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"Mrs. Watson, could I speak with you for a moment?" Albert approached the blonde woman with a knowing look, as she finished packing away the remaining midwifery equipment.
The rest of the family was already gathered in the famous hallway outside his brother's room, meeting the new little Holmes who had arrived on an autumn evening. (A full moon night, it should be noted.) Mary had nothing left to do but wait for William to remain stable in the coming hours and for no postpartum complications to appear. So she took advantage of this moment alone, arranging her and her husband's things so they would be ready when they decided to leave.
"Yes, Lord Albert, how can I help you?"
"Please, just Albert is fine; those titles no longer belong to me."
"I'm sorry, it's a habit," she apologized with a kind smile before noticing the man's troubled expression. "Would you like to go somewhere more private?"
Albert appreciated the woman's astuteness, and after nodding, they both headed to the kitchen where no one could hear them, but also no one could suspect the reason for their "private" meeting.
"I'm all ears, Albert," she announced, approaching the kitchen to prepare some tea not only for herself but also for the other guests.
Albert just sighed and plopped down heavily in one of the breakfast nook chairs. He really didn't know how to approach the subject, but if he had already dragged the poor woman to this side of the house, creating expectations, he couldn't back out.
"I have to ask you something that I'm sure only you could answer. Well, I think William could too, but I've never mentioned it," he began hesitantly, avoiding eye contact with the blonde who was now watching him intently.
"What is it about?" He appreciated the directness; it was what he needed, no beating around the bush.
"It's about conception." Mary frowned doubtfully; to be honest, she didn't think that was the point of the conversation.
"Well… Didn't they explain it to you when you reached that age? I thought that because you're nobles…"
"No, no, I don't mean that exactly." Sighing in annoyance at not being able to make himself understood, he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I mean, the capacity to conceive."
The woman's eyes widened in surprise, and she parted her lips in a silent "ooh." Now she had a bit more coherence. Turning on her heels again, she searched the cupboards for the porcelain teapot and cups, arranging them on a tray.
"What is your question about 'that' topic?"
"How do I know if I have the capacity or not?" Mary let her hands fall onto the granite countertop. The situation was now becoming even more interesting; she clearly understood where the conversation was headed.
"It's simple, to be honest." Turning halfway around, she looked at him with a slight, understanding smile. "Can I ask if you have 'those' days of the month?"
Albert made a dubious face. He had never spoken about the subject with anyone else, nor had he ever had a conversation about how it worked. What he did remember, and mentioned to his listener, was that at the age of twelve, he woke up one morning with traces of blood on his sheets and clothes. Before he could become alarmed, one of the maids, whose orders were to wake him every morning, entered his room and found a scene that, for Albert at the time, could only be described as close to his death. Without making a fuss, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she approached him and led him to a bathroom so he could take a shower. "It will happen every month, hopefully always in the same weeks," she told him without giving much more detail. "Use cotton or linen towels; I'll take care of getting them for you."
"Didn't you ask your mother about it back then?"
"Alice"—that was the young maid's name—"mentioned that it would be best if we kept it a secret, that if my mother or father found out, things might not go so well for me. Of course, I believed her; there was no reason to lie to me."
"And Alice never told you exactly what it was, right?"
"No, just vague information, but enough so I wouldn't ask too many questions."
The relationship between maid and master generally couldn't have friendly or complicit undertones; rumors would spread, and only an innocent woman would suffer. Alice understood this better than anyone, so she only interfered as far as she deemed prudent, and no further.
As time passed, and the years he had to insinuate himself into the nobility to maintain his position as Count, he learned that what was happening to him wasn't "normal" within society, so he never had anyone to talk to directly about it to share his experiences. He also realized that Alice had been truly astute in keeping it a secret with him because that "condition" was a disgrace for any gentleman who experienced it. No matter how noble he was, if society found out, shame and public scrutiny were inevitable. Most likely, those who had the infamous "moment of the month" would hide it at all costs to maintain family pride and, of course, secure their future. Sometimes he wondered how a marriage with a woman could be sustained while concealing something like that. Could they procreate? Or did it guarantee a kind of infertility for his "male side"? Doubts he would never resolve. So, for many years, he practically survived on the scant information his maid had given him as a teenager and what he had learned through his upbringing about his female counterparts, to whom, without exception, the same thing happened. But, being clearly different in obvious biological matters, he would never know if it was truly exactly the same.
