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When Mycroft woke in the middle of the night, emerging from a rather unpleasant dream, his body covered in a thin veil of sweat, breathing slightly heavily, fear still coursing through his veins, he searched for Albert’s hand in the darkness of the bedroom.
Without success.
Mycroft’s blood froze in his veins, and he sat up immediately, clad only in a nightshirt, searching for his partner – please let him be there, Mycroft was afraid, he was afraid of seeing his nightmare come true, please – His palm rested on the mattress : it was lukewarm, but still very close to being cold. Meaning : his boyfriend had got up at least an hour ago.
He got up, quickly. Mycroft knew his lover’s temperament ; he knew him well. And since leaving the Tower, Albert had been displaying certain suicidal tendencies, which only made him worry all the more, especially given this sudden disappearance.
Despite whatever he might claim, his greatest fear lay, in fact, in the thought that one day he might wake up to find Albert’s body hanging there.
His lover’s.
He opened the door to their bedroom. The air in the corridor was unpleasantly cold, and Mycroft shivered : it was freezing. Bloody November. This only served to heighten Mycroft’s growing panic : he crossed the corridor, searching for any light that might indicate Albert’s presence: nothing, at least on the first floor.
He hurried down the stairs, paying no heed to the bloody creak of the third step. He couldn’t care less.
However, once he reached the bottom of the stairs, his panic vanished. There was a light on in the kitchen. But the panic gave way to a slight unease: none of this explained why Albert had got up at such an ungodly hour. He walked straight towards the kitchen, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.
“Darling ? Are you all right ?” he asked, hesitantly, his eyes scanning the kitchen before settling on Albert.
Right. He’d got his answer. No.
Albert was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. A candle was carelessly lit beside him. His back was hunched, his gaze vacant, his hands clenched tightly around a cup of tea that had barely been touched, which looked very cold : the liquid had clearly gone cold, and whilst it had been scalding a few hours ago, that was no longer the case.
Mycroft approached him, worried.
“Al ?”
He crouched down in front of the brown-haired man, placing his hands over Albert’s around the cup. No reaction. For a moment, he was seized by a terrible thought : what if Albert was dead ? But a pulse he felt on the man’s wrist told him that, no, his lover was alive. Mycroft kissed his lover’s pale knuckles, relieved.
“What’s wrong, darling ?”
A brief silence, which stretched on for what felt like an age.
“I had… a nightmare,” Albert’s voice was terribly hoarse.
Mycroft’s concern grew even further. His grip on Albert’s hands tightened gently.
“Do you want speak about… ?” he asked in the gentlest voice he could manage.
Albert shuddered slightly, his eyes wide with terror, as if the mere memory of what he had seen in his dream was simply unbearable. He shook his head vigorously, but his reply was not what Mycroft had expected :
“Not here,” he said in a strangled whisper.
Mycroft’s expression softened.
“Fancy some hot chocolate, Al ?”
He knew how much the former Earl enjoyed this drink in difficult times, much like he himself enjoyed Earl Grey with a dash of milk. Albert nodded gently. Mycroft kissed his knuckles, smiling tenderly at him.
“I’ll make you some. And stoke the fire in the sitting room. Would you mind making yourself comfortable on the sofa, please ? ” he asked as gently as he could.
Albert shook his head, and set his cup down on the table with a thud, his hands visibly trembling. Mycroft waited for him to stand up, and oh, how weak and vulnerable Albert looked; it broke his heart. He gently guided the former earl into the sitting room, one hand on his back, the other clasping his right hand. Albert sat down on the velvety sofa, and Mycroft wrapped him in a plaid that, he hoped, would comfort his lover with its warmth, then went to stoke the embers of the fire, just as he’d said he would.
After throwing a few branches on the hearth to reignite the fire, the orange flames rose with a crackle, vigorous and strong. To ensure the fire did not die out straight away, Mycroft placed a large log in the centre ; the fire immediately leapt at it, ravenous for fuel to consume, its orange and red tongue lapping at the wood and turning it black.
Mycroft stood up, turning his gaze towards the brown-haired man.
He still looked vacant, but he was less pale than before : the plaid he was wrapped in might have made him look a bit ridiculous, but Mycroft didn’t care.
“Are you going to be all right ? I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”
Albert nodded gently, his eyes fixed on the flames, so Mycroft headed for the kitchen, where he heated up some milk.
