Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a rainy day, and the weather hadn’t seemed to improve by much when Louis made his appearance at the London Metropolitan Police building.
 
It was that kind of damp winter evening that kept most sane people indoors. And he would’ve been basking in the intimacy of his own home as well, hadn’t he been asked to bring back the documents he had borrowed to solve the latest case.
 
So he stepped in through the entrance, shaking droplets from his coat and tugging off his own gloves. As he approached the front desk, the constable on duty - a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual smirk named Narraway - raised an eyebrow at him. "Back again, Moriarty? You sure you don’t just live here?"
 
Louis sighed, setting the documents down. "Funny. I’m just here to drop off a few case documents; I’ll be out of your way in a minute."
 
Before Narraway could answer, the door opened again and a young boy, no older than twelve, shuffled in from the rain, clutching a brown paper-wrapped parcel close to his chest. His sneakers left damp prints on the floor as he hurried up to the desk; once there, he hesitated for a second, then seemed to make up his own mind.
 
"I was told to give this to someone called ‘detective Louis’!"
 
Hearing that, Narraway let out a little, surprised chuckle.
"Using us as your personal mailroom now, Moriarty? Online shopping getting a bit out of hand?"
 
Louis shot him a withering look before turning back to the boy.
"I didn’t order anything," He said, perplexed. "And if I had, I wouldn’t certainly ask to bring anything here. Who gave you this?"
 
The boy scrolled his shoulders and held out the package.
“I don’t know, sir, a man… he paid me and I didn’t ask questions, so –“
 
Louis took the package from the boy’s hands, feeling the weight of it as he turned it over carefully. The paper was slightly crumpled, the twine wound tightly around it. His fingers traced the edges, searching for any markings, yet he found nothing.
 
No sender. No writing. Just an anonymous, unexpected delivery.
 
“Did you see him in the face?”
 
The boy shook his head. “No, sir, he had his hood up, it’s still raining outside…”
 
Narraway shifted behind the desk, arms crossing over his chest. “You should let the guys check the package, Moriarty,” He said, looking more wary than before. “What if there was something dangerous in there –“
 
But Louis wasn’t listening to him.
 
He pulled at the twine, his fingers working quickly, then peeled back the damp paper. The moment the wrapping fell away, the breath in his chest stilled, and he stood there, staring wide-eyed at the content of the package.
 
“Well? What’s in there?” The constable asked, stepping closer to steal a glance – only to let a strangled noise out as he caught sight of it.
 
“Bloody hell,” He swore, recoiling.
 
Inside, nestled in a shallow cardboard box, was a heart.
 
 
***
 
 
The boy had been questioned, naturally.
However, he hadn’t been able to give any additional information, and he had finally scurried off after a few words of reassurance from Narraway - leaving Louis sitting by one of the desks, the unwrapped package sitting between him and the others.
 
Another constable - one he knew all too well, Sebastian Moran - stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Well, Detective… I don’t suppose you have any idea who might’ve sent this?”
 
Louis didn’t answer immediately, and the man took his silence as permission to keep talking. “A spurned lover, maybe? Or someone with a grudge? We both know you’ve got a long enough list of enemies.”
 
Louis finally looked up, fixing him with a flat, unimpressed stare.
 
“No spurned lovers, if we don’t count you. And if we have to go over the whole list of cases I’ve helped the Department with, we’ll still be here tomorrow morning.”
 
“Alright, jeez. Just doing my job. And just to be clear, it wasn’t me!”
 
Somewhere behind them, a voice muttered dryly: “Maybe he sent it to himself. Wouldn’t put it past him, making some spectacle of it… as if the head of the department wasn’t already favoring him enough.”
 
Louis turned sharply, his patience wearing thinner than usual.
“The fact that the head of the department is my brother doesn’t mean anything, constable Milverton. But if you have anything to say, please, feel free to say it aloud, so that we all can hear that.”
 
But before anyone could add more fuel to the fire, the medical examiner – Dr. Watson - coughed into his fist. “Alright, everyone take a breath,” He announced, glancing once again at the box, then at Louis. “Good news, Detective.”
 
The blond man arched a brow. “Did you find any traces left by the sender?”
 
“Well, no. Not yet, at least – I need to analyze this in my lab, for that. But I can tell you it’s not human.” He reached into the box, lifting the organ slightly so that the others could inspect it from a distance. “Pig’s heart. Fresh, but not from a person.”
 
A heavy silence followed his words; then Moran exhaled sharply.
“Christ, could’ve led with that. Well, at least we won’t have to wait for some corpse to show up in the next days, I guess -”
 
At least for now, Louis thought.
 
A pig’s heart was still a message, after all; who was sending it? And what the hell were they trying to say?

Chapter Text

Sherlock crossed off the third name on his list with a slow, lazy stroke of his pen.
“So smart…” He murmured to himself, tapping the pen against the paper before tossing it onto his desk.
 
Three names.
Three murderers apprehended by the detective - his detective - in the span of two months.
 
The first had been a careless fool, the second a bit sharper but ultimately predictable. This last one, though… Sherlock had thought he might last a little longer. Instead, he had been rather surprised to see that Louis had rooted him out just the same, and so quickly.
 
Sure enough, these men had been far beneath him in intellect; but still, he couldn’t deny that Louis had impressed him. How would he fare under his full, undivided attention? Sherlock certainly hoped he’d be able to handle it.
 
A slow grin spread across his face as he let himself fall onto the bed, stretching out with the easy satisfaction of a hunter who had just set his sights on the most intriguing prey.
 
“…and handsome…” Sherlock’s eyes trailed over all the wall in front of him. It had been blank, once; now it was filled with photo after photo, in a meticulous collage of different shots of the same subject.
 
Most of the photos were rather intimate in their innocent mundanity. Louis coming out of a bookshop; Louis at a market stall, buying fruit; Louis walking down the road, collar up against the wind, lost in thought.
 
And then Sherlock had followed him home.
 
The first time had been nothing but curiosity. He had waited for Louis to come out of the London Metropolitan Police building, and when he had spotted the detective, he had followed him. Simple as that.
 
He had told himself it was nothing unusual - he followed his victims all the time, after all. Studied them. Collected details, observed patterns. And it was useful, for a man in his line of ‘work’, to know his enemies as well.
 
But with Louis, it hadn’t stopped there.
 
It was trickier, of course, with the detective living in a flat on a busy street. Too many eyes. Too many cars.
But that only made the challenge more enticing, for there was always a way.
 
So Sherlock learned the rhythm of the neighborhood; the moments when the sidewalks were packed and when they emptied, the blind spots in shopfront reflections, the best places to linger unnoticed. He found vantage points from across the road, places where he could watch as Louis climbed the stairs to his building, as he moved past his window, as he flicked on a lamp and disappeared deeper inside.
 
And the city’s noise provided perfect cover. No one paid attention to another stranger standing at a bus stop that he never got on. No one noticed the figure pausing beneath a streetlamp, pretending to check his phone as his gaze trailed upward to a lit window.
 
He had kept taking photos, obviously.
 
That’s how he had gained the picture of Louis stirring a cup of tea at his kitchen window, or the one of him standing on his balcony, phone pressed to his ear, his expression one of quiet frustration - probably an argument with someone from the precinct.
 
Louis didn’t know he was being watched… not yet, at least.
But he would.
 
“…and just like me.”
 
Sherlock’s eyes flicked to a different section of the wall, his pulse kicking up as they landed on another set of photographs. He had been nothing but reckless to come back to the crime scene and get them - disguising himself as press, with a hat, a camera slung around his neck and a fabricated badge. Still, it had been worth it; he was rather proud of these shots.
 
Louis, crouched over a body, searching for details others had missed.
Louis, turning sharply when someone called his name.
But most of all… Louis with that look in his eyes. That unmistakable light.
 
Excitement.
 
Oh, Sherlock recognized it well. The rush of the chase. The thrill of getting somewhere before anyone else. Louis didn’t just solve cases because it was his job; no, he enjoyed it. He took pleasure in the hunt, just as much as the murderers took pleasure in their own games.
 
Sherlock leaned back, opening the zip of his own jeans and beginning to palm himself lazily.
 
Did he want to be hunted down? To leave breadcrumbs, just to see if Louis would follow?
Or did he want to be the hunter, leading Louis exactly where he wanted him?
 
He had already sent his first gift, after all, although he hadn’t stayed around to see how it would be received.
 
Would the detective see it for what it was – a courting gift? Or would he dismiss it as another sick joke, or some pathetic attempt at intimidation? No, Louis was too clever for that. He would start to wonder. He would start looking. And how would his first reaction be? Would he freeze, staring at it? Or would he react immediately, barking orders to the officers around him, already trying to trace its origin? Would he be pleased?
 
“He is the one for me.” He gasped into the empty room, while his hand worked tirelessly. “No one else will do.”
 
For a fleeting moment, he considered sending another gift; something more personal this time. A photograph, perhaps. A single shot from his growing collection. Just one. Enough to let him know. Maybe he would even stain it with some traces of his own pleasure -
 
But no.
That would be crass, and idiotic. Too obvious. Too soon.
It was how stupid people got caught, and Sherlock was not stupid.
 
He just had to play his cards well.
 
Louis had to be courted properly, carefully, in the way he deserved. If Sherlock moved too fast, too indecently, the detective wouldn’t be intrigued - he would be alarmed. And that wouldn’t do. He had to make Louis feel the thrill of being pursued, of realizing someone had their eyes on him. He would have to be drawn in, step by step, until there was nowhere left to go but exactly where Sherlock wanted him.
 
 
And Sherlock always got what he wanted.

Chapter Text

To his infinite annoyance, Sebastian had insisted on accompanying - no, escorting - him home.
 
“We don’t know who sent you that heart, or why.”
 
Louis hummed noncommittally.
 
“So it would be best if you had someone around when you go out, just in case.”
 
A slow smirk curled at the edges of his lips. Oh, this was too easy.
 
“Are you offering, Sebastian? How sweet of you.”
 
Moran scowled. “You know what I mean.”
 
‘Do I?’ Louis drawled, stuffing his hands into his pockets as they crossed the street. “Maybe you sent it. A grand romantic gesture. Very old-school of you. And a perfect excuse to stick around me aaaall the time.”
 
Moran shot him a weird look. “Oh, piss off. Jesus fucking Christ, who would be that kind of psycho?”
 
Louis chuckled, clearly enjoying himself as they reached his building. It had always been that easy to get Sebastian scandalized and rile him up; he had done it all the time when they had been seeing each other.
Needlessly to say, their fling hadn’t worked; Louis had soon grown bored, and Sebastian… well, he wasn’t actually sure whether Sebastian was over it. Oh well, everyone always says that time heals everything, doesn’t it?
 
He pushed open the door, stepping inside the lobby, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when Moran followed him in, still grumbling.
 
“Listen, just - let me know if anyone tries to make contact with you in the next few days, ok?” The older man continued as Louis walked toward the bank of mailboxes. “We don’t know what kind of psycho we’re dealing with yet, or if it was just some tasteless joke, and -“
 
Louis barely heard him; his focus had shifted on something else the moment he pulled open his mailbox. There were the usual things; bills, a couple of letters he had been waiting on - but nestled between them was something else.
 
