Work Text:
Albert had always seen noble gatherings as a social obligation, never a form of entertainment. Every time he attended one of these banquets, all he felt was a mix of boredom, weariness, and reluctance. He wasn't the kind of man who enjoyed making small talk with old landowners who only ever spoke of crop yields and new policies in Parliament. But his position demanded his presence. After all, the Moriarty family's reputation had to be upheld, and he couldn't afford to let valuable social connections slip away.
That night, the grand hall of a townhouse in the heart of London glowed with candlelight and murmured conversation. Strings filled the air with delicate music, mingling with bursts of laughter from guests dressed in layers of lace and embroidered suits. Albert stood by the drinks table, a glass of red wine in hand, while a flushed middle-aged duke droned on about land taxes.
Albert nodded every so often, though his mind wasn't truly present. "Indeed. Certainly, an interesting consideration," he murmured politely, even as he cursed the wasted time in his head. He'd heard the same complaint a thousand times from a thousand different mouths, and it was always the same. Empty talk, selfish, detached from the lives of the common people who actually bore the burden.
He took a slow sip of wine, letting the dry taste cling to his tongue. His eyes, usually sweeping the room with only half-hearted interest, suddenly stopped on someone.
Across the hall, amid the pastel silk gowns, stood a woman who didn't look like the others at all. She wore a dark blue gown with delicate lace detailing, her hair simply pinned without any gaudy accessories. And yet, there was something about her that set her apart. Her gaze was sharp, as though she was paying more attention to the room itself than to the shallow conversations swirling around her.
Albert blinked. There was something off about her. The way she stood didn't match the false softness these parties demanded from women.
Even stranger, no one else seemed to notice. They spoke to her, flirted, even laughed, but no one actually stopped to look. Whatever she was, she was nothing like the others here. And Albert—his instincts honed by experience, knew she was hiding something.
She turned her head, and for a fraction of a second Albert forgot to breathe.
Those eyes, he knew them. They weren't the eyes of a sweet, naive lady of the aristocracy. They were the eyes of someone who could assess every movement in a room in a heartbeat.
Even beneath the corset and gown, Albert could tell, the squared shoulders, the controlled stance that betrayed who she really was.
Slowly, he excused himself from the complaining duke. With the casual excuse of fetching another drink, Albert began to move closer to where she stood.
The closer he came, the surer he was. The face was powdered just enough, the hair styled just right to disguise the truth but he knew. The blue dress was a costume, a perfect illusion hiding the truth beneath. Only one person in the world could pull this off so effortlessly.
Of course. Who else would go this far, dressing as a woman solely for the sake of a mission? He clearly had a reason, and of course, he was executing it perfectly. No one around him suspected a thing.
Then Albert noticed a man standing far too close to "her," his hand nearly brushing her arm. The woman's face didn't change, she even offered a faint smile but Albert knew that look. It wasn't comfort. It was patience, stretched thin.
Albert didn't think twice. He simply stepped forward.
"Pardon me," he said, dipping his head slightly to the man who had been flirting. "Might I borrow the Lady for a moment?"
The man looked irritated, but social etiquette forced him to withdraw with a stiff nod. Albert offered his arm, and the "lady" accepted it with disarming elegance.
They walked away from the crowd, into a quieter side corridor. The music was still audible, but here, it was just the two of them.
"That was bold of you, my Lady," Albert murmured, his eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and admiration. "I almost didn’t recognize you."
The woman—no, Mycroft—smiled, faintly but without pretense.
"That means my disguise worked."
Albert let out a long breath. "Enjoying yourself?"
He asked, somewhat jokingly but still seriously.
“No more than necessary.”
It should have been enough to leave it at that. But Albert found himself staring—at Mycroft, at the sight of him like this. The truth hit him hard, too hard. The man he'd only ever known in severe suits and with an icy expression now stood before him in lace and satin, still radiating the same commanding presence, only now it rattled Albert's composure in ways he couldn't name.
