldn’t ignore. He placed a letter of resignation on Mycroft’s desk without a word. “You can’t be serious,” Mycroft finally said, eyeing the document. Albert only nodded. “I am. Mr.Holmes, I’ve made my decision. The Tower is even more than i deserve”
“The Tower is not atonement,” Mycroft replied sharply, standing up and leaning forward. “You think locking yourself away will erase what happened? Will bring them back?” Albert’s gaze lowered to his hands, and for the first time in their long rivalry,or whatever it was between them, Mycroft saw exhaustion there. “It’s not about erasure. It’s about bearing the weight of my choices. I can’t walk freely when William ...” His voice caught, but he swallowed it down. “...when he’s gone.”
Mycroft exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the edges of the desk. “There’s another way,” he said, softer now. “I talked with the Queen, continue to work for me. Use that brilliant mind of yours to fix the damage left behind. I can’t afford to lose you”, he hoped Albert hadn't noticed the slight tremble in his voice as he was saying the last words. Albert almost smiled. Almost. “Mycroft,” he said gently, “you’re not losing me. I’m asking for a favor, a huge one.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.
“Look after Louis. He's alone now, for the first time in his life. It's going to be hard now that William isn't her-” Mycroft stopped him "It's going to be hard if both his older brother's aren't here." Albert's eyes widened for a second, as he shook his head. "Take care of him, please." The words landed with more weight than Mycroft expected. Louis James Moriarty...the youngest, the one still burning with unresolved anger. “I will,” Mycroft said, though he felt the bitterness rising in his throat.
Albert offered a small nod. “Thank you. For everything you've done for me” When Albert turned to leave, Mycroft’s voice stopped him. “This is foolish,” he muttered, gripping the arm of his chair until his knuckles whitened. “You’re punishing yourself for something that is helping London's society. I'm not saying your methods were correct, but the change is effective already. So why are you punishing yourself so much?"
Albert hesitated in the doorway, but his back remained turned. “It’s the only thing I know how to do. If he isn't here, nothing is worth it.” Albert replied, his voice quiet and filled with regret.
And then he was gone.
And for the next three years, Mycroft wrote to him.
A precise knock at the door snapped him from his thoughts. Louis stepped inside, bowing quickly. “I have the last pages of the report, sir” Louis said, his tone professional as ever. But Mycroft caught the way his eyes flicked to the envelope on the desk, lingering just a second too long.
“Very well,” Mycroft replied smoothly. He folded his hands over the invitation, unwilling to let Louis see him lingering on it any longer. Louis turned to leave but paused at the door. “My brother... he looks better than he has in years,” Louis said quietly, without turning back. “I suppose we owe you for that. ”
“You're wrong, you know,” Mycroft whispered, his eyes soft as he shaked his head. “I owe him a lot” Louis looked at him, his gaze studying him.
"Mr. Holmes, Albert may have patience, but even his heart has limits,don’t test them. If you truly care for him, then show him. Albert doesn’t need more silence and uncertainty in his life." He said, before bowing and disappearing into the hall before Mycroft could respond.
Being left alone once again, Mycroft's eyes still wide at Louis's words. Charlie cooed, hopping closer to Mycroft’s hand as if sensing his surprise. Mycroft let out a soft breath and gently stroked the bird’s feathers. The plea in Louis's words was clear as day, and for the first time in years, Mycroft Holmes allowed himself to hope. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would see Albert again.
And maybe… just maybe, Mycroft Holmes would allow himself to reach out.