A plain envelope. No postage stamp.
Hand-delivered.
 
He slid it free, paying utmost attention to keep his movements casual as he thumbed it open, careful to keep it out of Moran’s view.
 
A single slip of paper.
One line, scrabbled in a messy, tight script.
 
Did you like my gift?
 
Louis didn’t so much as blink. Instead, he slid the note back into its envelope, slipping it beneath the rest of his mail before Sebastian could notice it.
 
“Sure,” He said distractedly. “If that happens, I’ll let you know.”
 
 
***
 
 
Someone knew where he lived.
Someone who had thought that sending him a pig’s heart was a good idea.
 
Louis wasn’t scared. If anything, fear would have been the most boring possible reaction. No, he was surprised. And maybe a little intrigued. Definitely not scared.
 
The way the knife sliced through vegetables; the rhythmic scrape against the cutting board; the gentle sizzle as he tossed them into a pan - these familiar motions and sounds gave him time to think, falling back into his usual routine.
 
This wasn’t the work of some impulsive lunatic; whoever had sent the heart had done so thoughtfully. How could they have known he had been on his way to bring his dossiers back? They had no way to… unless he had been followed. To what extent, though? Since when had this person been watching him?
 
And the so-called ‘gift’… He was pretty sure it was a message, meant to be delivered straight to his hands.
But what message?
Was it meant to be a taunt? A threat? A challenge?
 
And then there was the note.
Did you like my gift?
 
He supposed there were a few people with reason to dislike him; and plenty of criminals rotting in prison because of him. But this didn’t look like someone trying to get some kind of revenge. If that had been the case, the easiest and quickest way would’ve just sufficed to slip an explosive envelope into his post box. And yet, they hadn’t done that.
 
Louis plated his food, sat down at the small table by the window, and ate his dinner slowly - although his mind was still elsewhere.
 
Whoever this was, they weren’t trying to scare him. Not exactly. They wanted something from him. But what? A reaction? A response? What if…
 
Louis stopped abruptly, the fork hovering halfway to his mouth.
The realization hit him all at once, so obvious in hindsight that he almost felt stupid for not seeing it earlier.
 
A heart.
A fucking heart.
 
Not a warning, not a threat.
A statement.
A declaration.
 
His lips parted slightly as he let the thought settle, feeling a strange, elated thrill settle in his chest. Someone had sent him a heart in a place he frequented, where people knew him. Where his ex worked. Where other men - potential interests? - could see.
 
It wasn’t just about him. It was also about everyone else around him.
A way of saying: mine.
 
A courting gift.
 
The sheer audacity of it was astounding; so much, indeed, that Louis set his fork down, staring at his plate but no longer seeing it.
 
Someone had taken the time to make sure the message reached him in the most direct, undeniable way possible. And not just that - they had guts. A boldness that bordered on reckless, and yet…
 
His first instinct should have been anger. Outrage.
How dare someone try to stake a claim on him like that?
 
But what he felt instead was… excitement.
This was new. This was interesting.
He felt scandalized and intrigued in equal measure.
 
And whoever they were, they had his full attention now.
 
 
***
 
 
Later that evening, he grabbed the bin bag and headed downstairs. The street was busy as always; cars rolling past, the distant sound of laughter from a pub down the road, people walking home from work.
 
Normal.
 
He tossed the rubbish into the bin, dusted his hands off, and turned back toward the building entrance.
 
Pausing briefly in the lobby, he just slipped the plain envelope back inside his mailbox, taking care to leave the small metal door unlocked.
 
Then, without so much as a backward glance, he headed upstairs.
If they were watching, they would see.
 
And if they wanted an answer back… well, Louis had provided one.
Inside the envelope, a new slip of paper recited:
 
What if I did?

Chapter Text

His beloved had left a message for him.
 
Sherlock had nearly laughed aloud when he saw it. The mailbox left closed, yet unlocked… such a small thing, so easy for anyone else to overlook. But not him. Never him.
 
Louis had understood. He hadn’t thrown the note away in disgust. Hadn’t reported it.
Instead, he had slipped the envelope back with his own answer.
 
It had taken all of Sherlock’s self-control not to rush up the stairs, pound on the detective’s door, and kiss him senseless. But no. No, he had to be patient.
 
And so, Sherlock had waited.
 
The detective’s habits were predictable, by now, to his eyes; he was nothing if not disciplined. Three days later, at precisely 6:30 AM, Louis stepped outside - clad in his usual running gear, earbuds in, stretching briefly before setting off down the road.
 
Sherlock didn’t waste a second.
 
He moved with the ease of someone who had done this before… because, well, he had.
Picking the lock to the building’s main entrance was not difficult – he had done it so many times, after all. Louis’ apartment door was slightly more of a challenge, but only slightly. Soon enough, he was inside, standing in his beloved’s space.
 
Perfect.
 
There was no time to waste. Microphones went first - discreet, tucked into corners and hidden beneath furniture. Then the tiny cameras, placed with care - one overlooking the living room, another in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, and, of course, one in the bedroom.
 
Not for anything crass, no… just to watch. To protect.
 
Louis had implicitly accepted his courtship, and that meant Sherlock had responsibilities now.
He had to look after his love, make sure no one got too close.
 
By the time Louis returned, Sherlock was long gone, his presence erased as if he had never been there at all.
 
But now, finally, he could watch over him properly.
 
 
***
 
 
As it turned out, wiring the whole flat was both the best and the worst thing Sherlock could have done for his own mental sanity.
 
The best, because now he had unfiltered access to his beloved – which meant that he could see and hear him whenever he wanted. The worst, because now he had unfiltered access to his beloved - and Louis James Moriarty was an infuriating, mesmerizing creature.
 
Louis stood before his full-length mirror, buttoning up a deep burgundy shirt that adhered sinfully to his frame. He didn’t rush, taking his time adjusting the cuffs, brushing a hand through his hair. He was dressing with intent, and God, Sherlock knew he had excellent self-control… but right now, he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into that throat, mark him, ruin him for anyone else’s eyes.
 
A sharp glance at the clock. Late evening.
 
Sherlock’s latest project - an ordinary plush doll he had been painstakingly modifying to give it Louis’ lovely features -was immediately abandoned. He snatched his coat, barely bothering to lock his own flat behind him as he rushed down the stairs.
 
He already knew where his beloved was going.
 
 
***
 
 
The club was the kind Louis favoured when he wanted to take the edge off. Not too extravagant, not too seedy. Just dark enough, just loud enough, where he could lose himself in a glass of something strong and not think too hard about anything else.
 
Sherlock had been here before, of course.
Observing, studying, lurking unseen.
 
But he had never seen this.
 
Louis had taken a drink at the bar, just like usual. But then, when a man approached him - an unremarkable thing, really - Louis tilted his head, considering for only a brief moment before letting himself be led to the dancefloor.
 
Sherlock gripped his glass so tightly he was surprised it didn’t shatter.
 
He stayed in the dimmest corner of the club, nursing his drink, but he was utterly seething.
 
Louis never danced. He came here to drink, maybe exchange a few words, but this? This was new.
And it was for someone else.
 
Blue eyes tracked every movement of Louis’ body. The way he let his partner guide him. The smirk that curved his lips as he indulged in the moment. Mine, Sherlock thought viciously, you might not have realized it yet, but you are already mine.
 
And then, just as he thought he couldn’t hate this unremarkable, nameless man any more, Louis leaned in, murmured something into his partner’s ear, and the man began to make his way toward the back of the club. Towards the toilets. Louis stayed a little longer, then he began to make a beeline towards the same area.
 
A warning screamed at the back of Sherlock’s mind - don’t follow - but it was useless against the overwhelming need that drove him forward. He knew it could be a trap. Knew that Louis was not a fool, and if he suspected something, then Sherlock was walking straight into his own ruin.
 
But he had to do something.
 
One moment, Louis was about to push open the door to the toilets, his fingers already grazing the handle.
The next, Sherlock’s hands were on him - firm, possessive, undeniable.
 
He grabbed Louis by the hips, pulling him back, away from that wretched door, away from the unknown man waiting for him inside, and he guided them both into the multitude of bodies on the dance floor, back into the pulse of movement and heat.
 
For a heartbeat, Louis tensed. Then, instead of resisting, he relaxed into Sherlock’s hold - so easily it made Sherlock nearly lose himself right then and there.
 
A slow, delighted chuckle, and then the detective purred, “I was waiting for you.”
 
So it was a trap. And he had been so air-brained as to walk straight into it.
Sherlock’s grip on Louis’ hips loosened instinctively, ready to bolt, but Louis only chuckled again, low and indulgent. “Relax,” He murmured. “There’s no one waiting to arrest you.”
 
Sherlock didn’t move. Didn’t even dare to breathe.
 
Louis’ fingers ghosted over the back of Sherlock’s hand where it rested against his waist, a touch so deceptively gentle it sent a shiver down his spine. “If my… suitor had really been watching me,” Louis continued smoothly, “then he would’ve been here. I just had to give him the right motivation to make himself known. I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.”
 
And then, Louis began to turn.
 
Panic surged through Sherlock again, so violently that he acted on pure instinct. “Don’t,” He snapped, tightening his hold on Louis’ waist with an arm, and grabbing one of the man’s wrists to stop him before he could see him. It was way too soon to give him the possibility to recognize him, just in case the detective decided to turn against him.
 
Louis stilled, but Sherlock could feel his smirk without even seeing it.
"You’re playing with fire,” He warned, his breath hot against the side of Louis' neck.
 
Louis only laughed. “And you’re the one who pulled me away from that door. If you didn’t want to make your presence known, you just had to let me go…”
 
Sherlock could feel the heat of Louis’ skin near his lips, just a breath away, close enough that if he only tilted his head –
 
No.
 
The sheer want of it made his pulse spike dangerously. He could feel heat rising to his face, and then – to his shame - pooling low in his stomach, before curling somewhere far more intimate. But he couldn’t give in. Not so soon, not now.
 
“You’re mine,” He said before he could stop himself. Damn it.
 
Louis let out an amused hum. “Possessive, much?”
 
And then, before Sherlock could answer, he just glanced down, toward the hand wrapped around his wrist, observing. Deducing.
 
“Male. Between twenty and thirty years old. Dark-haired. As tall as me.”
 
Sherlock’s breath caught, and Louis used his surprise to press himself back against his body, lips still curled in that insufferable smirk. “Slender. Strong. Definitely not impotent.” He teased, playful and dangerous all at once. “Are you as handsome as I’m imagining you?”
 
Sherlock’s mouth opened, then closed.
For the first time in a long, long while, he had been left speechless.
 
Louis was right there, pressed against him, warm and sensual and maddeningly aware of the effect he was having. Sherlock could feel every shift of his body, the faintest tilt of his hips, the teasing pressure against him. The scent of his skin clouded his thoughts like a drug.
 
He wanted.
 
It was a deep, aching pull in his gut. He wanted to press Louis harder against him, to bury his face into the curve of his neck and bite, to drag his hands over every inch of him until there was nothing left for anyone else to claim.
 
It took every shred of willpower he had to resist the temptation. To rip himself away before he did something reckless, like leaving evidence behind – which meant no marks, no bites, no trace of his DNA on this man’s body.
 