He swallowed, trying to force his brain to make sense of something that needed no sense at all. He had never thought of Mycroft that way. But tonight, he had no choice. Tonight, something had shifted.
"That man was about to cause trouble."
Albert muttered, trying to anchor his thoughts before they drifted anywhere they shouldn't.
"That's why I knew you'd come," Mycroft said softly, a tone Albert had never heard from him before. "I knew you'd be here tonight."
Something in Albert's chest tightened at that admission. He couldn't let his mind run with it.
"Well then," he said lightly. "I'm glad to have been of service, my Lady."
They spoke only briefly in the quiet corridor. Albert didn't ask what Mycroft was really doing there, and Mycroft didn't volunteer an explanation. Whatever it was, Albert knew it was tied to state secrets he had no right to know.
He studied that face longer than he should have. The light powder softened the sharp lines of Mycroft's jaw. A touch of color on his lips shifted his usual cold expression into something unreadable. And those piercing blue eyes—tonight, they almost made him forget who he was looking at.
When Mycroft finally let go of his arm, a brief gesture of farewell, Albert felt a strange hollowness. He watched as Mycroft walked away, the blue gown swaying gracefully, until he vanished through the door and became, once again, nothing but a shadow tending to his work.
Albert stood frozen for a moment. The rational part of him insisted that the encounter meant nothing. He'd simply rescued a "lady" from a bothersome man and exchanged a few words. It should've been nothing.
But his mind refused to agree.
That face, softened by disguise, those faintly red lips, those sharp eyes forced to appear gentle, they haunted him. Albert had always been good at clearing unwanted faces from his memory. But this one, the harder he tried to forget, the more vividly it returned.
━━━━━━━━━━━━
The carriage wheels creaked softly over the cobblestones, rocking Albert in a slow rhythm. Night had grown late, and the party felt like a lingering shadow wrapped around his thoughts.
He sat back against the cushioned seat, pulling off his gloves one by one before staring out the darkened window. There was nothing to see but his own faint reflection. And yet, in the glass, he saw her again, the one image that refused to leave him.
Albert sighed. How foolish to let that image settle in his mind. He, of all people, should know better. To dwell on a man disguised as a woman was a waste of time.
His eyelids grew heavy. The steady clatter of the wheels was like a lullaby. Without meaning to, his head dropped slightly, and exhaustion took him.
…And there he was.
As if the carriage wasn't empty at all, Mycroft was sitting there in front of him, in that same gown, deep blue fabric pooling around him like water. His eyes were softer now, almost intoxicating.
Before Albert could speak, Mycroft moved closer, so close Albert could feel the press of his body. Then, impossibly, Mycroft sat in his lap with perfect, almost taunting grace. The faint scent of perfume curled around him, warm and dizzying. Albert's heart stumbled in his chest.
And then, those lips touched his.
A kiss that couldn't be real, that could only be born from the fever-dream of a man too tired and thinking too much.
Albert's hands almost lifted of their own accord to touch him. And then it was gone.
He jerked awake, nearly striking the cabin wall. His breath came fast, as if he'd truly lived it. The seat opposite him was empty, just smooth black leather swaying with the carriage's motion.
Albert raised a trembling hand to his face. His skin was warm, his pulse too quick. He shook his head, quietly cursing himself for letting a dream like that slip in. He had never—would never—imagine Mycroft Holmes like that.
And yet, his mind replayed the memory of lips almost touching his. Too vivid to be just a fleeting dream.
He shut his eyes again, leaning back against the seat, pressing a hand to his temple.
"Maybe I'm just tired," he told himself. But even as he tried to believe it, he couldn't deny that Mycroft's disguised figure was carved too deeply into his thoughts to fade.
In all the years he'd attended noble gatherings, surrounded by flawless smiles and painted faces, not a single one had left a mark on him. They all blurred into the same empty parade. None of them ever stayed with him.
And he was no foolish boy easily charmed by a pretty face. But Mycroft, the one man he would never place in that categorywas haunting him now.