Then, the same thing happened to his brother William when he was eleven, but for him it seemed different. He knew what was happening to his body. "I'll be fine, it's normal," he reported with the imperturbable tranquility of someone who seemed to have at least thirty years of life experience. Perhaps in the slums this topic was treated differently than it was among the nobility. That brief mention never prompted him to reveal that he certainly had the same condition. William took care of his own needs and kept it a secret from everyone else; only Louis and he knew.
It wasn't something they could discuss so freely, as each dealt with it in their own way, keeping it a secret. There were months when the pain confined him to his bed, but he excused it with indigestion, and that way no one pressed him further. Years ago, he thought how beneficial it would be for him and William to sit down and talk about it, to at least clear up some of their doubts, but that conversation never happened.
"In that case, it's likely you also have the capacity to conceive. Sr. Albert, The truth is, the physical evidence is there, but we won't know for sure until you experience that 'event.'"
"Should I now perform the act of 'conceiving'? Is that right?" Mary chuckled and nodded, understanding the lighthearted joke that had been part of the conversation.
"That's right, I suppose you don't need any explanation for that."
"No, please, I couldn't ask a lady like yourself for such details. I think I'm old enough to know what it's like." He shook his head quickly, chuckling softly.
Mary continued laughing in complicity, then after a few seconds she took a deep breath and turned off the fire, relaxing her expression into a soft, somewhat melancholic smile.
"What you should know, Mr. Albert, is that bleeding every month doesn't guarantee pregnancy." She turned back to the kitchen to get the hot water and pour it into the teapot, where she had prepared it with some herbs.
"You mean…?"
"I know women who have had their period every month without fail, and yet a child never filled their wombs." She sighed ruefully, pouring two cups of tea, one to take to the brown-haired man. "It's sad, but it can happen."
Albert thought about it for a moment in silence after gratefully accepting the hot drink, glancing at his abdomen with the fleeting thought that the opportunity might not present itself.
"You should try it, of course you have to tell your partner, right?"
"Oh, well..."
"You and Director Holmes, aren't you?" Albert observed her with a hint of surprise, barely concealed. Mary, of course, noticed and laughed conspiratorially. "A lady doesn't miss such things, sir."
"I've noticed. I must admit you have a good eye, madam."
"It doesn't surprise me. I mean, the few times we've met, I noticed it." She smiled sweetly. "Mr. Holmes tends to look at you in a particular way."
"Perhaps he's the one who can't hide it." They both laughed softly.
Mary sat down for a moment across from him with her cup to take a sip. —John and I have also been discussing the possibility of having a child— she confessed since they were on the topic— So who knows? Maybe in a couple of months Melody will have a little battalion to have fun with.
Albert smiled gently at the thought of his little niece surrounded by other small children to play with.
"A little battalion, yes, that's certainly what it would be for her," he agreed, taking another sip of tea.
Letting the water cool a little so they could serve tea that could be drunk without delay, they continued talking about the subject for a while longer. Albert had finally found someone to ask the specific questions that were still swirling in his head, and Mary answered them without a hint of embarrassment. She had a sufficiently extroverted and even progressive personality that the topic didn't make her shy. She even seemed enthusiastic about the idea of helping with another birth, something society still didn't quite accept, but tolerated to a certain extent. After all, those children would be more loyal tools of the British Crown, and the country didn't discriminate based on the circumstances of conception as long as they would serve in the future, either as cannon fodder or as thinking beings within the government.
Having cleared up his doubts as far as he could remember, he helped Mary carry the tray with the teacups. In the living room, Mycroft, Sherlock, and John were discussing what had happened with their young niece during birth. They didn't interrupt, silently arranging everything on the coffee table and offering the three men their drinks before taking their seats wherever they could find space in the living room armchairs.
"I managed to distract her after that until she fell asleep," Mycroft finished, taking a sip from his cup. "It was partly our fault too; we should have been more considerate."
"No, we don't intend for you to bear that blame. I appreciate the help they gave us with her, and I'm sorry if she became difficult," Sherlock declared with a sincerity rarely seen, to be honest. When it comes to Melody, the man lets his typical personality fade away.
It's as if he becomes... a father.