A new song began, and with it came a fresh wave of bodies flooding the dance floor.
Sherlock seized the moment.
 
In the chaos, he let go. He slipped between the shifting bodies, his dark silhouette melting seamlessly into the crowd. One moment, he was there, pressed against Louis, a ghost at his ear - and the next, he was gone.
 

Chapter Text

A week later, Louis lay sprawled across his bed, half-buried beneath the covers, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only movement in the glow of early morning.
 
His lips were slightly parted, soft snores escaping as he drifted through the half-asleep, half-awake haze of some very nice dreams - dreams where ghostly hands traced the line of his hips, warm breath teased the shell of his ear, and hungry lips pressed against the sensitive skin of his throat.
 
A sigh escaped him, his fingers twitching slightly against the sheets.
Maybe a little morning round would not be a bad idea…
 
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time to dwell on that; just as he was letting his own hand slip under the covers, his phone rang. Louis groaned, shifting just enough to reach blindly for the device before slamming it onto the mattress, cutting the call.
 
Silence.
 
He exhaled, rolling onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow –
 
The phone rang again.
 
With a muffled curse, Louis grabbed it, squinting at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes before answering.
 
“What,” he rasped.
 
“Good morning to you too,” came Albert’s smiling voice.
 
Louis grunted in response.
 
“I might need you to come in,” His brother announced.
 
Louis groaned, rolling onto his back and rubbing a hand over his face.
“I haven’t even finished the DVDs I borrowed from you yet.”
 
A brief pause. Then, Albert sighed. “It’s more serious than some DVDs, Louis.”
Something in his tone made Louis blink, finally forcing his sluggish mind to wake up.
 
“What is it?” He muttered, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
 
“A package arrived,” Albert said. “And it’s addressed to you.”
 
 
***
 
 
Louis found himself wishing that his brother - the head of the police department - sometimes weren’t so damn efficient.
 
Standing in Albert’s office, he resisted the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes. The morning had been cold and grey, and now, under the stark lighting of the police headquarters, it felt even colder.
 
Albert, seated behind his desk, watched him for a long moment before speaking.
“Where were you last night?”
 
Louis arched a brow. “A curious question to ask your brother. Am I a suspect?”
 
Albert exhaled sharply. Then, without another word, he slid a photograph across the desk.
The younger man’s gaze flickered down.
 
A man stared up at him from the glossy surface. Dark-haired, a forgettable face - at least, for most people.
But Louis remembered him, for obvious reasons.
 
The club. The dance floor.
The man he had left waiting in the toilets, one week before.
 
Louis tapped a finger against the desk. “Never seen him before.”
 
“His body was found in the Thames this morning.”
 
Louis didn’t flinch. “And what does this have to do with me?”
 
“The package brought here and addressed to you,” His brother said flatly. “It had his heart inside.”
 
Ah.
 
Albert leaned back in his chair, staring attentively at Louis.
“Milverton mentioned the pig’s heart package to me, you know.”
 
Louis felt his annoyance spike, sharp and immediate.
That insufferable, bitter little…
 
Of course Milverton had snitched. He briefly entertained a particularly tempting idea: perhaps he should try to keep his disgust at bay and start flirting with the white-haired bastard. Just enough to make him a target. His suitor had been so possessive with him, thus far- surely, it wouldn’t take long before Milverton’s body was found floating in some gutter.
 
But no. Louis let out a slow exhale and forced that wicked little thought away. He’d like to get rid of the man, but he wasn’t about to sic a murderer on him. Well, not yet, at least. Maybe one day…
 
“I think you’re all overreacting,” He said instead, waving a hand. “I am here, sound and safe, am I not? If anything, I should be flattered by the effort someone’s making in sending me gifts.”
 
Albert’s incredulous stare could’ve frozen over hell.
“You’re not taking this seriously,” He said with rising frustration. “What if this person decides you’re next?”
 
Louis just gave him a slow, lazy blink.
 
Albert inhaled sharply, as if trying to rein in his temper, then leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“When I told you to get a boyfriend, this was not what I meant.”
 
Louis barely managed to smother the laughter that bubbled up.
Oh, brother, if only you knew.
 
Albert’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the twitch at the corner of his brother’s mouth.
“What the hell is so funny about this?”
 
“Nothing,” Louis said, though he probably didn’t really sound that convincing, because Albert let out an exasperated sigh.
 
“Look,” The younger man said, slipping into a more reasonable tone, “It’s probably just someone playing with the department. We’ve seen this kind of thing before - someone sending trophies to mess with the investigation. Like that guy last year who kept mailing us fingers, do you remember that?”
 
Albert’s expression darkened. “We caught that bastard, in the end. He wasn’t so smug, then.”
 
“Exactly.” Louis spread his hands. “And I don’t see why this should be any different. We’ll catch them, whoever they are… sooner or later.”
 
Too generic. Too vague.
 
“The difference,” His brother said, voice tight, “is that this time, the packages are being sent specifically to you.”
 
“Oh, come on. It’s hardly the first time someone’s tried to get under my skin.” He shrugged. “And, as I already said, it’s not necessarily about me.”
 
“Right. Because it’s totally normal to mail hearts to random detectives.”
 
Louis rolled his eyes. “You’re overreacting.”
 
“I’m being rational,” The elder man shot back. “And you’re being infuriatingly blasé about this.”
 
Louis smirked. “Blasé? Fancy word. I like it. It’s very like you.”
 
“I could assign you someone to escort you everywhere,” Albert said, leveling a glare at him. “See how much you like that.”
 
A scoff. “And I’m free to refuse, aren’t I?”
 
Albert exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly debating whether or not to push the matter further. And for a moment, it seemed like he might insist – that he might pull rank and make Louis’ life significantly more annoying.
 
But then, with a weary sigh, he relented.
 
“Just… take care of yourself. Please,” He said, rubbing his temples.
 
Louis softened at that. “I will,” He promised, with enough sincerity to ease some of the tension. And then he leaned forward, resting his hand over Albert’s. “Don’t worry,” He said, quieter this time, his thumb brushing over the back of his brother’s hand. “I can handle myself.”
 
Albert sighed again, this time more tired than frustrated, but he didn’t pull away. He only gave Louis’ hand a brief, firm squeeze before letting go. “I hope so,” He muttered. “For your sake, and mine.”
 
Still, as Louis walked out of the office, he could feel his brother’s worried gaze on his back.

Chapter Text

Albert closed the door of his own home behind him, exhaling slowly as he let the weight of the day roll off his shoulders. The flat was dark, still, and yet – he, of all people, knew better than to trust that silence.
 
"If you’ve decided to let yourself in,” He said dryly into the darkness, “you could’ve at least prepared dinner."
 
A slow, dark chuckle answered him. He flicked on the light, and there he was - Mycroft, sprawled comfortably in Albert’s favourite armchair like a king on his throne, smirking in that infuriating way of his.
 
"What if I did, in fact, bring something?" The older man purred, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over Albert. "But before that… you know what the rules are."
 
Albert’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t oppose any real resistance. He reached for his tie first, loosening it before slipping it off entirely; then his fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat, undoing them slowly, one by one; then to his shirt. His belt followed, then his trousers. They all ended up carefully folded on the arm of the sofa.
 
The smirk never left Mycroft’s lips, becoming instead a touch sharper as the man took on the sight in front of him. "Good. Now come here, kitten.”
 
He gestured with two fingers, in a silent command, and Albert sighed, but obeyed. He stepped forward, settling himself onto Mycroft’s lap completely naked. The bastard had the nerve to look pleased, resting a hand on Albert’s thigh as though he belonged there.
 
“How was your day at work?” The older man asked sweetly.
 
Albert scoffed. “How was yours?” He shot back, sharp and snappish.
 
That earned him another low chuckle. “Oh, you already know how mine went. I received the latest cargoes from Colombia. Only the finest products for England,” Mycroft said lightly. And then he tilted his head, considering Albert like one might consider a misbehaving pet. “Now, tell me - why are you in such a terrible mood?”
 
The other man clenched his jaw, pressing his lips together in stubborn silence.
 
Mycroft exhaled a mock sigh and ran a finger along Albert’s back, making it arch in a way more than pleasurable to his hungry eyes. “A pity,” He purred. “I suppose I’ll just have to take back that nice bottle of wine dated 1782 - the one currently resting in your fridge.”
 
Albert’s eyes darted toward the kitchen before he could stop himself, but Mycroft didn’t let him move.
A firm arm around his waist kept him exactly where he was.
 
“Duty comes before pleasure,” He murmured, his breath brushing against Albert’s ear. “Now, first of all - where are the documents I asked you for?”
 
Albert let out a slow breath. “In the folder near the door.”
 
A hum of approval. “Good.” Mycroft’s left hand slipped between his lover’s thighs. “Second thing - why are you upset?”
 
A gasp left Albert’s mouth, before he could stop himself.
“My brother’s been receiving… gifts.”
 
Surprised by that answer, Mycroft blinked at him. “Are you… jealous?”
 
Albert stiffened. “I’m worried,” He snapped.
 
And then he explained everything; every detail of the packages and the hearts they contained. Mycroft listened lazily, palming him with a touch just firm enough to be distracting.
 
It was infuriating.
And effective.
 
Albert's breath hitched as Mycroft’s hand pressed down just right, his train of thought nearly derailing. Yet he gritted his teeth, determined to finish, forcing himself to focus on his own words, rather than the way Mycroft’s fingers were handling his cock like he had all the time in the world.
 
Then, suddenly, Mycroft’s hand went still. Albert felt it; the sudden stiffness of the other man’s body, the way his fingers flexed just once before stilling.
 
His pulse spiked.
 
“You know something,” He gasped, twisting slightly in Mycroft’s lap to look at him properly.
 
But the other man’s gaze was unreadable once again. “I don’t.”
 
A lie. Albert knew Mycroft too well to miss the narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips had straightened in a thin line just before he spoke.
 
“Mycroft -”
 
“Shh.” His grip on Albert’s thigh tightened, possessive. “I will handle it.”
 
Albert frowned, unconvinced. “But –“
 
“I said, I will handle it,” Mycroft repeated, slower this time, pressing his fingers in and drawing a shamefully long moan from his lover’s lips. Then, more softly, “You, however, are going to stop thinking about your little brother’s 'gifts', right now.”
 
Albert’s breath shuddered as the other man leaned in, his lips brushing just below his ear.
 
“I want you,” Mycroft murmured, “to think only of me.”
 
 
***
 
 
“What a surprise to see you here, Mycky!” Sherlock drawled, opening the door to let his brother in. “It’s been ages. Since at least… let’s see… that time when you oh-so-politely asked me to dissolve into a bathtub of acid that dealer of yours that was trying to double-cross you?”
 
Mycroft, utterly unamused, stepped inside and ignored the jab.
 
"My darling was in quite the foul mood, yesterday night."
 
His brother scoffed. "You’ll have to be more specific, dear brother. You collect pets like children collect marbles. It’s difficult for me to infer who you might be talking about."
 
As if. He knew perfectly well that Sherlock knew – especially since it had been a while since Mycroft had taken other men to his bed. In his line of work, this would’ve been considered a dangerous liability; but for once, he really couldn’t bring himself to make a wiser choice.
 
