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November 1879. That evening was cold, and a bitter wind swept through all of London, slipping between narrow alleys and racing down the boulevards. The city was relatively quiet, unaware of what was about to unfold in just a few days: the Lord of Crime would present on stage the final act of his tragedy, and the capital would celebrate the heroic acts of the number one detective.
Moriarty Manor was silent - awfully silent. William had been gone for a couple of hours; no one knew the details. Everyone in the house was locked in their rooms, reflecting on what was soon to come. Those were their final moments together in that house. There would be no more Moriarty brothers, just Louis; no more Lord of Crime’s grand plan, just MI6; no more of that strange “family” bound by an ideal stronger than blood: just a bunch of people too different from one another, held together by duty alone.
Shut away in his room, Albert adjusted the knot of his tie. He looked at his reflection in the mirror: no matter how polished his jacket, how crisp his white shirt, how fine his cashmere trousers - he looked miserable. His hair, though combed, wouldn’t stay in place, and a few rebellious strands bounced across his forehead. He wore his usual cunning smile, but his eyes betrayed him, exposing a soul shattered into a thousand pieces. The house of cards inside him was collapsing. He was exhausted. He raised a hand to his face, brushing his cheek. He didn’t feel it. His mind was more and more frequently dissociated from his body. He shook his head and looked away; the sight of himself disgusted him. He grabbed his coat from the hanger near the door, when a thought crossed his mind.
A glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.
He opened the cabinet beside the fireplace, grabbed a bottle of fine wine and a glass, then threw himself onto the purple armchair. He poured a bit of the scarlet liquid into the glass, careful not to overdo it. He gently swirled the stem of the glass and brought it to his lips. The first sip touched his mouth and slipped down his throat, fizzy and sweet. He liked the sharp sensation of alcohol entering his body, numbing his limbs and clouding his thoughts - though by then, it took much more than a mere glass to make him even begin to feel tipsy.
He would miss those moments, in the Tower of London. Less than three days were left before the start of his confinement. He had chosen that ending for himself long ago, but at heart, he still wasn’t ready. Even so, he was certain that the pain of losing his little brother would be far more excruciating than any sentence he might endure.
The thought tormented him. He had led William down the path of sin. He had given him the name and the power. He had crowned him as his personal messiah and dragged him to Golgotha. He, he, he. He was the original sinner, but it was William who would pay with his life. Like Christ, William wore the sins of others and carried the cross.
Albert’s mind was clouding over, but someone entered the room and pulled him out of his thoughts. He probably hadn’t heard the knock, because the intruder had made a point of being as silent as possible. Still, Albert couldn’t ignore the threatening, judgmental presence at his back.
“There’s no need to sneak in like that, Colonel,” he smiled without turning around.
“Don’t fuck with me,” the stranger hissed venomously, approaching the count.
“Such vulgar words…” Albert swirled his glass and took the last sip. Then he set it down on the coffee table in front of the armchair and looked up. “What brings you here?”
Sebastian Moran looked out the massive window through the gap in the drawn curtains. He hesitated for a moment, then asked:
“Are you seeing him tonight?”
Albert frowned and didn’t reply. He reached for the wine bottle on the table and poured himself another glass.
“It’s my second, don’t make that face,” he said with a smirk.
“I told you not to fuck with me. Answer my question. There’s a carriage at the gate,” the colonel stated. Albert grew evasive.
“That’s none of your business.”
“What the hell are you talking about? How long has this been going on?”
“What exactly? I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood.”
“Albert, what the hell is going on between you and Holmes?” Moran sounded more worried than angry. His insistence was aggressive, but it stemmed more from unease than resentment.
“There’s nothing going on, Moran. And even if there was, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”
The glass was already empty. Albert had drunk it in two sips.
“Albert, please.”
That please confirmed the true nature of Moran’s urgency. He was alarmed and needed answers.
“There’s nothing between me and Holmes. We’re meeting for one last conversation between colleagues. Or perhaps I should say accomplices, considering he’s always kept his mouth shut about our plan. Holmes isn’t that kind of man, Moran. He doesn’t concede himself to the first fool who crosses his path. He’s not like me.”
Moran’s face tensed at those words. Like me.