They say you can't always be a child; at some point, you have to grow up and focus your mind. Sherlock became a prime example of this saying when they returned from America. The man seemed like a different person, still retaining his mannerisms and vocabulary, but with a more mature mind. Similarly, if you placed him next to his older brother, he still looked like that twenty-four-year-old who could barely button his shirt. There's no way to reach Mycroft's level of maturity and refinement; it takes years of practice and social pressure to even come close.
But even with that definition and comparison, Albert knew that behind that government official, who continued to struggle in vain to keep his hair under control, was a person of calm character, and one might even say a good companion. His face knew what smiles were, and his tongue knew what jokes were. Knowing Mycroft as he truly was could be considered a privilege few were lucky enough to witness.
Albert was blessed to be one of them.
And let's not even mention his eloquence and oratory skills. If that man was where he is today, it's because of that speaking ability that could leave anyone speechless. Those years when he decided to confine himself to solitude as a way to atone for his sins were aided by the numerous letters from his… What should we call him back then? Suitor? Friend? Companion? Whatever you want to call him, at this point it no longer matters because they bear the title of "partner." Mycroft's handwriting was particularly elongated in those letters. He remember that in the documents he wrote as director, his handwriting was straighter and more concise. That languor was a sign that he was probably writing as the thoughts came to him and not transcribing things as if it were a file. It meant that he really took the time to think about what to write to him, not out of obligation but for pure pleasure and perhaps even necessity.
Albert learned much more about Mycroft from those letters. He had answered very few, and then only in three lines no more. He didn't believe he had the right to elaborate further because it would mean he enjoyed what he was doing, and that wasn't a way to atone for his crimes. But he remembered every word and sentence written to him with great affection. They rarely spoke of the contents of those letters again. After all, when they met again, it was as if nothing had changed, as if they had never truly been apart.
It was easier to declare their already obvious feelings once they were face to face. Albert was the one who took the first step. How could anyone expect the firm and reserved statesman to take the first step so recklessly? It wasn't in his nature, no sir. So the chestnut-haired man stepped up and, in short, said, "You and I are no longer in a position to keep denying ourselves" There was nothing left to stop them, neither a suicide mission that would change an entire country nor the four walls that had him locked up. For a long time, Albert had denied any kind of feeling for the sake of the Moriarty plan; after all, the idea was to die alongside them. But his brother's change of course had simply left him adrift, which is why he ended up succumbing to a kind of self-condemnation when it was all over.
He was grateful to William for returning; he didn't even want to imagine what would have become of him if he hadn't.
Mycroft reciprocated his feelings as stoically as he could on that occasion, formal even when it wasn't necessary, but he wasn't going to complain. He had fallen in love with this man precisely for who he was and had no intention of changing him. He knew the older man had his charm in private and also in other areas that didn't need to be public knowledge.
They had been having a relationship behind closed doors for quite some time, years now. The more astute among them already knew, and those less so implicitly suspected it. No one dared ask the question, "What are you two?" First, because it wasn't their business, and second, because Mycroft was involved. The only one who could say anything would be Sherlock himself, but what was the point of the dead man mocking the beheaded? He and William knew, of course they did, and if neither of them wanted to mention anything about it, that would be respected.
Late into the night, when the moon shone brightly high in the sky, the family members said their goodbyes to the new parents, leaving them to rest peacefully—or as peacefully as possible. The Watsons went their separate ways, as did Louis, and the other two men decided to walk instead of taking a carriage. They didn't live far (because yes, they live together; no need to ask, anyone who doesn't realize that is simply an idiot), so stretching their legs after the tense day was just what they needed.
"So, Matthew Holmes?" Mycroft asked aloud, going over his new nephew's name.
"It seems the Holmes name will continue for a few more generations," the brunette joked, gently nudging the older man with his shoulder.
"Believe me when I say that Sherlock was the last person I thought of when it came to continuing the family name. My mother would cry with pride, no doubt."
"Well, it seems that fatherhood suits them both" He murmured, observing in the darkness of the night and the dim gas lamps that there was no one wandering around before shortening the distance a little more with his companion, taking his hand with his fingers.
"It's difficult to say something like that. It's true that not everyone is good at having children," he replied, thinking for a moment, subtly returning the secret touch.
"What about you? Do you think it would suit you to have them?"