"Albert, you insufferable brat."
 
Sherlock hummed in false thoughtfulness. “Ah, yes. The corrupted pig who passes you classified information to help your ships avoid controls. Tell me, am I supposed to care about his mood swings now?”
 
"My corrupted pig, as you call him,” Mycroft went on, gritting his teeth, "happens to be very useful to my affairs. As is his middle brother - highly talented with numbers, a valuable asset. I dislike unnecessary distractions, and I especially dislike tasteless gifts sent to their youngest brother’s place of work."
 
Sherlock tensed, his expression shifting in an instant. "I’m staking a claim. Mind your own business, Mycky."
 
"Ah, yes. Because you, of all people, have such a healthy track record when it comes to romance."
 
"You wouldn’t understand. What do you know of courting someone?"
 
A delicate brow arched. "More than you, clearly."
 
"I doubt it. He is the one for me."
 
"That’s interesting. You said the same thing about the last two people you courted before. Victor Trevor and John Watson, right? The police haven’t found them yet. At this point, I doubt they ever will."
 
Sherlock reeled back, as if those words had struck him like a slap. Regret flickered briefly across Mycroft’s face, but before he could say anything else, the younger man’s expression had already hardened again.
 
"This is different. He is different. He isn’t afraid, and he isn’t shying away from me."
 
Mycroft’s gaze landed on the unfinished doll perched on Sherlock’s desk, and his frown deepened as he took in the features painstakingly crafted in the likeness of one Louis James Moriarty.
 
"This," He said, voice bitter with disapproval, "is what you consider courting? Why can’t you choose something more normal? Some wine, perhaps? Chocolates? Asking him out?"
 
Sherlock bristled. "He likes my gifts."
 
The other man’s lips pressed into a thin line. "He’s a detective. He likes the game you’re offering him, Sherly. Not necessarily the giver."
 
Sherlock’s eyes darkened, but Mycroft held up a hand before his brother could launch himself into another impassioned declaration. "I won’t pretend to understand your… unique approach to romance, but this obsession of yours is upsetting his older brother, and would probably upset the middle one too, if he knew what is going on. They are both useful to me, and I would very much like to keep them that way."
 
Mycroft smoothed down the front of his jacket, casting one last glance at the half-finished doll before turning away, towards the door.
 
"Find another way to court your beau. One that does not upset his family. And, preferably, one that does not end in him… disappearing."

Chapter Text

Needlessly to say, Mycroft’s visit had left Sherlock in a horrible mood. And that was why he was working in silence in the middle of the night, dragging the blade across the whetstone, honing it to razor-sharp perfection. A real pity, however, that even taking care of his beloved knives helped only slightly to dull his irritation.
 
He likes the game you’re offering him, Sherly. Not necessarily the giver.
 
Sherlock scoffed under his breath.
 
What did his brother know about love? The man whose affections were measured in influence and leverage. Who viewed people as assets to be moved and expended. If love ever knocked on his door, Mycroft would likely greet it with a devil’s contract in one hand.
 
But then his hand faltered, and for a brief moment, his own reflection caught his eye in the gleaming surface of the blade.
 
And if Mycroft was right?
 
He inhaled sharply, gripping the knife a little too tightly.
 
Then I’ll make him love me.
 
If Louis was still playing, then good - it meant the game wasn’t over. It meant Sherlock could continue to breathe in the thrill of knowing there was someone in this world who could want him, desire him, love him.
 
His grip loosened, and the knife clattered against the table as he set it down with an irritated huff.
What was he even thinking? Such pointless doubts. Louis was his; would always be his.
 
After all, the detective had played along until now. Even flirted back, in the club.
 
All Sherlock had to do was make sure he never wanted to stop.
 
 
***
 
 
Two gifted hearts.
A man killed only for having flirted with him.
 
And he still knew nothing that could give away his stalker’s identity.
 
When Louis stepped into the London Metropolitan Police building, hoping to receive some useful information on his case, he had expected to find its ever-present scent of coffee and stress. Instead, he was met with utter chaos - and with a pungent, rather unpleasant smell.
 
What could have thrown the entire department into such disarray?
That was either very good news or very, very bad news.
 
His gaze swept across the place, noting the tight, disgusted expressions – and some guy in a biological decontamination suit exiting an office to go into another.
 
…Something bad, then.
 
Standing stiffly near the corridor leading to the offices, was Moran. The man looked distinctly unwell; even his usual cocky smile was nowhere to see, replaced instead by an uncharacteristic pallor.
 
Louis approached, slipping at his side as casually as possible. “Bad morning?”
 
Moran glanced at him, looking halfway between grim and queasy. “Bad fucking morning. You know those packages you received? Well, we had multiples coming in, today. One for each of us.”
 
Multiple packages?
Did it mean -
 
“…A killing spree?”
 
But he had done nothing to push his admirer into escalating to such levels, after the last gift. He had been careful. Hadn’t entertained anyone, hadn’t provoked or enticed. If his suitor was so volatile…
 
Moran shook his head. “No. Just a man, apparently. We’re still trying to check if all the pieces are there.”
 
Ah. Well, that was reassuring… for Louis, at least.
 
But before the detective could ask for more details, he saw Moran rubbing a hand over his face. He had never looked so tired. “Please, let’s go to the coffee shop around the corner. Just for a while. My office is still being decontaminated, and I need some strong brew, before I puke in front of an audience.”
 
Louis complied rather gladly, and after less than ten minutes they were sitting at a table, with two smoking hot cups in front of them.
 
“So, let’s see,” Moran began, as if recounting a grocery list. “Albert and I got his intestines. Lestrade received his lungs. Gregson, his liver, I think. The heart was in the package destined to you, as always – your brother was the one who opened it, sorry. No clue who exactly ended up with the arms and legs. Narraway got lucky - just an ear.”
 
Louis took a sip of his coffee. “And Milverton?” He asked, feigning innocence.
 
“His balls.”
 
A laughter began to bubble on Louis’ lips, and the other man gave him an incredulous look, eyebrows drawn together. “What the hell. This isn’t funny.”
 
“It isn’t,” The detective agreed between small gasps, still giggling despite himself.
 
“You’re mad, completely mad.” Moran muttered, but there was something terribly similar to longing in his gaze – especially when it fell on the other man’s mouth. “…Anyway. I wish I had some new information concerning this situation, but I don’t.”
 
Louis hummed, stirring his coffee.
“That’s unfortunate,” He murmured, though he didn’t sound particularly disappointed. Because if the police had nothing, then he would have to get what he wanted from the original source – and the thought sent a shiver of pleasurable anticipation down his spine.
 
Moran was still watching him, so Louis merely smiled, slow and knowing, before taking another sip of his coffee.
 
Yes. He would have to draw his suitor out himself.
 
 
***
 
 
And that was how Louis ended up at the club once again, that night.
 
A drink in hand, just like before; and then, straight onto the dancefloor. His plan was very simple; either be the bait, or use someone else interested in him as such. He didn’t even have to wait long before someone decided to approach him. The moment his body began moving to the music, someone pressed in close behind him, and Louis let himself lean into it, let the heat between them melt away the space that remained.
 
And then a voice, low and angry, brushed against his ear.
“Didn’t the message get through last time?”
 
Louis’ heart leapt into his chest.
 
“Keep looking straight ahead.” The voice continued, and he obeyed.
 
“You shouldn’t provoke me,” His companion murmured. “You know what I’m capable of.”
 
Louis hummed noncommittally.
“Do I? You sound very sure of yourself. A bit too much, perhaps.”
 
The man’s body pressed a bit more against his back. “Behave.”
 
“So, you don’t like me taking other men to my bed?”
 
“Don’t get cocky. You’re not that special.”
 
Louis smirked. “No? Then what about the man I flirted with, last time I was here?”
 
A beat of silence. And then -
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I simply taught him his place.”
 
A pleasant shiver ran down Louis' spine.
“You want me so desperately,” He murmured, licking his lips. “Why don’t we have some fun tonight?”
 
A quiet chuckle against his skin.
“You would just use it to take my DNA.” A pause. “But when it happens…”
 
“Oh?” The detective teased, his pulse quickening. “When? Not if?”
 
“…When it happens, it will be in your own bed, with you crying my name out.”
 
Louis let his eyes flutter shut for just a moment, the promise going straight to his loins.
“So I’m supposed to just wait for you?”
 
“If you’re smart enough to know what’s good for you - yes.”
 
“And in the meantime?”
 
“Think of me.”
 
A smirk appeared on Louis’ lips. “I don’t even know what you look like.” A deliberate pause. Then, playful and cruel, he added: “I suppose I’ll just find someone else.”
 
The grip on his hips tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
“Try that,” The voice behind him growled, low and venomous, “and I’ll make sure they never see the light of day again.”
 
“All threats, no actions. Awfully boring.”
 
It had been a gamble, one that could’ve possibly cost Louis his own life. The man behind him was a murderer, after all, and Louis guessed that riling him up would not be the wisest idea if he wanted to come out unscathed. Yet it worked just as he wanted, because a moment later, he was being pushed towards the back of the club.
 
A sharp tug. A forceful push through the crowd. In a matter of minutes, before he could think better of it, Louis found himself pressed with his chest against the cool tile of a bathroom stall, a hand shoved down the front of his pants.
 
“I’ll show you boring.”
 
The other hand followed, dipping lower enough to massage the back half of his perineum – enough to steal from Louis a loud gasp, when the pressure on that spot got intense enough to stimulate his prostate.
 
He was good. So damn good that Louis almost forgot the second part of his plan.
 
Almost.
 
“Can I touch you, too? Over the – ahh – over the clothes,” He gasped, almost breathless.
 
Another chuckle against his ear - dark, amused, indulgent.
“Greedy. Beg me nicely, and I might allow it.”
 
Louis moaned, breathy and sweet. “Please.”
 
“That lame-ass ex of yours never did this to you, did he?”
 
He sucked in a sharp breath. “No, he didn’t – but please -”
 
“I knew it.” The man drawled, sounding cruelly satisfied. “Bet he didn’t know how to play with your body the right way. Bet he just took you on your back, in the most boring and predictable way. Bet he didn’t even realize how many times I could make you have a dry orgasm without even letting you find release.”
 
Louis bit his lower lip almost enough to draw blood. The heat, the frustration, the teasing was almost too much, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stay concentrated –
 
“Please!”
 
The grip on him remained firm, controlling, but the man gave him enough freedom to let his hands wander a little. And Louis took full advantage for bringing his hands behind him - tracing over the sharp lines of this man’s hips, skimming down to cup the firm curve of his ass.
 
The heat of the moment, the distraction, the sheer arrogance of his partner; it all worked in Louis’ favour.
And it was an easy thing, in that moment, to slip the tiny tracker into the back pocket of those jeans.

Chapter Text

After his stalker had left, Louis had called a taxi.
 
Blissed out and pliant as he was, he would’ve gladly thrown himself into bed, letting exhaustion and the lingering heat of the encounter lull him into sleep. But he had no time to lose.
 
So, instead of heading home, he directed the driver to a small, inconspicuous garage he usually kept stocked with a few useful things for his work - burner phones, spare clothes, lockpicking tools, a couple of weapons for emergencies… and some very special things that he had bought just for the occasion.
 
