Work Text:
Lately, they had been spending more and more time in the underground training room, just under Universal Exports – and that night made no exception. The Director and his newly appointed "M" were standing once again at opposite ends of the sparring mat, each of them holding a short, lightweight sabre.
“Your stance is improving,” Mycroft remarked dryly as they circled each other. He feinted left, then lunged right, testing Louis’ reflexes. The younger man managed to deflect the strike just in time.
“I can handle myself,” Louis replied, not without a trace of irritation in his voice. “You should know I’m no stranger to fights, Director.”
“True,” He conceded, spinning his sabre in a small flourish before stepping forward again. This time, his strikes came faster, only to be met with an equally sharp parry. “But knives aren’t everything, M. A wider skill set is essential… now that you’re not hiding in the kitchen anymore.”
They locked blades for a moment, and Mycroft leaned in slightly. “Which brings me to the real question: why did you take the position? You could have stayed back, as you always have.”
Louis broke away, disengaging with a quick spin before counterattacking; but his rival sidestepped the blade just as easily.
“I took it,” Louis said, snarling at the other man, “because someone had to protect my brother’s legacy. Everything he worked for… what we, as James Moriarty, worked for… needs to be safeguarded.” He stepped back, though his eyes stayed trained on Mycroft. “And no one else could do it.”
Something unreadable passed in the other man’s gaze, although he was quick to mask it behind his usual neutral façade. “You’re all alone on the first line, now,” He said between strikes. “And you’re carrying quite the weight on your shoulders. Do you miss your brother?”
Louis didn’t falter; instead, he twisted his blade in a defensive arc, forcing the other to step back.
“Don’t you miss yours?”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sabre.
“Touché,” He murmured, stepping forward once more and letting their blades clash again.
“I miss him every day,” Louis said quietly. “But missing him doesn’t change what needs to be done. Protecting what he stood for… it’s the only way to honour him.”
They disengaged briefly before Mycroft lunged again. “A noble sentiment,” The elder man conceded. “But dangerous. Making someone’s death your reason for living…" He sidestepped a strike and flicked his blade towards Louis' unguarded side, only for the other to parry at the last second. “…can turn a man into something he was never meant to be.”
Louis scoffed, shoving back against the next attack.
“That would be true, if I believed my brother to be dead.”
Mycroft exhaled sharply, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, the younger man couldn’t tell. “You really think that, do you?” His sabre flashed forward, but it was dodged with a downward strike.
“I don’t think. I know,” Louis shot back. “My brother is somewhere. I just have to find him.”
“Be careful, M. Chasing shadows can turn you into one.”
The other man didn’t answer immediately. He merely raised his blade again, his garnet eyes glinting with the same unrelenting determination he had already shown during their first encounter, a few months before. “Then I’ll just have to find him before that happens.”
Mycroft smirked, eyes glinting with something unreadable as he circled Louis, sabre poised at the ready. “Confidence might be praiseworthy,” He declared, “But it can make a man predictable.”
Louis tensed, expecting another attack, but Mycroft didn’t strike. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, and before his rival could react, he ducked low, sweeping Louis’ leg out from under him. The younger man staggered, and Mycroft capitalized on the imbalance, slamming into his side and sending both of them crashing onto the mat-covered floor.
Louis thrashed beneath him, his breath coming quick as he tried to throw Mycroft off; but the elder man used his superior weight to pin him down, gripping Louis’ wrist and forcing his sabre to the ground.
“You fight with fire, I'll give you that,” He admitted, slightly winded but grinning. “A wild thirst for proving yourself. Admirable.” He shifted, pressing Louis’ sabre arm further down, until the hand was forced to release his grip and the weapon clattered on the floor. “But still undisciplined.”
Louis grit his teeth, frustration burning with scorching intensity in his veins. He tried to twist free – he really tried -, but Mycroft’s grip seemed to be made of iron.
“You let your own emotions drive you, M. It makes you strong, but it also makes you reckless. And reckless men lose.”
Garnet eyes locked onto dark blue ones in open defiance, but Louis did not struggle further. The heat of exertion lingered on his skin, but it was something else entirely that made his pulse quicken.
Strong.
Handsome.
Mycroft Holmes was nothing like his detective brother; no, he was measured. Controlled. He had none of Sherlock’s arrogant bravado. Yet here he was… pinning Louis down almost effortlessly.
It sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine.
Louis wasn’t used to being at someone’s mercy, wasn’t used to the heat of another so near. And then there was the warmth of the other man’s breath, ghosting over his own skin; the proximity made it impossible to ignore, stirring something unfamiliar and almost... tempting.
For a brief second, the youngest Moriarty couldn’t help but wonder.
Had Albert ever been in a situation like this? Had he ever found himself beneath this man, breathless and bested? Was this something expected of him? Of them? Was this some unwritten rule that no one had ever even put into words?
Because, if this was something that came with the title of M...
Well. He wouldn't mind.
But the thought was gone as quickly as it came, chased away by the sudden shift of weight above him.
Mycroft let a soft, amused sound out, before pushing himself upright and rising to his feet.
“You’re not ready. Yet.”
Louis pushed himself up onto his elbows, eyes narrowing in irritation. “I wasn’t doing so bad -”
“I’m not talking about the fight.”
The younger man froze at those words, feeling a familiar warmth creep up his neck and bloom into a delicate shade of pink on his cheeks. Had Mycroft glimpsed that fleeting thought? That ridiculous, unbidden moment of wondering -
No.
Impossible.
It had been barely a whisper in his own mind. And yet, the way Mycroft looked at him made him wonder if the man had guessed something he shouldn’t have. Or was it just his own guilty conscience, making him misinterpret things that weren’t there? But then… what else could the Director have been referring to?
Damn that Holmes.
Damn all the Holmes that had ever walked the Earth.
Louis blinked, staring at the ceiling for a moment before finally letting out a slow breath, ignoring the heat lingering beneath the skin of his cheeks. With a quiet huff of irritation - at himself more than anything - he reached for his fallen sabre and sat up, schooling his expression back into something impassive.
But Mycroft had already turned to the nearby weapon rack, his fingers trailing along the hilts as if in thought. Then, without so much as a warning, he plucked a heavier weapon from its place and tossed it towards Louis, who barely had the time to snatch it out of the air.
“Again. This time, let’s see how you handle something heavier.”