Albert had always known he was homosexual. He’d realized it as a child, when a young nobleman visiting the Moriarty Manor had smiled at him sweetly, and a wave of warmth had surged through his body. Adults had laughed at little Count Moriarty’s bashfulness, chalking it up to the usual early social interactions expected of his rank. None of them had noticed his heart pounding wildly as those blue eyes gazed at him with fondness and a golden lock of hair slipped free from its pomade, falling across the young man’s forehead and forcing him to brush it back with long, slender fingers.
Every now and then Albert would recall that encounter and laugh at the idea that his first crush had been the textbook definition of “prince charming”: fair hair, light eyes, charming personality. In truth, he had always had a weak spot for the dark and mysterious type.
All his lovers had dark hair: Jack Williams, the cobbler from Berner Street, whose face was covered in freckles and who had a long scar across his chest always visible through an unbuttoned shirt; Gregory, the rebellious son of Lord Howard, a friend of the Rockfellers who used to visit the estate where the Moriartys lived during their youth; Edward Grey, the subordinate soldier who smoked cigars in that incredibly seductive way...
And, of course, Sebastian Moran.
Albert often told himself that love wasn’t meant for him. He had plenty of flings in both high society, where sodomy was as much condemned as it was practiced behind closed doors, and the lower classes, where men were far rougher but so incredibly human, free from the etiquette and those meticulously crafted personalities. Though noblemen were better groomed and more appealing at first glance, Albert often found himself clutching his heart at the sight of some ragged boy with a haunted look in his eyes. And he liked how those who shared his taste never hesitated to hungrily eye him from head to toe. A nobleman would never show his interest so openly - they’d prefer to slip away with Count Moriarty under some pretense, and “consume” far from prying eyes. Not that working-class men flaunted their forbidden desires in the open, but it was easier to tell when intentions aligned.
After all, Albert’s first kiss had been with Jack Williams. He had met him during a stroll through the slums when he was thirteen, and for six months, he found every possible excuse to return there as often as he could - until one day, the boy vanished without a trace.
He still remembered the sensation of Jack’s dry, chapped lips against his smooth ones, and those rough, calloused cobbler’s hands clasping his manicured fingers. Jack looked older than his age, like all working class kids did, and Albert liked that.
He liked dark-haired, older men. Like Sebastian Moran.
But love, he told himself, was not for him. He had plenty of flings. He gave himself to whoever intrigued him enough. But love wasn’t part of the plan. Both by nature and because he already knew how his story would end, in a future no longer distant.
And yet, his heart still remembered the slow, creeping warmth, the heartbeat that quickened just a bit more each day, the ever-growing sense of awkwardness. Every time he saw the Colonel, his legs tingled and his stomach flipped.
He was nineteen when, one evening, he and Moran were, as usual, holed up in his room drinking wine. He kept a few prized bottles in his cabinet, and since no one but the Colonel shared his passion for alcohol, those late-night moments had become something he cherished.
But that time, even Albert had had one glass too many. And he had asked that terrible question.
“Sebastian, have you ever been with a man?”
The Colonel visibly flinched at the idea.
“No. I like women. Especially the ones with big tits,” he’d slurred, summoning every last ounce of brainpower to deliver that ever-so-elegant response.
“But you’re handsome, Albert" he continued. "With that long hair, you almost look like a girl,” The Colonel had tangled his fingers in the count’s brown locks - which, back then, reached past his shoulders and were often tied back with a green ribbon.
Albert had shivered with pleasure as the Colonel’s warm breath inched closer to the skin of his neck. He had looked into those dark, drunken eyes and didn’t resist when Moran, clearly drunk, had finally kissed him.
It had felt as though his heart, until then shackled in iron, had suddenly broken free and was beating wildly within his chest, euphoric, as if it wanted to burst from his ribcage out of sheer joy. His wine-hazed mind had drifted into oblivion when Moran picked him up and threw him onto the large bed, biting at every bit of skin he could uncover, just like Gregory Howard had done: taking his innocence after kissing had grown more intense than it should have. Gregory had claimed Albert’s body with force, as if it were his by right: an eighteen-year-old boy asserting his ownership over a freshly turned sixteen-year-old on a sweltering May afternoon.
Moran had been no gentler. He had devoured everything that fell under his mouth, from Albert’s thighs to his fragile emotions, while the young man gasped beneath the weight of his urgency.