Retrieving the items he needed, while the taxi waited for him outside, was child’s play. And then, using the signal from the tracker he’d planted on the other man, he gave the taxi driver his next destination.
 
Time to pay back his stalker with the same coin.
 
 
***
 
 
Louis leaned against the wall across the street, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, eyes fixed on the building before him.
 
It was an unremarkable structure, really - worn brick, tall narrow windows, the occasional iron balcony jutting out - but after all, he was certainly not there to admire its architecture. From his observation point, he counted the floors, scanning each one until he found it - the only flat with the lights still on, in the middle of the night.
 
Third floor. Fifth window from the left.
 
Louis took his time, observing his target until the light finally switched off.
And then he waited.
 
Patience had always been one of his best skills. He let another hour passed before he finally moved, slipping across the street and into the building's entrance. The main door was no obstacle - worn locks, an old mechanism, easy enough to bypass with a quick flick of his tools. And then, once inside, he took the stairs, silent as a shadow. No one was there to stop him.
 
Reaching his target, he crouched before the door, retrieving a small, flexible cannula from his pocket. With careful precision, he slipped it through the keyhole, guiding it in until he was sure it reached the interior. Then, without hesitation, he opened the valve of the pressurized canister he had brought with him.
 
A custom blend - nothing dangerous, of course, but strong enough to ensure that, when he stepped inside, the inhabitant of the flat would stay asleep.
 
Only after the canister had emptied completely did Louis move to the next step. He reached into his coat, pulled out the gas mask, and secured it over his face. It would be of no use, after all, to risk falling victim as well of his own sleeping gas.
 
Picking the lock was not that difficult, either; a matter of seconds, and Louis finally stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind him.
 
The narrow beam of light from his flashlight helped him make his way through the darkness. It was a messy, yet unremarkable space, the kind that belonged to any single young man living in the city. A modest couch, a coffee table littered with stray papers and an empty glass, a half-filled bookshelf. In the kitchen, the sink was still full with the pots and dishes presumably used for dinner.
 
Nothing out of the ordinary.
 
That was, until he stepped inside the bedroom.
 
Louis halted mid-step, his breath faltering as the beam of light hit the opposite side of the room. A collage - no, a shrine. Photos of himself, dozens of them, arranged all over the wall. There were images of him going through his daily life. To his utmost disconcert, some photos of him crouching on a crime scene. And worse - some photos from inside his own apartment, slightly blurred – like screenshots taken from a video.
 
He must’ve wired it, the fucking bastard.
 
And then his gaze drifted elsewhere - down to the bed, where a figure lay still beneath the sheets, chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. Defenceless and unaware of the intruder standing mere feet away.
 
Louis neared the bed and - at last! - he got a proper look at the man who had been stalking him around.
 
And - fuck. Even in sleep, this man was devastatingly handsome. Sharp cheekbones, a defined jaw, and dark long hair, with an endearing ahoge falling just slightly over his forehead.
 
Unfair. Completely unfair.
 
Louis pulled his phone from his pocket, raising it just enough to snap a photo. Even then, the man remained still - lost in whatever dreams he dreamed.
 
Louis hesitated, then reached out. With careful fingers, he untied the hairband securing those dark curls and slipped it around his wrist. A keepsake. Something to remind himself that, yes, he had turned the hunter into the hunted - if only for a night.
 
And then, regretfully, he stepped back.
 
The gas wouldn’t last forever, and he had other matters to attend to before dawn. With a last glance at the sleeping man, Louis slipped out of the bedroom, disappearing into the kitchen once again.
 
 
***
 
 
Morning came slowly.
 
Sherlock stirred, a deep grogginess clinging to his limbs. His body felt heavier than usual, his head dull, as though he’d had too much to drink - but he hadn't.
 
Something felt off.
 
As he shifted under the sheets, the first thing he noticed was his hair - loose, curling freely around his face and shoulders. That was odd. He always tied it back before bed. The hairband must have slipped off during the night.
 
Except… as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he couldn’t find it.
 
He ran his fingers through his hair, then patted the sheets, looking around.
Nothing. No sign of it.
 
His brows furrowed.
Strange.
 
Sherlock groggily staggered into the kitchen, running a hand through his unruly hair. His mind was still thick with sleep, but he needed coffee - something strong enough to blast away the damn fog clinging to his thoughts.
 
Where was his cup? Ah, yes. On the table. Near the vase of flowers.
 
…Near the what?
 
His tired eyes sharpened as he focused on the bouquet of bright yellow daffodils sitting innocently in a clear glass vase at the center of his table.
 
He didn’t own a vase. He didn’t own flowers.
 
The haze of sleep burned away in an instant, as he stared at the daffodils.
 
Someone had been there.
Someone had been inside his home while he was unconscious.
 
Heart hammering, he turned sharply, scanning the room with fresh eyes. The whole thing felt wrong now - like an unfamiliar hand had run over his belongings, disturbing the balance of his private space. He moved quickly, checking drawers, the cabinets, the edges of tables, shelves. Nothing obvious had been taken, but little things… little things had been moved. Put back almost exactly as they were.
 
Almost.
 
A pen that should have been parallel to the notebook beside it, slightly skewed.
A chair nudged just a breath away from its usual position.
The sugar jar lid usually resting so slightly ajar, closed.
 
A sense of horrified panic crawled under his skin, like a bad itch he couldn't scratch.
 
Sherlock turned on his heel and stormed back into his bedroom. His eyes flickered immediately to the wall – to the carefully arranged collage of photographs he had built up over months. He knew it like the back of his hand. He would have noticed if someone had disturbed it.
 
Someone had.
 
The arrangement felt subtly asymmetrical. His gaze darted over the photos, his breath coming faster, before it snagged on something that hadn’t been there before.
 
A new picture.
 
His blood turned to ice.
 
It was Louis, sitting at a kitchen counter – his own kitchen counter - looking directly at the camera with a knowing little smirk. He was sipping coffee from his own cup, utterly at ease in a space he did not belong to.
And he was wearing only - oh, fuck.
He was wearing only a pair of Sherlock’s boxers.
 
His knees almost buckled, and he stumbled back, his pulse pounding in his ears.
 
This had to be a dream, he told himself as he turned on shaky legs and half-staggered toward the bathroom.
A bizarre, absurd dream conjured up by a mind that had spent far too long obsessing over one man.
 
He gripped the sink with both hands, leaning heavily over it, forcing himself to breathe. His own reflection stared back at him - wide-eyed, disheveled, eyes full of…panic? Thrill?
 
And then he saw it.
 
Scrawled across the mirror in deep, bold strokes - written in something that could’ve been lipstick, or maybe the kind of marker that wouldn’t wipe off with a simple breath of steam –
 
Write me, darling.
 
And beneath it, a phone number.
 
His fingers twitched, an unconscious urge to reach out, to trace over the message, to smudge the letters just to prove they weren’t a hallucination. But before he could, something else caught his eye - something lying neatly on the counter nearby, placed there deliberately.
 
His boxers.
The same ones Louis had worn in the photo.
 
Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The fabric looked crumpled. No, worse than crumpled. Sticky and stained in a way that left no room for doubt.
 
This was no dream.
 
Louis had been here. Had sat in his kitchen, drank from his cup, worn his clothes, left this - this taunt, this proof of exactly what he’d been doing while Sherlock had slept, oblivious.
 
Had he been watching him while…?
Heat crawled up Sherlock’s neck, his chest, then descend like burning lava to his loins.
 
He took himself in hand and before he could even think to stop, he was stroking, rough and fast, mind full of images that refused to be ignored.
 
Louis, sitting at his counter, wearing nothing but his boxers. Louis, smirking at the camera, sipping from his cup like it was his own. Louis, touching himself in his underwear, maybe standing at the foot of his bed, taking his time while he slept, and knowing full well what kind of reaction this would get.
 
It didn’t take long; couldn’t take long, not with his body already wound so tight. A few desperate tugs and searing pleasure crashed over him. His legs buckled, sending him to his knees on the cold tile floor, gasping through the aftershocks.
 
For a long moment, he simply knelt there, panting, chest rising and falling erratically.
Then his gaze snapped back to the mirror. To the words written there. To the number.
 
The phone.
                                                       
He needed his phone.

Chapter Text

“…And that’s it,” Sherlock concluded. "What should I do now, Mycky?"
 
Mycroft let out a long, suffering sigh and promptly buried his face into his pillow. "I should have sent you to a psychiatrist when there was still some hope," He muttered, voice muffled by the fabric.
 
Sherlock ignored him. “My apartment could be wired. He could have planted cameras, bugs, something.”
 
The elder Holmes was terribly tempted to end the call right now.
 
“What if it’s a thirst trap?” Sherlock continued, pacing the room. “What if he’s part of a larger plan to get to you, using me as the weak point? What if I’m the bait? What if –“
 
Mycroft, still face-down in his pillow, groaned. “God, give me strength.”
 
“What if he’s working with your pig to bring us down?” The younger man went on, voice gaining that sharp, fevered edge of a man halfway through spiralling. “What if this is some elaborate seduction scheme just to gain evidence over my deeds, and your work? What if -”
 
“Sherly.” Mycroft’s voice was dangerously low. “He just sounds as insane as you. You should be delighted to have met your perfect match.”
 
Sherlock scoffed. “You’re not listening. There has to be a deeper meaning behind the soiled boxers.” He turned sharply on his heel. “It must be a message. See, I can do whatever I want. I’m playing the game.”
 
Mycroft shifted just enough to glare at his phone from the pillow. “Or he just likes you. Tell me, brother mine, have you perhaps taken something to cope with your… little surprise, this early morning?”
 
The silence that followed was just confirmation enough of what Mycroft already suspected.
 
“Sherlock.”
 
“Just a little of my 7% solution,” He admitted, albeit reluctantly. “But that’s not important. Listen, I need someone of your friends to come and help me check my apartment. And then I need another tiny favour…“
 
He gave him the address and the number of the apartment just below Louis’.
 
“…I need that apartment vacant today, Mycky. I don’t care how you get it – through bribe, threats or those things of yours that you do. I need to rent it so I can keep an eye on him, you do understand, don’t you?”
 
“God help me, I’m going to strangle him.” Mycroft muttered to the empty bedroom, pressing his fingers to his temples. Then, with a sigh of supreme suffering, he said, “I’ll see what I can do. But for now, Sherly, I have just one solid piece of advice for you.”
 
Sherlock perked up. “What?”
 
His brother took a deep breath. “Get. Some.”
 
And then he promptly ended the call and screamed into his pillow.
 
 
***
 
 
Somewhere else in the city, Louis glared at his phone.
 
Nothing. No messages. No calls. No sign of life from that beautiful, arrogant man he had so generously paid a visit to the night before. The only notable event of the day had been the departure of his downstairs neighbours in the morning, swiftly followed by someone new moving in by the afternoon.
 
Had he miscalculated? Been too forward? Had Sherlock - yes, that was his name, according to the documents he had snooped through - been overwhelmed by his show of interest?
 
He checked his phone again. Still nothing.
 
Anger was beginning to flare wildly in his chest. Was this some kind of game? A test Louis had failed?
A little frotting, a little masturbation, and now he was just a toy to be discarded?
 