A few minutes later, he took the saucepan off the heat and poured the creamy liquid into a mug, before fetching a tin full of cocoa powder: he took a generous spoonful, stirred it into the milk and mixed it vigorously, hoping for a perfect blend. Then he thought of Louis’s advice; Louis, who knew enough about his older brother’s depression and nightmares to be able to say that hot chocolate certainly comforted Albert, but with marshmallows, it was even better. So Mycroft rummaged through his cupboards, eventually finding a small box of marshmallows he’d been saving for occasions like this : as they were too big to fit into the mug, he took one and carefully cut it up, before pouring some of it into the mug : the rest of the marshmallows, he put into a large bowl : he, Mycroft the Great Sweet-Lover, was certainly going to eat them.
So the Director returned to the living room, the cup in his right hand and the bowl in his left. When he came back, Albert hadn’t moved a muscle. Mycroft set the bowl down on the coffee table, then gently held out the cup to Albert : he took it with surprising speed. Mycroft sat down beside him.
“Will you share the plaid with me ?” he asked softly.
Albert said nothing; he simply opened the blanket just enough for Mycroft to slide in, and the Director moved closer, snuggling up under the plaid. He gently took the bowl onto his lap.
After a brief silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of Albert sipping, Mycroft asked in a whisper:
“Is it nice ?”
Albert’s cheeks flushed slightly.
“It’s nice…” his voice was barely a whisper.
Mycroft smiled gently, then silence fell once more. He gently picked up a marshmallow and popped it into his mouth : he didn’t want to force Albert to speak to him, he would take all the time he needed.
The time Albert needed lasted little more than ten minutes, during which Mycroft drew his lover close to him, hoping to comfort him.
“It was awful,” Albert whispered.
Mycroft said nothing, his eyes fixed on the infinite beauty that was his boyfriend.
“Tell me everything,” he murmured.
Albert visibly flinched, his grip on his cup tightening.
“I—” his lover’s voice broke.
Mycroft murmured :
“Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”
Albert swallowed, very slowly, his eyes fixed on the flames.
“William… he was there. He told me that… that everything he’d said, you know, to get me out of prison, was nothing more than a bunch of lies, that he only needed me… only to appease you, the government. That he’d never wanted to bring me back into the team, me, who’s so hypocritical, so disruptive…” Albert was biting his nails now. "Me, who led him down this demonic path of the Lord of Crime, who corrupted him and his brother. I—"
His voice broke again—no, it shattered into a thousand pieces. Albert’s lower lip trembled imperceptibly, but Mycroft noticed it ; he placed his hand over Albert’s in the hope of comforting him.
“Take your time,” he murmured once more.
Albert’s eyes darkened, just as they had that time when he’d rushed to visit him in prison because the brown-haired man had tried to…
No. Mycroft didn’t want to think about that vision that haunted his own nightmares.
The brown-haired man took a slow breath. His shoulders trembled.
“…I asked what he was going to do with me, because I understood his reaction, you see ? That’s what I’d always thought for… for three years.”
“I understand,” said Mycroft calmly, for it was his duty to remain calm to allay his lover’s panic, despite the still-fresh memory of his own nightmare.
“And, and finally, he laughed, you know, the sort of Machiavellian laugh that only appears in Edgar Allan Poe’s novels… He told me I was going to be locked up, again, but in the dungeon of the manor house, the Moriarty manor house that I burnt down, the one where I spent my childhood, you know. He—well, the very next second, I’d been put in irons ; I was kneeling on the stone floor—it hurt.”
Mycroft’s hand, which wasn’t gently clasping Albert’s, rested on his left knee, rubbing it gently.
Albert visibly shuddered.
“And then, and then, the whole lot of them came in, they spat on me, they told me what a burden I was to them… when it was over, William let out a sneer ; he was the last to leave, but he… he, he… ”
Albert was breathing heavily, as if he were still reliving the moment.
“Calm down, Al,” said Mycroft in the gentlest voice he could manage. “It’s finished now.”
Albert’s breathing wouldn’t settle, and he blurted out :
“He strangled me. Until I thought I was going to die. He strangled me. Then, as he let go, he hissed that… that he had to keep me alive… ” Albert’s grip on his cup was so tight that his knuckles were cracking ; Mycroft gently replaced the cup with his right hand, ignoring the pain, “…that he had to keep me alive to blackmail you.”
Mycroft took a deep breath.
“And then, and then, I don’t know, it’s all a blur, I just remember you coming into the dungeon, showering me with insults, saying I was nothing but an incompetent lover, an incompetent M, that it was my fault the world was falling apart out there. And oh, Mycky, it hurt so much…" Albert’s voice cracked, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Mycroft’s heart truly broke.
