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A thin mist still clung to the stretch of green fields when Albert opened the kitchen window of their little cottage. The countryside morning carried the damp scent of earth freshly kissed by dew, mingled with the faint sweetness of wildflowers growing along the wooden fence. Sparrows chattered noisily on the branches of the apple tree, already heavy with fruit. For a man who had spent his life as an aristocrat, this air of simple peace felt both foreign and strangely soothing.
Albert drew in a deep breath, as though trying to store the freshness inside his chest for as long as possible. Then he stepped toward the wooden table, gathering a few slices of bread that had grown a little stiff since yesterday. He lit the small stove, set a metal grate over the fire, and soon the aroma of toasting bread began to fill the room. A faint crackle sounded as the edges turned golden.
In the corner, a woven basket sat on a chair, filled with strawberries, raspberries, and a few blackcurrants he had picked yesterday evening from the small garden behind the house. He'd tended that garden carefully ever since he and William had moved to the countryside for William's mental health as much as his own.
After the incident at the Thames, and the long coma that followed, it was as if William had lost part of himself. Sometimes he still struggled to accept the truth, that the brilliant man ans his younger brother who had once shaken the very foundations of the English crown, now often sat quietly in the chair by the window, his gaze hollow. At times he was fully aware, but at others he seemed trapped in a silent darkness, his mind lost in some unreachable place.
Albert never complained. To him, caring for William was both duty and privilege. And yet beneath that calm exterior, there was a fear he could never chase away—the fear that William would never truly recover, and that piece by piece, he was slipping further away.
He reached for a small glass jar of homemade jam. Its red gleam caught the morning light spilling through the window, glowing like liquid rubies. He poured some into a white ceramic bowl. With careful movements, he spread it across the toasted bread, making sure the layer was even.
Footsteps sounded softly from the hallway, and Albert turned. William stood in the doorway, slightly hunched, his blond hair messy from sleep after spending nearly the entire day before in bed.
"Morning, Will. Are you hungry?"
Albert didn't expect an answer. He wasn't trying to force conversation and he knew William needed time. He simply placed a plate of warm toast with strawberry jam on the dining table. The sweet, tangy aroma filled the air.
"Try a few bites."
At his request, William sat down and ate. Whether he enjoyed it or not, Albert couldn't tell from his expression.
Life in the countryside moved at a slow rhythm. Albert woke early to tend the garden, check the stove, and prepare breakfast. William, though his body had healed, often seemed trapped in a slumber like some sleeping beauty awaiting a Prince's kiss.
Sometimes Louis came to visit, bringing supplies from the nearest town like flour, meat, or even just fresh candles. He always tried to play the part of the responsible adult, now that he was leading MI6. But Albert could see the unease in him. Louis's eyes lingered too long on William, searching desperately for signs of improvement.
Sherlock had visited too, though rarely. His presence always shifted the air in the cottage, and William reacted to him more than to anyone else. Sometimes anger, sometimes withdrawal, sometimes briefly he seemed alive again, sparked to thought by just a short exchange. Sherlock, in his own relentless way, never stopped pushing him to think.
And Albert would admit, if only to himself, that he was jealous. Every time Sherlock left, William usually fell back into an even longer silence, and Albert had to rebuild their routines all over again—breakfast together, walks in the garden, coaxing him to sit by the little river that wound close to their house.
That afternoon, Albert was preparing fruit for a new batch of jam. He sliced the berries carefully, separating the bruised ones, while William sat at the table watching with an unreadable expression.
To anyone else, it wouldn't have been remarkable. But to Albert James Moriarty, who had spent his whole life presenting absolute neatness and precision, it felt almost like a small miracle. He was the kind of man who would never wear the same suit twice without washing, who polished his shoes until they gleamed, and who frowned at even the faintest trace of dust.
"You've found yourself a new hobby, haven't you?” William asked softly.
Albert didn't answer right away, only chuckled under his breath. William watched as his brother washed his hands with meticulous care, scrubbing under his nails until not a speck of dirt remained. Every gesture was consistent with who Albert had always been.
"Yeah. Louis used to grow fruit and vegetables back in Durham, remember? You always loved what he harvested, so I thought I'd take care of you the way Louis did."
William had always loved Louis’s cooking especially his tea, which made the house feel like home. But lately, William hadn't been able to enjoy it much. Louis was too busy, carrying the weight of their shared sins along with his work. William wanted to help, but his body and mind weren't strong enough yet.
"I like it," William murmured at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'd rather you didn't have to sacrifice your comfort for something so trivial."
Albert dried his hands on a spotless white cloth, then walked over to the table where William sat. He set down a small bowl of fresh strawberries in front of him, the fruit's red brilliance stark against William’s pale face.
"If it's for you, Will, I don't mind at all. Take your time to heal. We'll always be here with you."