No.
This wouldn’t do.
Louis wouldn’t allow it.
 
His gaze flicked to the clock. 5:32 PM.
Fine. He could wait until six o’clock.
 
And if there was still no response?
Then he would show his little stalker just how unwise it was to play games with him.
 
 
***
 
 
Sherlock had been occupied all day with the move.
 
Coordinating, inspecting, making sure every detail was in place – all while avoiding being spotted. The tracker had been found and destroyed, naturally. He had made no mention of it to his brother; it was already shameful enough for him to know that he had been duped so easily.
 
And while it had been a relief to confirm that no other hidden cameras or microphones had been planted in his flat - no silent, insidious proof that Louis had left more than just his photo and his seed behind - it left him more perplexed than before.
 
Why hadn’t he? Could it be that his detective really had some genuine interest in him? Or was it some cruel trick?
 
He had not dared to contact his beloved. Not until he was sure. He would, soon - if the man gave him no reason to doubt. But for now, he waited, and observed.
 
It was only at dinner time that he was able to check on his handsome detective.
 
He had expected Louis to be alone, as always. Perhaps lounging in his apartment, waiting for him as he ate some store-bought meal, restless and frustrated over the lack of response. That would have been the natural course of things.
 
What he had not expected was to see Louis dressed in the sluttiest way Sherlock could ever imagine, sitting at his table, eating a homemade dinner - with his ex.
 
Sherlock’s blood boiled.
 
What was the meaning of this? His fingers tightened around the armrest as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the screen. The man was seated across from Louis, talking, smiling, as if he belonged there.
 
As if he had a right to be there.
 
The mere sight made something dark and ugly twist in Sherlock’s stomach.
 
He switched the microphones on, listening eagerly; and to his horror, he discovered that the two of them were flirting.
 
“That steak was delicious,” The dark-haired man was saying. “Didn’t know you had learned how to cook.”
 
“There are many things you don’t know about me,” Louis replied smoothly, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. His eyes flicked up beneath his lashes, sharp and knowing. “And maybe some others you might have forgotten. Would you like a demonstration?”
 
A look of pure excitement crossed Moran’s face. “Of what, exactly?”
 
Louis didn’t answer; not with words, at least. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing one hand against the table as his other curled around the back of Moran’s neck, pulling him in. Their lips met, slow and filthy, Louis parting his mouth deliberately to lick inside, teasing, taking.
 
Sherlock’s grip on the armrest went white-knuckled.
 
Moran groaned, clearly lost in it, and when Louis pulled back just enough to murmur, “Bedroom?” the man didn’t even have the decency to hesitate.
 
Sherlock watched as Moran stood immediately, as Louis smirked and took his hand, leading him away.
 
That was - no. That wasn’t -
Absolutely not.
 
Sherlock had never been this angry.
 
Pure, unbridled rage boiled inside him, searing through his insides and consuming every rational thought.
 
His ceramic mug flew on the floor, where it shattered - shards scattering across the room, coffee pooling at his feet. He barely noticed. His entire being was focused on the screen in front of him, where Louis - his Louis - was kissing someone else.
 
A torrent of curses and vicious exclamations spilled from his lips as he watched, his breath coming sharp and uneven. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged beast, a primal, possessive fury burning in his veins. How dare he? How dare Louis lead that man - that idiot - into his own bed, right after waltzing into Sherlock's flat and spilling his seed over Sherlock's underwear?
 
And all while knowing Sherlock could be watching?
 
On screen, Louis pulled Moran down with him, their lips never breaking apart, their hands hungry and greedy. Fabric hit the floor - first a shirt, then another, then the buckle of a belt clinking as it was undone, and two pair of jeans followed.
 
Louis arched, his head tilting back with a moan that was obscene in its perfection. It was terribly clear that he must’ve wanted to be seen, wanted Sherlock to hear him. And every gasp, every sigh, every sinful little noise felt like a knife twisting into Sherlock’s gut.
 
Then Moran’s mouth descended on Louis’ throat, biting, sucking, branding him with deep, dark bruises.
 
The younger man gasped, and Sherlock’s bloodlust surged. His fingers dug into the desk so hard he thought the wood might splinter beneath his grip. He wanted to kill Moran. Tear him apart limb by limb, wipe those marks off Louis’ skin with his own hands.
 
The detective turned his head slightly, lips brushing against his lover’s ear, and whispered something.
 
A moment later, Moran turned him on all fours, holding on Louis’ waist with an arm, and grabbing one of the man’s wrists. Just like a dog, or… or…
 
…wait…
 
Sherlock recognized that hold instantly, and saw red.
 
It was a perfect mimicry of how Sherlock had held him that night at the club.
 
And now?
Now Louis was enjoying it far more, with someone else.
 
A sound - deep, guttural, feral - ripped from Sherlock’s throat, as he watched helplessly his own game being turned against him in the most brutal way.
 
And Louis, the bastard… Louis knew exactly what he was doing.
 
He moaned prettily, arching and writhing, utterly unashamed. And then… then, the final cruelty; he turned his head just enough, his gaze lifting lazily to stare straight into the hidden camera.
 
He smirked.
 
Between gasps, between moans that should have belonged to Sherlock, he smirked.
 
Sherlock went still, as sudden understanding descended upon his boiling rage like a cold shower. This - all of this – had to be some form of retribution. For he had waited for Sherlock to accept his invitation – that is, to use his number and contact him; and when Sherlock hadn’t, then he had chosen to retaliate.
 
Louis believed himself scorned, and this was his revenge.
 
Sherlock’s teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. But still, he didn’t look away.
If Louis wanted to play dirty - if he wanted to dangle this in front of him like a challenge - then fine.
 
Sherlock would take back what was rightfully his.

Chapter Text

It was early morning when Louis slowly stirred from sleep, and the first thing he felt was something wet and hot tracing a path along the length of his spine. From the dip of his lower back, up between his shoulder blades, and finally to the curve of his neck, where a tongue flicked out to taste his skin.
 
A low, pleased hum followed. Then the sensation of lips pressing, parting, dragging in an open-mouthed kiss over the sensitive flesh beneath his ear. He shivered in pleasure, opposing no resistance at all when his lover grabbed him by the hips and tilted them just enough to be welcomed inside Louis with a single push.
 
Fuck. Sebastian had never been so… so…
 
The movement behind him was slow, deep, and languid, hips rocking into him just in the right way. A hand smoothed down his side, fingers tracing the shape of his ribs, the dip of his waist, before curling around his thigh to spread him open just a little more.
 
Louis exhaled, his lashes fluttering as he turned his head slightly, offering more of his throat.
"Mm," He breathed, still caught in the syrupy pull of sleep. “Deeper…”
 
Another slow thrust. More of that tongue teasing the shell of his ear, followed by a gentle scrape of teeth.
 
"Awake?" His lover murmured. "I’d hate for you to miss this."
 
His eyes snapped open, the last residuals of sleep vanishing in an instant. He turned his head on one side, heart lurching in his chest - only to come face to face with someone entirely different from the man he had slept with the night before.
 
Dark wavy hair framed a face twisted in pleasure, high cheekbones flushed, lips parted, eyes blown wide and sharp with something wicked.
 
Louis’ own lips parted in shock.
 
"Sherlock," He gasped. The name felt strange, unfamiliar, yet strangely sweet on his tongue.
 
A smirk curled on the other man’s mouth as he leaned down, pressing his lips against Louis’ for the first time, slow and claiming. "Surprised?" He murmured against Louis’ mouth.
 
The detective barely had time to inhale before his mind snapped back into focus. "Where’s Mo -"
 
He never got to finish. Sherlock’s tongue slid past his lips, swallowing whatever protest he might have had. The kiss turned deeper, hungrier, his grip tightening possessively around Louis’ hips as he rolled his body against him, eliciting a long moan of pleasure from him.
 
Moran was not in bed. Sherlock was here instead, taking what he wanted without asking for permission.
And, fuck, Louis didn’t think he’d ever been more turned on in his life.
 
Sherlock took his time. He mapped out every inch of him with his hands, with his mouth - teeth grazing sensitive skin, tongue tracing the dip of his spine, lips pressing against the curve of his shoulder as if memorizing the taste of him.
 
He savored the slow, languid rhythm, the way Louis’ breath hitched, the way his fingers clenched helplessly into the sheets, the way he gasped and writhed beneath him. Every moan, every tremor, every stuttering breath - it was all his.
And when it was finally over, when he had wrung every last ounce of pleasure from Louis and left him thoroughly spent, Sherlock didn’t move away immediately. Instead, he leaned down, brushing his lips against the damp skin between Louis’ shoulder blades - a tender, reverent kiss.
 
Only then did he pull away, stretching leisurely as if he had all the time in the world.
And with a smile, voice still rough with satisfaction, he murmured, “Good morning, love.”
 
 
***
 
 
The kitchen was filled with the warm scent of butter and sizzling mushrooms.
 
Sherlock stood by the stove, mostly naked save for a pair of loose pyjama pants slung low on his hips. Louis, wrapped in his dressing gown, sat at the table, watching him with a certain degree of suspicion. He was quiet for a moment, watching the other man cook breakfast as if it were the most normal thing in the world; but then he couldn’t stop himself from asking again, “Where’s Moran?”
 
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh as he turned off the stove. “He’s alive,” He said, as if that should’ve been enough. Then, after a pause, he added, “He left your flat at a late hour, while you were asleep – a truly unwise choice, might I say? - and he accidentally ended up a bit battered. He’ll live, though. You shouldn’t worry, really - he hasn’t even seen me.”
 
Louis narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
 
Sherlock plated the food; scrambled eggs, toast, mushrooms. And some slices of meat? Probably not bacon. The cut was different, but the scent was oddly enticing, so Louis didn’t complain.
 
The dark-haired man finally turned and set the plate in front of Louis before taking a seat across from him, smiling. “No reason to hold back now that you’ve come and seen me, right, love?” He murmured, as he took a forkful of eggs and leaned forward, holding the fork up to Louis’ lips.
 
Louis hesitated, but Sherlock’s smile widened, and there was something almost sickeningly indulgent in it.
 
“I’m a very caring boyfriend,” Sherlock told him, watching him swallow with a loving gaze. “You might not know it yet, but you will soon.”
 
Another forkful, this time of mushrooms. Then another.
 
“I’ll take good care of you,” He promised. “So good that you won’t be missing anything.”
 
Sherlock watched, almost transfixed, as Louis took a bite of meat from the fork.
 
His lips parting just enough to let it slide over his tongue…
The way his throat worked as he swallowed…
 
Before Louis could react, his new lover leaned in, claiming his mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. His tongue slid over lips still warm from food, parting them effortlessly and tasting what he had just fed him. There was something unbearably intimate in it; so much that even though Louis had been suspicious about Sherlock’s good mood, he found himself sporting a half-mast by the end of it.
 
When he finally pulled away, Sherlock didn’t give his lover time to catch his breath before lifting another forkful to his lips.
 
“Eat,” He murmured, and Louis did, staring into his eyes. Bite after bite, Sherlock fed him, watching with rapt attention as every morsel disappeared down his throat.
 