He let go of Albert’s knee and his hands, and pulled him into his arms so quickly that the bowl of marshmallows toppled to the floor with a thud.
“Al, it’ll be all right, Al,” he whispered.
He felt Albert’s hands, those pale hands, close around his nightshirt, trembling in his embrace.
“Damn it, Mycky, I’m scared again… ”
Albert’s tears rolled down his cheeks, cascading over his rosy curves to fall onto Mycroft’s nightshirt, but he didn’t care. He tightened his embrace.
“I’d never do that, Al, do you hear me ? Never.”
Albert was overcome by a trembling spasm, sobbing into his lover’s nightshirt, his only anchor.
“It’s all right, it’s over, I’m here,” he murmured, his brows furrowed ; he hated seeing Albert like this.
Usually, Albert radiated that halo of pure mischief so characteristic of his being, of his very person. He’d tease, pull away, draw closer, he’d flirt, he was marvellous. He often smiled, laughing at Mycroft’s attempts at jokes, gazing at him tenderly ; he’d help him with his complicated work, that wonderfully intelligent creature, but sometimes…
Yes, sometimes, Albert would remember the Tower. He would crack, or his subconscious would crack and express itself through his dreams, which in turn caused his conscious mind to crack.
The breakdowns of the subconscious are a thousand times more violent than those of the conscious mind.
Not least because the emerging conscious part of the brain accounted for ten per cent of our mind, and the submerged unconscious part, ninety per cent. And so, outbursts of the unconscious are, by definition, nine times more violent than outbursts of the conscious mind.
“Al, don’t worry. ” He rained a series of little kisses onto Albert’s hair. “I’m here, it’s all over.”
Albert gasped.
“Are you sure ?” His voice trembled. “Am I still in my nigntmare ?”
“Al.”
Mycroft locked eyes with Albert.
“Do I seem real to you ? ”
Albert laughed.
“No, my Mycky wouldn’t be that nice.” He tried to make a joke of it.
“Al.”
Albert blinked, looking at Mycroft.
“Yes.”
“Tell me five things you can feel, darling, things that would make you feel like you’re in reality—I know you can do it. ”
Albert pouted, tears still streaming down his cheeks.
“You’re a monster, Mycroft Holmes, making me work when I’m in the middle of questioning everything around me…” he sighed dramatically.
“Please, darling,” Mycroft whispered in his ear.
Albert certainly blushed.
“Your hands around me,” he began. “Your eyes, your voice, your scent. The taste of hot chocolate. And the house is in complete chaos.”
Mycroft smiled.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re awake, I’m awake, we’re real, wow ! ”
Albert laughed like a child. Mycroft kissed him on the temple.
“It’s over. You don’t have to worry any more ; I’m here.”
Albert’s cheeks must have flushed. Then a semblance of lucidity seemed to return to him.
“And you? Why are you up, Mycroft ? You usually sleep like a log.”
Mycroft gave a small smile as he planted a light kiss on Albert’s hair, then picked up a marshmallow that had miraculously fallen onto the table and popped it into his mouth.
“Oh, nothing in particular. I had a nightmare too, but well, it’s nothing compared to yours !” he laughed softly.
“Oh ? A bad night for both of us, it seems. Tell me all about it, Mycky.” Albert’s voice was still a little hoarse from crying, but it had clearly passed : his subconscious had come back together.
Mycroft let out a small laugh of relief.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m certain it was just a nightmare, now that you’re alive.”
A chill hung over the living room, despite the crackling of the flames.
“Mycky, what did you dream about ?”
Mycroft’s smile faded; he loosened his embrace to take Albert’s cup of hot chocolate.
“May I ?” Albert nodded, and Mycroft took a sip, it was sweet and hot.
He took a quiet breath, he would have preferred not to think about it.
“I used to visit you at the Tower, in that universe; it was a regular thing, about once a week. Day 789 of self-isolation for you. I’d open the door, all happy to bring flowers to brighten up your dreary cell, and then…”
Pause. A long one. Albert frowned with concern.
“And then ?” he pressed.
Mycroft exhaled with a sad smile.
“And then you’d hanged yourself.”
Pause.
Again.
Mycroft took a sip of hot chocolate, then held it out towards Albert’s face, which was torn between surprise and sadness.
“Here, have some; you really need it, my dear.”