They had never spoken of it again. Moran only remembered fragments, while Albert had been forced to swallow that love he knew to be a mistake. With time, those feelings had dulled until they disappeared completely.
“It was just once, Albert. We were drunk. You felt nothing for me, and I felt nothing for you.”
This was what Moran had replied just hours earlier, when Albert had asked: “Are you jealous, Sebastian?”
The Colonel had furrowed his brow and spat out those poisonous words, the very words that reawakened the nineteen-year-old version of Albert, still living deep inside the body of the nearly thirty-year-old count, and pierced his heart like a sharpened arrow.
Then Moran had collected himself, and, almost with regret, he had added:
“I’m sorry for the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Albert. Because Holmes is just one more person you’ll have to say goodbye to.”
He’d clenched his jaw, and left.
Sitting on the brown leather couch, Albert was lost in thought, gently twirling the stem of his glass.
“M? Moriarty? … Albert?”
Albert flinched and looked up at the man sitting to his right.
“Were you listening to me?”
“I… Forgive me, I wasn’t. Please repeat it, I’ll pay attention this time.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, really, I…”
“I mean it. It doesn’t matter. These are things I must now discuss with Louis.”
Albert lowered his gaze to the glass in his hand. It was nearly empty. It was the first one he’d been offered that night, but his third overall. That’s enough, he told himself. He didn’t want to get drunk - not that night.
He turned his eyes back to the man beside him: Mycroft sat straight, pressed against the couch’s backrest. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, just the crisp white shirt and his ever-present blue navy bow-tie. It was an informal attire Albert wasn’t used to. Mycroft was staring at the full glass of wine on the table in front of him.
“You’re not drinking?” Albert asked.
“I don’t particularly like wine,” the director replied.
“You could’ve had something else.”
“But you like wine. I wanted to keep you company.”
Albert looked at him in surprise, then drained the rest of his glass. He sighed and sank into the soft cushions of the couch. He glanced around: Holmes’ living room was modest but cozy. It had the dark, officious tones of a study, with large walnut bookcases and deep forest-green curtains, but the warm light and the smell of coffee softened the impersonal decor. Albert still couldn’t figure out why, that evening, Mycroft had asked to meet him at his house rather than at the Universal trading company, as they always did.
“Albert.” Mycroft called his name suddenly, his voice was firm. Albert was too tired and unfocused to respond with more than a mildly bored glance. He knew what was coming.
“I’m not saying this as a government official, or as the head of MI6. I’m saying it as a colleague. As… a friend.”
Albert’s eyes widened ever so slightly.
“I’m still in time to… I can still…”
Albert cut him off.
“No, Mycroft.”
Mycroft flinched. Albert had never used his given name before. Was it to make a point? No, he was just tired. He no longer had the energy nor a reason to be formal.
“I chose the ending to my story a long time ago. Trying to rewrite it now would feel like betraying everything I stand for… and everyone I’ve stood with. I can’t do this to William. Or to Louis.”
Mycroft nodded. He finally picked up his glass and took a sip, his expression was unreadable. Meanwhile, Albert kept his eyes on his empty glass.
“Would you like some more?” the director asked, and Albert had the impression he said it more to break the unbearable silence stretching between them than out of politeness. He shook his head. He didn’t deserve to lose himself in alcohol and dull the pain. He had to stay clear-headed, face his decision with dignity, and bear the suffering it brought. Getting drunk would have been like cheating, like choosing the easy way out and granting himself one last carefree, comfortable evening.
“Why do you insist so much?” he asked.
The director narrowed his eyes slightly, puzzled, and stared at him silently. But before he could answer, his face betrayed a sudden flicker of understanding, as though he had just realized what the question meant.
Albert noticed, and didn’t waste any more time.
“Ever since you found out what ending I’d chosen for my story, you’ve subtly tried to dissuade me. Just now, you tried one last time, no mince words. It makes me wonder if Her Majesty Queen Victoria ever actually suggested I serve England as a way to escape the Tower of London. I believe it was your idea and that, with your influence, you would’ve found a way to make her accept it.”
Albert smiled as Mycroft’s gaze grew shy and guilty like that of a child caught red-handed.
“Why, Mycroft? Why do you care so much about what happens to me? I’m an enemy of Britain. You shouldn’t-”
“If you were an enemy of Britain, I would have eliminated you already.”