The question, while having a hidden ulterior motive, was genuinely sincere, without any desire to steer the conversation toward something more specific, simply out of curiosity. Mycroft remained silent, the only sounds the breathing of both of them and the footsteps on the cobblestones damp with night's dew. Again, the idea of children came to mind; it was the second time (third, to be precise, if we count that moment when he was able to hold the newborn for an instant) that day.
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps?"
"I won't know until I have them," he concluded, shrugging with a certain disinterest.
"So you do want to have children?" the green-eyed man added. Mycroft sighed and turned to see his partner holding his hand more firmly, pulling him closer until their shoulders touched.
"And do you want them?" he asked the brunette directly, who wore a slight expression of surprise at the movement just moments before.
He remained silent, pondering the question. It was true that he had pestered Mary for a long time with questions about it, and yes, he wanted a children, or at least one, but they had never discussed it, mainly because they assumed (Albert assumed) that biologically they couldn't have them. But if that were the case, adoption wasn't a problem either. In reality, they had never talked about it because the opportunity had simply never arisen, and until then, they hadn't seriously considered it. Melody's arrival had been a breath of fresh air for everyone, and now that William and his brother-in-law have had their second child, he began to realize that time was passing. That's why he felt the need to approach Mary, to finally get the answers he hadn't dared to seek before.
And now she knew she could, that if they both wanted it, they could have a family.
But if he "really could," shouldn't he have gotten pregnant already? I mean, they weren't exactly a young newlywed couple, but they were satisfying each other enough that any woman of childbearing age would have gotten pregnant by now.
Could it be that…?
“Al?” Mycroft called, having received no response for some time. Albert’s gaze had drifted away from him, his attention elsewhere in his mind.
“You…” Albert stammered, beginning to piece things together. “Did you know?”
“Excuse me? Know what?”
“About my… condition,” he finished cautiously, his shoulders even tensing slightly. Mycroft watched him for a moment, trying to understand exactly what he meant. For a fleeting moment, his eyes dropped to the brown-haired man’s abdomen, and his brow relaxed.
“You mean that "time of the month" I imagine?” Albert nodded. “Yes, I knew. I mean, we lived together for almost five years, Al.”
“And you never said anything?”
“Should I have said something? You didn’t mention it. Naturally, I assumed it was normal for you. It’s not like I didn’t know what it is.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t normal, I mean—” He broke off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know exactly what it was, no one ever told me.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise, stopping in his tracks and turning to his companion, gently taking hold of his elbows.
“You just assumed it was part of your daily life?”
“Exactly.”
He couldn’t help but let out a laugh of astonishment. Who would have thought Albert James Moriarty could be ignorant of something, given his high birth? But it seems that no matter how noble a person’s lineage, if the information is forbidden, there’s not much that can be done.
“So, you know that because of that you can…”
“Yes, I know. Mrs. Watson explained it to me,” he replied with a hint of embarrassment, looking away from the older man. “I suppose that’s why you asked me.”
"That's right. Thinking you knew beforehand." Albert shook his head ruefully.
"Don't you think it should have happened already? If it's even possible?" Mycroft released his arms and now put his arm around his shoulder, pulling him close and continuing on his way with his head held high and a carefree smile rarely seen.
"Do you think that knowing about your 'condition' I wouldn't take precautions when we slept together?" Albert frowned; that meant he was responsible for contraception.
"As if I were a prostitute," he muttered sarcastically.
"Albert," he retorted, frowning, "Of course not, nothing close to that idea."
"Isn't it something that just happens? Letting nature take its course?" he asked aloud, looking up at the blue-haired man.
In the nobility, pregnancies were usually unplanned. After marriage, procreation was expected to occur whenever human biology dictated, although if there were no signs of a firstborn within the next two years, the marriage could decline and end in divorce. But were they subject to the same rule? Clearly not. They weren't even married to begin with, and they were already planning to have children.
"I believe that as responsible adults, we can talk about it rather than simply 'let it happen'." he replied calmly, letting Albert settle under his arm, feeling his own arm slip behind his back.
"So all this time you were waiting for me to say something?"
"Or rather, I was giving you time," he corrected, to which Albert smiled. "After all, you've already seen your brother. I wouldn't be surprised if you reconsidered the idea."
"And you? Did you reconsider after seeing your brother?"