“You’re beautiful,” The older man murmured at one point, running a thumb over the corner of Louis’ lips before offering another piece. “So stunningly, frustratingly intelligent.”
 
The detective scoffed lightly, but took the next bite without argument. Sherlock’s lips curled, pleased by how docile his lover was. “I’ll make you happy,” He promised, before leaning in for another kiss. “You’ll see.”
 
Once the plates were empty, Sherlock rose, carrying them to the sink to wash them, humming under his breath. Then, after he had set them to dry, he turned back to Louis, drying his hands on a towel.
 
“Tell me, love,” He commanded. “Have I reminded you enough who do you belong to?”
 
Louis tilted his chin up defiantly, despite the erratic beat of his heart. “Why don’t you tell me?”
 
Sherlock’s gaze burned into his. “You’re mine. Mine, love, and no one else’s. You’d better remember it.”
 
And then his lips crashed again onto Louis’, leaving no room for argument.
…Not that Louis was going to make any, frankly speaking.
 
Hands roamed, grasping, tearing at what little clothing remained between them until they stumbled onto the sofa, limbs tangling, mouths never parting. Sherlock took his pleasure again, and gave it just as fiercely. By the time he finally pulled away, pressing one last kiss to his lover’s damp, parted lips, the man was wrecked, sprawled against the cushions, barely capable of coherent thought.
 
“Before I go, love,” He said casually, “you might have some missed calls. I turned off your phone.”
 
Louis’ eyes darkened at that, but before he could even try to say anything, Sherlock went on.
 
“And I’ve left you something to read,” He continued, smiling at him before stealing another kiss from his lips – one that Louis conceded rather easily. “Something I think you’ll find very… educational.”
 
Moments later, the door of the flat clicked shut behind Sherlock, and for a long moment, Louis simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, drunk on pleasure.
 
Then, with effort, he turned his head, reaching blindly for his phone. He powered it on, blinking as the screen lit up.
 
Twelve missed calls.
 
And then, a new notification –
 
Incoming call.
 
Frowning, he answered groggily. “Hello…?”
 
A crisp, professional voice came through the line. “Mr. Louis James Moriarty?”
 
“…That’s me. Who’s speaking?”
 
“You are listed as the emergency contact for a Sebastian Moran. I’m calling from -”
 
Louis barely heard the name of the hospital, as his mind sluggishly clawing its way toward full awareness.
 
“Mr. Moran was admitted at dawn,” The nurse continued. “He was severely beaten. Multiple injuries, extensive trauma. But, ah… there’s one particular matter we need to discuss. Maybe in person, if you’d be amenable to come?”
 
Louis sat up slowly, still dazed. “Yeah? I am… Right… Could you please… anticipate me the matter, while I get prepared?”
 
A pause. Then –
 
“He’s, um… missing his…” The voice on the line hesitated. “There was significant damage to his lower body. His, um, genitalia… seem to be… missing?”
 
Louis’ mind went blank, as he stared at the door of the kitchen, unseeing.
 
The kitchen.
The food.
The… meat.
 
The phone slipped slightly from his grip, the nurse’s voice becoming distant, tinny.
“…Sir? Hello? Are you still there?”
 
With numb fingers, Louis ended the call.
 
Then, almost without thinking, his hand reached for the book Sherlock had left behind.
He flipped it open, eyes scanning the page the man had marked down.
 
“As the title suggests, this is a tale of love turned macabre. A vengeful husband, consumed by jealousy, takes revenge on his wife’s lover - not only by killing him but by removing his heart and, in some versions, other body parts. These are then cooked and served unknowingly to the adulterous wife, sealing his revenge with a final, grotesque act...”

Chapter Text

“I’m not asking, Louis, I’m enforcing it,” Albert snapped, standing behind his desk with his palms flat against the wood. “You’re going to have someone with you at all times, and I’m assigning a watch to the building entrance. I should’ve done it sooner.”
 
His younger brother stared at him, mouth tightening.
“You’re overreacting again.”
 
“Overreacting?” Albert asked incredulously. “One of my best agents is currently in hospital after having his dick removed, coincidentally after spending most of the night with you, and I am overreacting?!”
 
“Just because the assault happened right after that, it doesn’t mean they are necessarily related. And even in case they were, as a matter of fact, I can take care of myself. Please, stop treating me like I’m still that fragile child I was.”
 
“I fully well that you are not a child anymore, Louis -”
 
“Then treat me like an adult who knows what he’s doing!” Louis shot back. “I get it. You’re worried. I appreciate the fact that you care for me, and that you’re trying to do the thing you think is the best for me. But you’re just caging me in, and -”
 
His brother’s hand slammed down on the desk again, this time harder. “I’m not putting anyone in a cage, you’re just acting in a reckless way that I find unjustifiable! There is someone who seems to be obsessed with you out there and you are not taking it seriously enough! I am afraid for you. And you should be, too. If you don’t understand it the easy way, you will do it the bad way.”
 
Louis knew that what Albert was saying made sense. And he knew fully well that, had he been in Albert’s shoes, he would’ve shown the same obstinacy. But having it applied against himself, right now that he had discovered the name and face of his stalker, was only making him fume.
 
“So what, now I have to get permission to leave my own building? Have some bodyguard shadow me even to the grocery store?”
 
“If that’s what it takes,” Albert said coldly.
 
“Am I at least allowed to visit him in the hospital again?”
 
“Not until we get who did this to him. We wouldn’t want your presence there making him a walking target another time. Just in case.”
 
With neither of them keen on letting go of the matter, and only Albert being able to pull rank, the discussion did not last much longer. Louis stormed out of his brother’s office, the door slamming shut behind him.
 
Milverton, who had been working quietly into his own office, looked up from his desk as soon as that sound echoed down the hallway.
 
“Of course,” He muttered under his breath, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, lips thinning with visible distaste. “Another day, another tantrum from the little prince. That’s what happens when you get someone a job as a courtesy of bloodline rather than merit.”
 
He would’ve ranted about it for longer, as usual, but he heard footsteps approaching his office - and a moment later, Dr. Watson appeared on the doorstep. “Constable Milverton, I am so sorry for bothering you again. Did you get a chance to review the folder I gave you?...”
 
The white-haired man reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the file, sighing as he opened it.
“Yes, I read through the material last night. It's… unfortunate, Watson. I’m genuinely sorry to hear about your brother’s disappearance.” He flipped through the pages, glancing at a few key lines again before continuing. “The official investigation turned up next to nothing. No signs of forced entry, no usable surveillance. And no credible witnesses. You’re asking me to open a cold case, potentially one that never even reached the ‘warm’ stage. There’s… very little to go on. If the colleagues originally assigned to the case didn’t find anything, I cannot see how I could do better -”
 
The doctor’s shoulders slumped slightly, the last remnants of hope evaporating just enough to make him look older. “I understand,” He said gently. “It’s just… my brother John would’ve never disappeared like that. I am sure that something has happened to him.”
 
“I’ll try and have a look again through our systems - see if anything new that might be related has appeared. But I’m afraid I can’t promise much.”
 
The man nodded, eyes drifting briefly to the hallway, as though half-hoping someone else might walk through the door with better news. When no one did, he gave Milverton a mournful smile and stepped away without another word.
 
Milverton sat motionless for a moment, his fingers still resting on the open folder. His eyes lingered on the slightly-faded photo clipped to the first page - a smiling man with a face a bit too similar to the doctor’s.
 
He almost felt sorry.
Almost.
 
But sorrow itself didn’t solve cases. And right now, Milverton had his own problems - ones growing more irritating by the day.
 
He closed the folder with a soft snap and leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling for a beat before reaching for a plain notepad on the side of his desk. Scribbled in pencil were a dozen names and locations, circled and crossed, a scatter of question marks. A log of operations gone wrong.
 
It had started about three months ago; nothing too blatant or worrisome at first.
Just little things, like suspects slipping away a few minutes before the team moved in.
 
At first, he chalked it up to coincidence.
 
Then, the problems began to include empty stash houses.
 
A leak here or there was inevitable in a department as large as theirs, and was often involuntary – a word too much while drinking at the pub, another one overheard who knows where...
 
But the pattern kept repeating. And each time it did, it felt a little more deliberate – like gang members suddenly missing when surveillance began.
 
If someone had been tipping off the dealers about raids or wire surveillance, it meant one thing: a leak. Possibly internal. Probably someone with enough to see the operation details before the squads were actually sent out.
 
Milverton had attempted to root it out quietly. He started rotating personnel on a three-shift policy - never sending the same combination of officers out twice, keeping each bust team partially in the dark until the final moment. He even took to writing some of the more sensitive instructions down by hand, taking them off the usual communication channels.
 
And yet, nothing had changed: the suspects were still gone by the time they arrived.
There had to be a mole, certainly, but perhaps not a lowly one.
 
He tapped the eraser of his pencil against the notepad, eyes narrowing.
Accusing someone of Albert’s stature out loud without hard proof would be professional suicide.
 
And Milverton had no evidence - not yet, at least. Only patterns and instincts. Nothing that could hold up to scrutiny, and certainly nothing that could be brought before a review board.
 
Still, there was something happening – some poison growing stronger and stronger inside that place.
Milverton could feel it spreading.
 
He leaned forward again, flipping to a fresh page in his notepad, and began to make a new list: dates, officer combinations, the information each of them had. He didn’t know where the breach was yet, but he would find it. Even if he had to watch every single one of them, from the janitors to the chief.
 
And if that someone turned out to be wearing a tailored suit and an impeccable reputation?
Well… Then it would be his pleasure to make sure that ‘that someone’ would pay, like his duty demanded.
 
***
 
When Louis went back to his flat, he was still furious from the confrontation with Albert.
 
And his mood did not improve when, as he approached the entrance of the building, he saw a tall man in a black coat stood just outside the door. The man didn’t introduce himself, but the look he gave Louis was enough to confirm it: the watch had already begun. Albert hadn’t wasted time.
 
Louis stopped in front of the agent, raising an eyebrow.
“Let me guess. You’re the ‘escort’ even for my future trips to the grocery store?”
 
The man didn’t flinch. “I’m just here to make sure you’re safe, sir.”
 
Louis gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course you are.”
 
And with that he stepped inside, fuming quietly as he climbed the stairs to his own apartment. He hadn’t even made it to the first floor before his phone buzzed again with another ignored message from his brother - no doubt a final word on “precautions.”
 
The idea of having someone shadowing him all the time he wanted to slip out didn’t sit well with him; he hated the feeling of being leashed. And even if the logic of his brother’s choice made sense, the execution irked him to no end, since it made more difficult for him to see Sherlock again.
 
What was he supposed to do, now?
The answer to this question was certainly not simple.
 
By the time he unlocked his front door, he’d already started planning a fake profile to put in the case folder for the rest of the team, something discreet enough to throw any suspicion off the trail –
 
And then he stopped.
 
He had not been expecting the nice scent he smelled when he walked into his own apartment.
Something like rosemary and onion, with perhaps a hint of butter. The kind of layered smell that came not from fast food or a microwave meal, but from actual cooking.
 
Louis walked slowly toward the kitchen, and there, like it was the most natural thing in the world, stood Sherlock - barefoot, shirtless, calmly stirring a pan on the stove.
 