Mycroft cut in, his voice sharp as a blade. A chill ran down Albert’s spine at the sound of it - so menacing, so resolute.
Albert had always known Mycroft supported their cause. He wasn’t the gambling type, he would've never dared ask for his silence if he hadn’t been absolutely certain the powerful Mycroft Holmes had no real interest in interfering with the Moriarty plan.
“Then what’s the reason?” Albert asked, regaining his composure. He watched Mycroft’s stern expression as his blue eyes betrayed the storm of thoughts clashing inside his head. More than once he looked ready to speak, and more than once he swallowed his words.
The silence stretched on for a long, almost eternal minute. Albert's heart was in his throat, teetering on the edge of Mycroft’s lips, waiting for them to utter something—anything.
“Do you really need me to say it?” the director finally asked, shifting his gaze from the glass to Albert’s face. He studied every inch of it, slowly tracing each feature. Albert felt deeply self-conscious under those sapphire eyes - so sharp and stern, dissecting him with unnerving calmness. Mycroft’s gaze had always sent shivers down his spine, mostly in a good way.
“Or do you just want to hear the answer directly from my lips?” the director twisted the knife.
There was the bomb. Albert’s heart began to hammer wildly in his chest as he worked hard to stay calm on the outside.
“I’m sorry for the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Albert. Because Holmes is just one more person you’ll have to say goodbye to.”
He recalled Moran’s words, how precisely they had struck their mark. At that moment, Albert realized he’d buried a bitter truth for far too long, unwilling to face it.
He liked the idea of manipulating others. He knew he could, and he knew it didn’t bother him at the least. He didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t get emotionally involved. More than once he’d seduced men who were useful to his cause, using them and letting himself be used as needed. It never affected his feelings. That was why, back then, he had believed he could play the same game with Mycroft Holmes and hover around him like a mosquito on a humid night, and come out of it unbothered. But Mycroft was different, and Albert had shot himself in the foot.
Without even realizing it, he had taken a risk and gotten too close. He had made Mycroft part of his daily life, made him the object of his desire in a way that was dangerously bold. He had been provocative, seductive, all to keep the man on his fingertips. The mask had then slipped, but his behavior hadn’t changed.
The truth was, he had never needed to manipulate Mycroft, because Mycroft had never intended to go against him. Albert had always known that.
And now he understood that he had acted that way with the director simply because he liked it.
After all, Mycroft was a handsome man. That calm yet attentive gaze; that stubborn lock of hair that always fell over his forehead like a rebellious curl tamed in vain with pomade; those broad shoulders and that rigid, elegant bearing; he was exactly Albert’s type. But what truly drove him mad was the man’s mind: so intelligent, so sharp. Albert got goosebumps every time that deep, warm voice gave an order; he melted under that icy gaze staring straight into his emerald eyes.
Now, that gaze was different. It was sad. Resigned. That once piercing blue had turned gentle. That wasn’t the director Albert knew: that was Mycroft, struggling to hold on to what little composure he had left, resisting the urge to beg him not to go through with the Tower of London.
“Then what’s the reason?”
Albert didn’t want to hear the answer. He couldn’t take it. Deep down, he knew it would be far too dangerous.
So, leaving the question suspended in the air, he leaned toward Mycroft, narrowing the distance between their bodies. They were sitting side by side, now impossibly close, and looked into each other’s eyes. Albert thought he was going to die under the weight of that gaze. Still, he chose to risk it one last time at the cost of a broken heart.
“Mycroft,” he whispered. He saw the director stiffen at the sound of his name said with such intimacy, but those sapphire eyes never left his. Under his breath, Albert continued:
“May I ask you one last favor?”
Mycroft didn’t need to nod as his eyes spoke for him.
“Would you come to hell with me? Just for tonight.”
Albert’s heart nearly burst from the boldness of his request. Intimacy had never embarrassed him - he had used far more scandalous words in the past to get what he wanted. But with Mycroft, he didn’t want to be crude or impulsive, because that wasn’t what he wanted from him. He didn’t want a quick affair like in some brothel. He didn’t want his body for gain or desire. He wanted something he had tried for months to deny himself, since the founding of MI6, since their encounters had become frequent and their connection uncomfortably close. Albert had always, perhaps unconsciously, wanted Mycroft, even beyond the seductive, calculated mask he wore for every other man. Now, he understood it.