Albert let out a short, dry laugh that died in his throat. If William ever found out, he would stare at him in shock, then offer some remark that wasn't meant to offend but would anyway.
And Albert wouldn't be able to deny it, that he might never shake this feeling for Mycroft.
How absurd that something so impossible could feel so beautiful.
Albert almost wanted to blame Mycroft for taking his work so seriously. If he'd simply sent someone else to the banquet, if he'd done the job with his usual cold mask, none of this would've happened. Instead, he chose to do it himself, to wear a dress, to play this role perfectly.
And now, Albert was left to deal with the chaos in his own head.
The carriage rattled on, carrying him farther and farther from the house. But not from his thoughts. He didn't know how he was supposed to look Mycroft in the eye the next time they met.
Days passed since that night, but Albert still hadn't shaken the image. In truth, he wasn't even trying anymore because the harder he tried, the clearer it became.
He sighed heavily when the memory returned yet again. Standing before his wardrobe, reaching for a fresh shirt before a tea invitation with Mycroft, the image slammed back into his mind. Reflexively, he slammed the wardrobe door shut harder than necessary.
Thud.
The sound echoed through the room. For the fourth time that week, he'd taken it out on the wardrobe just because of his own thoughts. Pathetic.
"Is something wrong, Brother?"
William's voice called from the hall, he must've heard the noise.
"No, Will. Sorry to startle you."
William seemed unconvinced, but chose to leave him alone. Albert was grateful.
How could he possibly explain? That a Holmes—not Sherlock, but Mycroft had been haunting him in a form that made no sense. That every time he tried to focus, he saw those faintly red lips again.
It was ridiculous.
No one would ever know how red Albert's face actually turned after that.
They met in a small reading room at an exclusive club frequented by high officials. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and tall windows looked out onto rain-slicked London streets. Mycroft was already seated, of course, a teacup at his elbow.
"Count Moriarty."
The greeting was polite, but far too cool to be called friendly.
"Lord Holmes." Albert inclined his head, taking the seat opposite.
"I hear you rescued a lady from an uncomfortable situation that night."
Albert stayed quiet for a long moment, searching for any hint of mockery. But Mycroft's face remained unreadable.
"I assume you know she was more than just a 'the lady,' Lord Holmes."
Something in Albert's frustration must have shown, because Mycroft's lips curved—subtly, pleased—at the proof that Albert had been thinking about him.
"I'm glad you recognized me."
Silence stretched between them. The rain outside seemed louder. Albert let out a long breath, weighing whether honesty was the right choice. At last, he spoke.
"I didn't expect that appearance to keep me awake at night."
Mycroft, sipping his tea, didn't so much as blink. He replied with his usual calm, as if discussing the weather though there was a flicker in his eyes that Albert didn't miss.
"How curious, Counr Moriarty."
"Yes. You could say…"
Albert paused, then looked straight at him. Since the banquet, his head had been full of restless noise. Now, he could no longer keep it contained.
"You were so striking I couldn't take my eyes off you."
The words left him evenly, but there was a quiet tension beneath them, a heat that made his own ears burn. He surprised himself with how easily they came, as if all the frustration he'd bottled up had been waiting for this moment.
"Oh."
The simple sound was all Mycroft gave, but it made the air shift. His face stayed calm, but there was a tiny flash of surprise before he carefully set his teacup down.
"Am I meant to take that as a compliment? “ I suppose it's flattering, if a Count Moriarty can't stop thinking about it."
Albert exhaled a short breath, though it sounded more like a bitter scoff at himself than amusement. The Mycroft's perfectly level response only told him more. A deliberate move. Maybe Mycroft had even wanted him to see. Maybe the entire banquet had been arranged with that in mind, leaving Albert no chance to escape it.
Of course, Mycroft wasn't offended by his bitter little laugh. He simply adjusted his gloves, as if deciding whether to deny it or leave Albert tangled in his own suspicions.
Albert gave a thin smile, "Well, if that's the case, then I suppose I must admit, you succeeded in getting stuck in my head."