“Actually, I’m convinced,” Albert raising his eyebrows. “With Melody, really, when I first held her, all I could do was admire her and see how tiny she was in my hands. For a moment I thought, ‘If I feel this alone being an uncle, what would it be like being a father?’ Then I see Sherlock so devoted to that little girl that, to be honest, I want the same.”
Albert couldn't help but notice the affectionate expression that graced the blue-haired man's face, completely unconscious yet natural. This was one of the many glimpses of Mycroft Holmes beyond the firm and reserved demeanor of the British government: a man with an almost enviable familial warmth and a pleasant smile that could make any young lady blush.
Ah, how lucky you are, Albert Moriarty. Many English girls would kill to be in your position.
A smile also adorned his face, and after a quick glance around, he leaned in to kiss his cheek, a tender touch with no greater meaning than the simple act of kissing a loved one.
"You would make an excellent father," he whispered conspiratorially. Mycroft gave him an affectionate look before adjusting his grip on his shoulder to give him a sort of hug.
Amidst all their conversation, they had arrived at the mansion, where an elderly maid had greeted them despite the late hour. Apologizing to the woman, they instructed her to go and rest for the day (and I say instructed because if it were a plea, she would have insisted on staying awake). With coats off and ties loosened, they ended up in the drawing room in front of the fireplace, which the diligent housekeeper had already lit so that when their masters arrived, they could make themselves comfortable without much trouble. Mycroft took from the wooden shelf above the fireplace the bottle of Scotch whisky he drank from time to time. Albert preferred wine, but sometimes the burn of a stronger alcohol in the throat was necessary.
Each with a glass, the soft clinking of the glasses echoed in the room, followed by a "Cheers to the newest member." It was always cause for celebration when the family grew and the family name still had a chance to endure. It was also a good excuse to drink for a long time without judgmental eyes on them. "We're celebrating!" Who could say anything? To deny the joy of celebrating would be cruel.
"So…"
"So…"
They both fell silent at the same time, letting out a soft laugh at the end. Mycroft gestured with his glass to indicate that he was giving him the floor, which Albert acknowledged with a nod.
"Do you want children?"
"Yes, I do," he confirmed directly.
“Shouldn’t we get married first?” It would be the proper protocol in a typical case.
“Always so attached to social rules, Lord Albert?”
“Oh please, you must be the example of those rules,” he retorted, pointing at him with his half-empty glass.
“Perhaps, but I’ve already slept with my partner before the wedding, for five years in fact. Do social protocols matter now?”
Albert didn’t hide the slight blush that crossed his ears. He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, slammed his glass down on the coffee table, rolled up his sleeves, and stood up in one swift motion. Mycroft remained impassive, intently watching his partner’s movements. He didn’t exchange another word. Without hesitation or embarrassment, he sat on the lap of the blue-eyed man, who still showed not a trace of surprise, accustomed as he was to the audacious advances of the brown-haired man. But this time it seemed different, more than an insinuation, it was…
"Mycroft Holmes," he declared harshly, grabbing the collar of his shirt to pull his face close to him, their mouths just inches apart, the breath still reeking of alcohol. "I don't care how many times you've slept with me, if I'm going to give birth to your child, it will be in marriage, under your last name."
His words were firm, bold, without a hint of hesitation. Those green eyes that could be poison ivy and those lips capable of killing any damned wretch were there before him like the devil tempting him to commit a sin. He held her gaze for a few long seconds before smiling, a smile that seemed to express pride at the tone in which he had been warned.
"Marry me."
"I accept."
"Ah, see how easy that was?" —Turning his head for a moment to drink the last of his beverage, he stretched a little to place his glass evenly on the coffee table, using his free hand to hold his partner by the lower back so as not to separate or fall—I'll take care of the paperwork at the civil registry.
"But until then..." he whispered, settling in a little more, using his arms to encircle the blue-haired man's neck, their noses almost touching. "If your question is whether I also want children, the answer is yes. I want us to have a baby."
His eyes narrowed, his smile widening and the distance between them closing as he placed his hands on the brunette's hips.
"Well, future Mr. Holmes, we can begin practicing if you like," he whispered before closing the distance with a soft, fleeting kiss.
"Practicing? Do we need it?" He chuckled softly before resting his forehead against Holmes's, his eyes locked on his blue ones. "Get me pregnant, Mycroft."
"At your service."