Mycroft said nothing and raised a hesitant hand to cradle Albert’s jaw. He never once looked away. He leaned in until the tips of their noses touched, their warm breaths falling silent as if neither dared disturb a moment that felt unreal.
Albert couldn’t say with certainty who closed the distance between their lips, but the instant he felt the pressure against his mouth, the world seemed to stop spinning. No more Tower of London. No more Lord of Crime. No more sins. He was no longer Count Albert Moriarty, condemned to a prison cell. He was just a boy in love, heart pounding wildly in his chest.
Mycroft was shy, and in the subtle trembling of his lips was the suppressed desire to be bold; demanding, even. Perhaps he lacked experience, though it was hard to believe a man like him hadn’t had affairs in the past. Albert took the lead, asking more from the lips that pressed against his. And then Mycroft let go of all restraint, showing Albert that hesitation was only due to shyness, because, as Albert was delighted to find out, the director was exceptional .
He moved his hand from Albert’s jaw to his cheek, fingers weaving gently into his brown hair. Albert raised his hands, putting one on Mycroft’s face and the other slipping to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in raven-black strands soon to be as messy as nature intended. He responded slowly to Mycroft’s growing hunger, trying to anchor himself in a moment so absurd it felt like a dream. And if it was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.
He briefly regretted turning down more wine earlier. How foolish to pretend sobriety, when he was now surrendering to a far more intoxicating pleasure.
It took only moments for Mycroft to lean forward and push Albert down against the cushions. The count blinked out of the haze of arousal and asked breathlessly:
“Had you thought of this? When you invited me to your house?”
Mycroft paused, then shook his head.
“No… I couldn’t wish for something like that. I only wanted to spend one last evening with you somewhere less formal, somewhere that wouldn’t remind me of work. If this was going to be my last memory of you, I wanted it to be in my home. Not at MI6 base, where we used each other.”
Albert parted his lips, eyebrows raised, then smiled.
“Then take me to your bedroom,” he ordered.
Mycroft didn’t need to be told twice.
In the dim light of the room, Mycroft’s sharp, defined features stood out even more. The interplay of light and shadow sculpted the contours of his face and, little by little, the rest of his body.
Albert sat on the edge of the bed while the director, standing right in front of him, loosened the knot of his bow-tie, too tight around his neck that was throbbing in excitement. He unfastened a few buttons of his shirt, then moved closer. He leaned over Albert and kissed him with urgency in a series of feverish, disjointed movements and hungry swipes of the tongue. Their hands roamed through each other’s hair, down their backs, over their sides; ravenous, yearning. Their bodies were pressed together, desperate to meet, unimpeded by the irritating barrier of clothes.
Mycroft undid the buttons on Albert’s shirt and threw away the black tie. Crashing his mouth back onto the count’s lips, he unbuckled his belt and soon got rid of the man's trousers, shoes, and any fabric that dared to separate him from that body.
Albert, now fully naked, panted softly as he admired Mycroft’s broad chest. He struggled not to beg shamelessly to be taken: no man had ever aroused him quite like the enigmatic Holmes, and the man reciprocating his need made him tremble.
Albert thought he knew those eyes, yet now they looked new. That icy, impenetrable blue had deepened into something murky and desirous, like the still waters of a lustfull well. They traveled slowly over his body, savoring each inch, committing every detail to memory. Mycroft was starving: the more he looked, the more he craved; the more he touched, the more he needed. He wanted to devour Albert; to hold him, to claim him as his. But he didn’t rush. He took his time, tracing Albert’s sides with his fingers, leaning in to kiss him with a languid hunger.
Albert gasped as Mycroft’s hands gripped his hips and his tongue deepened inside his mouth. He was going insane.
“It’s not fair. I’m the only one naked,” he murmured, moaning low in his throat as Mycroft, shifting above him, brushed against his growing erection through the fabric of his trousers.
With calm, almost teasing slowness, Mycroft unbuttoned what remained of his shirt and let it slip from his shoulders. His skin was pale, just as Albert had imagined. He had a tonic body, but not as chiseled as Albert, who was in the military, did. What surprised him, though, was the dark trail of hair running from his navel downward: unexpected, but far from unwelcome. It suited him, in a strange way: the perfectly composed director, always impeccable in appearance with slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven face, in the privacy of his home became something else entirely: a man unadorned, unfiltered. A simple, real man. After all, he wasn’t born into high society. He’d earned his place there through sheer brilliance.