“Mycroft, I—”
“Shh. It’s all right. It’ll be fine, for you and for me.” Mycroft smiled. “As long as we’re together, nothing can touch us. Do you remember ? You and me, alone against the fools, during that MI6 mission that went pear-shaped ! ”
Albert let his look of surprise turn into an incredulous laugh.
“You and me, alone against the fools, and then you killing three men in cold blood with a bullet to the heart ? That was it, wasn’t it ?”
“Four,” Mycroft corrected with a soft laugh. “You and me, alone against the fools, and you slitting another man’s throat whilst stepping over the corpses of some of your army subordinates.”
Albert burst out laughing.
“Oh my, you must have really struggled to explain that to the Minister of the Army !”
“Yes, but I have no regrets. ” Mycroft smiled. “It was good.”
“It was good ? Mr Holmes, you killed people !”
“Can’t be helped.”
Albert smiled and took a sip of hot chocolate.
“People often say I’m the most dramatic one at MI6, but if they saw you… !” said Albert.
“The Holmes can be just as dramatic as the Moriartys. It’s not right to underestimate one’s superior’s theatrical abilities. I’ll have to set Messrs Bond and Moran straight, I must say.”
Albert laughed softly and rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, swirling his hot chocolate in his cup.
“Do you want to go to bed?” Mycroft asked gently, enveloping Albert in his gentlest gaze – Sherlock would have been shocked by it – whilst gently stroking his wispy locks.
“Stay here a little longer,” Albert said simply.
Mycroft was born to stay.
It was late by the time Albert finally decided he wanted to go to bed.
“It’s cold – shall I make you a hot water bottle ?”
“Hmm,” replied the shapeless mass of the dark-haired man on the sofa, half asleep.
“Don’t fall asleep too quickly, darling.”
No reply : Mycroft wasn’t sure whether he should be concerned. In any case, he went into the kitchen to put down the empty bowl of marshmallows – he’d eaten them despite the fact that they’d fallen on the floor, under Albert’s dismayed gaze – and Albert’s cup. He tossed them into the sink carelessly: he’d wash them the next day. Then he picked up a bottle-shaped metal container, made by Q : he would fill it with the boiling water he’d put on to heat in a saucepan.
His eyes were glazing over with tiredness, so much so that he almost missed the precise moment when the water began to boil over from the saucepan, causing a small puddle of scalding water to form on the floor. Mycroft hastened to remove the saucepan from the heat before the disaster could happen again, and he carefully filled the metal container. He hoped it would warm the bed.
Then, at last, with the saucepan in the sink and the bottle in his right hand, he went back to the living room to see if Albert had, as he’d mentally predicted, fallen asleep: not quite, as it turned out. He was just dozing heavily. Mycroft smiled.
“Al, ” he murmured, “are you coming ? Let’s go to bed. ”
Albert stirred on the sofa with a meaningful “Mmh”.
Mycroft smiled, a tired smile.
“Darling, come to bed, will you ?”
“Mmmh… Won’t you carry me ?” asked Albert, a hint of drowsiness in his voice.
“If I carry you, we’re more likely to end up on the floor than in bed, my darling,” whispered Mycroft.
“Mh.” Albert got up and shot a sulky look at the fire, as if it were the fire’s fault he had to get up. “Hurry up, before I crash to the floor like a very sexy puddle of mud.”
« And very dramatic. » add Mycroft
« And very dramatic. » growled Albert.
Mycroft had certainly laugh with taking slowly Albert’s hand.
Albert flopped onto the bed with a thud.
“Tell MI6 I’m dead,” he grumbled, his voice muffled by the duvets.
“Jane will tell them we’re dead, both of us,” whispered Mycroft as he sat down on the bed.
Neither of them felt like getting up the next day. A slightly tense silence settled over them at the thought of work.
“Come on, Al, let’s forget about work – corpses don’t think,” grumbled Mycroft. “Come and get into bed.” To emphasise his point, he let himself fall onto his pillow.
Albert, practically at the foot of the bed, buried under the duvet, finally sat up – reluctantly, to be sure – and settled onto his pillow, right next to Mycroft, the hotwater bottle resting peacefully between their feet, warding off the bitter winter chill – and the chill from Mycroft’s feet, incidentally.
Albert moved gently closer to Mycroft to let himself be wrapped in his arms.
“Good night, darling,” Mycroft whispered.
In response, Albert lifted his head and pressed a lazy kiss to his lips.
“Good night, Myc,” he murmured.
Mycroft tightened his embrace around Albert slightly, his legs tangled with Albert’s.
And this time, no nightmares to disturb their peaceful sleep.