Albert, ever drawn to lower class men, had often fantasized about what Mycroft might have been like had he never left the countryside where he’d grown up - fantasies he quickly suppressed. But now, the answer was in front of him: a shy, deeply human man. A body trained but not carved in marble. A face untouched by vanity, etched with the first traces of age, with those twin creases beneath his eyes that Albert found heartbreakingly beautiful. Strong arms threaded with thick veins. That was Mycroft, the boy born on January 5th, 1848 in a rural cottage in North Riding; the child who scraped his knees playing in fields; the teen who smoked behind his mother’s back, sat under a tree; the young man who rose into high society without ever shedding the genuine simplicity of his roots.
Albert wondered how many, before him, had seen Mycroft like that: raw and vulnerable. How many had touched his bare skin, held him close, how many had been looked at by those ravenous eyes? How many had witnessed the collapse of Holmes’ composure, revealing the natural virility of that man?
The thought vanished soon, devoured by Albert’s need to believe that, at least in that moment, Mycroft belonged to him alone. That vision was his , those eyes glazed with lust were his , the power to undo the untouchable Holmes with nothing but the tip of his fingers was his. The guttural sighs of the man, now naked and stripped of every pretense, trembling above him and burning with the need to claim his body; those, too, were his .
Albert lay stretched out on the bed, entirely at Mycroft’s mercy. He resisted the urge to let his gaze drop immediately to the man’s masculinity, though instinct screamed at him to glance down just enough to find the source of pleasure.
"You’ll drive me insane if you keep looking at me like that and do nothing," he said, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Mycroft’s face.
The director seemed to stir, as if he too had been caught in a fog, lost in his own thoughts. Then, he smiled:
"Would it be sadistic of me to say I’d enjoy watching you lose control?"
"You’re too late."
Albert raised his arms to circle Mycroft’s neck and kissed him again, biting his lips, tugging gently at the base of his hair. Mycroft let out a rough sigh and, in reply, brought one hand to brush Albert’s thighs. Instinctively, Albert spread his legs wide, lewdly, unashamed, ready to receive whatever the director intended to offer. And Mycroft took his time, caressing the soft skin of his inner thighs, letting jolts of pleasure ripple up Albert’s spine.
The count released a moan of anticipation, his groin aching for attention from those maddeningly slow hands.
“C-Come on…” was the only thing he could force from the haze of lust clouding his thoughts.
"So impatient…” Mycroft murmured with a satisfied smirk. Then one, two, three fingers slid inside Albert, drawing strangled moans between the many kisses Mycroft scattered across his lips. Albert trembled beneath the director’s touch as those surprisingly skilled fingers explored him with careful curiosity, firm but gentle.
Mycroft watched the count’s every reaction, spellbound by the expression that had once been so proud and unreadable, now twisted in unabashed pleasure.
But Albert had never been one to remain idle. He needed to do something, and finally, he looked down. He swallowed hard. That was sure unexpected.
Mycroft stifled a low growl as Albert’s long fingers wrapped around his erection and began to stroke. Albert watched him struggle to maintain his balance above him as he continued his preparation.
Albert wished that moment could last forever. He wished he could take his time discovering Mycroft, piece by piece, day by day. But time was not a luxury they had, and he craved something primal - now. He urged Mycroft with a glance, and though hesitant, the director grabbed his hips, flipped him over, and forced him onto all fours. Then, finally, he entered him.
A coarse, guttural sound tore from Mycroft’s throat, while a sharp, unrestrained cry burst from Albert’s lips, a mix of raw pain and the most depraved, intoxicating pleasure.
Albert buried his face in the sheets, clutching them tight as he sobbed with every thrust. His lips let moans of unspeakable lust slip, melodic and unfiltered, as Mycroft moved with deep, rhythmic precision, driving their hips to meet again and again. Albert vainly tried to silence himself, to trap those humiliating cries in his mouth and not let them escape; but it was no use. The electricity that shot through him in fevered spasms was short-circuiting his senses, and the burning, long-awaited sensation of Mycroft inside him shattered every remaining thought.
For his part, the director tried to stifle his own deep groans. His grip on Albert’s hips grew firmer as he thrust deeper, and Albert screamed.
He had no idea how much time had passed when a particularly wicked thought struck him.
Mycroft had slowed down for a moment to catch his breath, so Albert seized the opportunity to switch their positions. A satisfied smirk curled his lips as he straddled the director’s hips and looked down at him, breathless and clearly caught off guard by the initiative. Albert reached for his tie, abandoned on the edge of the bed, and used it to bind Mycroft’s wrists.
“Albert, what are you-”
“I want you to look at me. I want you to remember tonight.”
Mycroft lay half-reclined beneath him, abs taut, hands bound at his chest. Albert moved above him with fervor, watching him bite his lip in pleasure as he rode him. Albert's muscles were tight with effort, his head bowed, his long hair tousled around his face. Albert tried to keep the rhythm, but being on top was exhausting. After a few minutes, his legs began to tremble.
Mycroft brought his bound wrists to his mouth and, with some effort, he loosened the knot with his teeth, slipping free of the tie and gripping Albert’s hips again.
“Let me help you,” he whispered into his ear. His fingers dug into Albert’s waist, and he thrust upward, hard and deep, making Albert sob out loud.
Mycroft was near his limit. He flipped them once more and laid Albert flat beneath him. Amidst gasps and moans, Albert watched him reposition his body, lifting his legs up. He wrapped them around the director’s torso without hesitation, giving him an impatient look. What are you doing? his eyes asked.
“I want to see your face when you come,” Mycroft replied to then starting to move inside him again. Albert clung to Mycroft’s broad back. The closeness between their bellies trapped his own erection between slick, burning flesh. His legs, now obscenely spread, trembled from both pleasure and strain. The more Mycroft devoured him, the less his brain could form coherent thoughts.
Adrenaline coursed through their feverish bodies. Their breathing grew heavier, their vision blurred. Where their eyes failed, their hands could still recognize and read the map of each other’s skin.
Albert saw a version of Mycroft he had only imagined before.
His black wavy hair had come loose from its pomade and now fell across his face. His skin gleamed with sweat, defining the muscles straining beneath. Tiny drops ran down his forehead, his half-lidded eyes blinded by pleasure, his mouth twisted in a grimace.
Even during sex, Albert thought, Mycroft was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.
He loved him. He had tried to hide it, but Mycroft had captured him from the very first moment. It had taken only a few months for curiosity to blossom into full, consuming love. Albert loved Mycroft so much that he never wanted their moments together to end. He loved him so fiercely that the burning fire inside him each time they touched became a welcome agony. His heart pounded like it wanted to burst every time the man kissed him; and now, more than ever, he wished time would stop, letting them make love to each other forever.
Albert moaned again and again, heart racing louder, faster, as if ready to tear through his chest. Only a fragile layer of skin seemed to protect that throbbing organ from the outside world, protect it from a wound it might never recover from.
“Say my name,” Mycroft suddenly demanded. Albert could barely answer, the strength in his voice overwhelmed by the force of the thrusts that were driving him mad.
“Say it, Albert. Call me.”
Mycroft’s voice had dropped deeper, sterner than usual. He needed to hear it. He wanted to hear his name spill from Albert’s lips: needy, desperate, begging.
“M-Mycroft…” A faint whisper trembled on Albert’s mouth.
“Louder,” ordered the director, hunched over his prey.
And again, his name was spoken. Stifled, sobbed, shouted; clear, raw, sensual. Each time, different. Each time, the same message: Albert needed it. He needed the blow that would finally free him from that maddening tension. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He was begging to be torn apart, to have this exquisite torture end.
Mycroft grabbed his erection and obeyed; never slowing down, never holding back.
With a vulgar, muffled cry, both of them spilled across Albert’s trembling abdomen.
Suddenly, the room fell silent. The intense moans faded, replaced by a comforting hush where only their breaths remained. Albert collapsed onto the mattress, his skin painted in sweat, hair disheveled, heart pounding like a hammer but slowly settling. Mycroft was still tense above him, as if reluctant to let go. Albert reached up and caressed his face with the back of his hand, brushing his thumb on the left eye’s dimple. He thought he saw the director’s gaze soften under his touch. The muscles in Mycroft’s back and arms relaxed, and he allowed himself to collapse onto the mattress beside Albert.
Once he had caught his breath, he said:
“I’ll get something to clean you up.”
He returned from the other room with a damp towel, he was now wearing a navy-blue robe. Albert nodded in thanks and wiped away the remains of their shared passion from his stomach. Then he stretched like a cat across the mattress to retrieve his shirt from the end of the bed, draping it over his shoulders.
Mycroft had lit a cigarette and sat at the edge of the bed, his back turned. Albert crawled over, gently took the cigarette from his fingers, and inhaled deeply.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” said the director.
“I don’t. I hate tobacco. But you like it. I just wanted to keep you company.”
Albert smiled, melancholy creeping on his face. Once again, Mycroft’s eyes were chained to his, but they were back to the way they always were: sharp, unreadable. Albert wondered if those lustful, vulnerable stones he had seen moments earlier had been just a dream. Looking at Mycroft’s face now, they seemed incompatible with those hard lines.
Albert felt something warm and wet slide down his face. A tear. It rolled slowly from his emerald eye, across his flushed cheeks, down his defined jawline, and then fell into the void. And then another. And another. He brought a hand to his face, confused by his body’s reaction. Mycroft reached him first, brushing the tear from the corner of his eye.
“Stay,” he said. “Just for tonight.”
Albert felt his heart stop for a moment. How badly he wanted to throw himself into that man’s arms? To lie beside him and have his hair be stroked, to surrender to that warmth that now, having experienced it, seemed so familiar. He wanted to kiss those lips, run his hands through that dark hair, twist and turn in the sheets entangled with the man he’d happily spend every moment with.
He swallowed hard. A lump blocked his throat, painful and tight. His nose burned as he tried to hold back the flood of tears waiting behind his eyelids.
“No, Mycroft,” he murmured, voice barely a breath, head bowed.
Mycroft took the cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the nightstand. Then, he took Albert’s face in his hands and gently lifted it.
“I’m not asking you to run away. I’m not asking you to betray the path you’ve chosen. I’m asking you to stay with me, just for tonight.”
Albert wanted to say yes. He wanted to get rid of the heaviness of the pain that squeezed his heart tighter with each second. He wanted to drop the mask and say “Yes, I’m weak! I’m scared to death of what’s coming. I just want to stay here and pretend nothing’s happening out there. I want to believe the world ends at these four walls.” He just wanted to love Mycroft.
“I can’t…” he finally said, his voice cracked. “If I stayed… I wouldn’t be able to leave again.”
Mycroft sighed, furrowing his brow. He made one painful request:
“May I ask you one last favor too, then?”
Albert hesitated, then nodded.
Mycroft said nothing. He leaned in and kissed him.
Albert’s stomach dropped. A lump rose to his throat, threatening to burst.
Mycroft was kissing him with the desperation found only in novels, where lovers exchange one last kiss before fate tears them apart. They searched for each other, with hands, with mouths, with every inch of their bodies. Mycroft kissed Albert as if he were a dream slipping through his fingers. Albert returned the kiss with all the sweetness and violence inside him. He buried his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, clutched his face, kissed him until it hurt.
Yet he was the one to end it. He shook himself free from Mycroft’s grasp and stood quickly, denying himself the time to look at the director’s face or to feel his own heart race. He dressed with his head down, jaw clenched. When he sensed Mycroft got up from the bed and stood beside him, waiting to be given a mere look, he summoned all the strength he was capable of.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Sir Holmes. The Moriarty brothers will be eternally grateful.”
He tried to recover the composure and seductive elegance that had become his signature. Mycroft stood still, seemingly annoyed.
“Why are you so afraid of letting yourself be vulnerable in front of me?” he asked.
Albert shivered, but forced himself not to show it.
“We’ll see each other the morning of my trial. Goodnight, Director.”
He moved toward the other room to retrieve his jacket, but Mycroft followed.
“Albert,” he called. “Albert, why?”
Albert thought for a moment.
“I’m sorry for the mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Albert. Because Holmes is just one more person you’ll have to say goodbye to.”
Then, he just said:
“Because it would kill me.”
He bowed his head, left Mycroft’s apartment, and disappeared into the shadows of nighttime London, his heart in his hands and his face soaked in tears.