The dark-haired man turned slightly, and smiled at him. “Ah. You’re home.”
 
“You -” Louis started, but Sherlock held up a finger without looking.
“Dinner will be ready in ten, darling. Why don’t you pour us something? There’s wine on the counter.”
 
“You’re in my kitchen,” The other said flatly, eyeing him. “Again. Uninvited.”
 
A smirk. “You did it first, love. I am only rebalancing the equation. And anyway, you didn’t even change the locks. You must’ve wanted me back.”
 
“I didn’t even have the time to!”
 
“No one ever thinks they do,” Sherlock said merrily, setting the spoon down. “Until it’s too late.”
 
Louis crossed his arms, shooting him a glare. Whatever the other man was cooking, it smelled annoyingly good - but he couldn’t allow himself to be so easily distracted.
 
“Fuck you!” He hissed. “I had to go to the hospital, and then I was put under surveillance by my own brother – all thanks to you!”
 
Once again, the man did not look particularly fazed by the accusations.
“I see no problems with what I did. Your ex is still alive, isn’t he? Who cares for the part he’s missing - you won’t be needing it anymore, now that you have me.”
 
Louis spluttered. “You fed that part to me, you sick fucker!”
 
“I didn’t hear you complaining this morning, though. Was I not a good cook?” Sherlock asked, turning off the burner and plating the food - roasted vegetables, grilled chicken, and a generous scoop of something that looked like saffron risotto. Then he set it down on the table and gestured to a chair. “You’ve had a long day. Sit. Eat.”
 
Louis stayed where he was for a long second, studying him, then crossed the room and lowered himself begrudgingly into the chair. He took one bite and immediately regretted the way his expression softened; the food was - damn it - excellent.
 
“What are you even doing here?” He asked, fork still in hand.
 
Sherlock barely arched an eyebrow. “Taking care of you, obviously.” He reminded Louis with sickening sweetness, taking place in front of him. “Haven’t I promised already to be such a good boyfriend that you won’t be missing anything? Anyway, tell me, darling - what is it that’s getting your panties in a twist? The surveillance, perhaps? Because if so, I assure you, I’ve been watching you much longer than they have -”
 
“Stop it,” Louis snapped, his fork clattering a little too hard against the plate. “You broke into my flat again. You turned off my phone. You… you hurt someone. And now you’re sitting here acting all domestic. Do you even realize how absurd this is?” 
 
Sherlock’s smile thinned. “So that’s what this is about. You want me to feel guilty. About your ex? About breaking a few social norms? Are you seriously pretending you didn’t want me here?”
 
“Well, it happens that I do not!”
 
“That’s not what you seemed to be thinking this morning, in bed,” The dark-haired man sad, scowling at him, “Or when I had you right here, or –“
 
Louis stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.
“You don’t understand! Why are you acting in such a stupid way -”
 
“I’m trying to understand,” Sherlock said, rising slowly from his own chair. “But you make it damn tough! One minute you're letting me in, the next you’re pushing me away. So tell me - why must you be so fucking difficult?”
 
Louis flinched at the question, and that was when something in the other man's expression changed.
 
…Oh?
…Oh! That must be why.
 
“Wait,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing as if working through a difficult equation – and then widening again, this time in delight. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re afraid.”
 
Louis scoffed. “Of you? Dream on -”
 
“No, not of me,” The other man said gently. “For me. You’re afraid I will get caught as I sneak into - or out of - your flat.”
 
Bingo.
 
Louis turned his head away, but it was too late; Sherlock had already seen what he had been looking for.
The trace of embarrassment in his eyes. The faintest pink blush on his cheeks.
 
Damn, this man would be the death of him.
 
“I’ll have you know that I can come and go whenever I please, and my presence here is the perfect demonstration of that,” Sherlock announced, not even trying to hide the note of cocky satisfaction in his voice. “Your little goons at the entrance of the building are no match to me.”
 
At those words, Louis’ gaze shot up in surprise - but the expression didn’t last. Within seconds, his eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in sudden realization; and finally came a heated look of interest.
 
“You knew Albert would assign someone to keep watch on me,” The younger man finally said, in a low, husky voice. “So you made sure to beat him to it, didn’t you? You are renting a flat somewhere inside the building. That’s why putting someone outside can’t stop you.  You knew what would happen and you acted so that you would be able to step around it.”
 
Well, this at least sounded way nicer than admitting to having moved nearer just to spy on him better all the time, so Sherlock went with that.
 
“…Sure! That’s it! I had deducted your brother’s move right from the start and planned consequently. Wouldn’t want you to be all alone when your guards look the other way - who knows how many dangerous threats you could incur in?” He said smoothly. “Anyway, now you know I can get in even with security in place. It’s a gesture of trust, really.”
 
“Moron. You are the threat, here.” Louis snorted, but he already sounded more mollified, and sat down again - not touching the food yet, this time. “The meat you’ve cooked… What was it, this time?"
 
The dark-haired man gave him a malicious, knowing smile, before sitting down as well.
"Just some chicken. You might not be very experimented yet, but you should still be able to tell the difference in taste from this morning."
 
Louis’ gaze flickered briefly to the dish in front of him. “Do you… eat meat from alternative sources often?”
 
“Human meat, you mean,” Sherlock said calmly. "Flesh."
 
“…Yes.”
 
“Just when the occasion arises. I am an ethical consumer – I take only what I need, and only from those who deserve to lose it. Most of the time, that means criminals your department never quite manages to catch."
 
"‘Most of the time,’ huh?” Louis echoed, before finally picking up the fork again. “Interesting choice of words. Not ‘always.’”
 
"Because sometimes, I have very compelling reasons to bend the rules. Say, for instance… someone tries to take what’s mine. What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t make sure my beloved's attention stayed right where it belongs?"
 
"You seem awfully confident about where my attention lies."
 
Sherlock leaned in slightly, blue eyes glinting with mischief as he watched Louis eat his food. "Shouldn’t I be? I recall a rather intriguing message left on my mirror, scrawled by a certain uninvited guest. That was a declaration of interest, wasn’t it? Not to mention what we did in the bathroom of that club. A little touchy-feely in your pants, and I had you all over me – so much, in fact, that you felt the need to follow me home and get some extra relief, didn’t you? And then this morning, in bed - it was my name that you called out when I was inside you. Say, do I have to remind you who you belong to?"
 
Louis’ cheeks bloomed a vivid shade of red. "Don’t be so crass – and anyway, the gifts arrived before all of that!" He reprimanded, pulling his flustered gaze away from the other man’s maddening grin.
 
"Yet you didn’t seem to complain about any of them. Funny, that.” Sherlock tilted his head between mouthfuls of food, as if admiring his lover from a new, enticing angle. “But let’s not pretend, detective - asking isn’t really my style. I take what I want. And right now, what I want… is you.”
                                                                                                                                                                            
Louis shifted in his chair, trying desperately – and failing – to hide the embarrassing tent in his trousers.
"You're an insufferable, arrogant, mental prick!"
 
 “And you want me just as much, which makes me very happy,” Sherlock added, voice dropping almost to a purr, “because it would be such a waste to have to find… an appropriate solution for you.”
 
Then he pushed the empty dish aside absentmindedly, never breaking eye contact as he slipped from his chair, lowering himself smoothly to the floor. He didn’t lunge or grab; instead, he crawled forward slowly, reaching the space between Louis’ legs.
 
“I would eat this first, so nobody else will have it,” Sherlock murmured, unbuttoning his lover’s trousers and pulling his erection out. “And then, I would take my time to prepare your body like it deserves…. Discard certain parts… Cook others…”
 
And then Sherlock’s mouth went down on him – sucking, kissing, teasing him with his tongue.
 
It should have been scary; yet to Louis, it was all the opposite. His head tipped back, and his eyes fluttered closed. A soft gasp escaped his lips before he could even think of stifling it.
 
It wasn't fear that overtook him, no; it was dark, twisted pleasure. Something that should’ve never seen the light of the day. Yet, as overwhelming and unpredictable as that sentiment was, it struck a chord deep within Louis’ heart and soul that no one else had ever touched before.
 
And in those forbidden moments, when Sherlock grazed his length with sharp teeth, making him come with a muffled cry, Louis couldn’t help but think: This is it. This is the man meant for me.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was a tender lover, once his jealousy and hunger had both been satisfied.
 
That much, Louis had understood – especially now, as he lay cradled in the curve of his lover’s arm, lulled by the steady rhythm of breathing and the occasional brush of fingers trailing along a shoulder or through a tangle of hair.
 
He turned slightly, just enough to glance at the man beside him. Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed, and he looked the perfect picture of an innocent, unguarded man. Only Louis knew better.
 
“You need to be careful,” He murmured. “I mean it.”
 
Sherlock hummed, without losing his relaxed posture. “Always am.”
 
“I’m serious,” Louis said, propping himself up on one elbow. “If someone sees you… If someone starts connecting the wrong dots, and your name comes up -”
 
“Let them see,” Sherlock yawned. “There’s no evidence. Anyway…” He reached up and brushed a thumb along his lover’s cheek, a gesture so loving and kind that it silenced the rest of the warning on Louis’ lips. “I’ll take care of myself, and I’ll take care of you. That’s a promise. I’ll show our love to the whole world.”
 
Maybe Louis had been too sleepy to fully understand the implications of those words; coupled with Sherlock’s cuddles, they had lulled him into the most pleasurable sleep he had ever had.
 
Six day later, he would be reminded of them in the most vivid way.
 
 
***
 
 
Just like the last time, Louis was pulled out of bed by the insistent ring of an urgent phone call.
 
He was alone, this time; Sherlock must’ve gone back to his own flat sometime during the night. Louis would’ve normally been annoyed by the discourtesy, but this time it played in his favour, allowing him to be up and ready within minutes. A dark sedan was waiting for him outside his building, and the same man who’d been posted at the front entrance the night before now opened the door for him without a word.
 
The ride was quiet, and it left him all the time to wonder what the crime scene would look like this time. He hadn’t been with any other man that week; Sherlock would certainly have no reason to feel jealous, would he? His own routine had also been a bit too calm; the annoying perspective of having to stroll around with a bodyguard following him all the time had done miracles to convince him to stay home as much as possible.
 
Much to Louis’ surprise, the car stopped at the edge of an old part of the city - near a stone church that looked like it had been abandoned for a while.
 
Albert was standing right in front of the building, waiting for him; arms crossed, jaw clenched. The second Louis stepped out of the vehicle, the man was already moving toward him.
 
“What the hell took you so long?” He snapped, not waiting for an answer. “You’ll want to see this.”
 
No further explanation came as Albert turned and led him down the path toward the side of the church. Louis followed obediently, repressing the pungent answer he had ready on his tongue. He knew his brother could be rather disagreeable in his anger; there was no need to rile him up further.
 
When they reached the scene, Louis stopped in his tracks.
 
A corpse of a young man had been arranged kneeling against the wall of the church, hands folded in his lap. He wore a delicate, vintage bridal gown – veil, lace sleeves and all - and a headpiece adorned with what looked like a crown of white swan feathers. Under the veil, a blond wig had been styled so to give him a tuft of hair falling on his right cheek – which seemed to have been scarred post-mortem with something incandescent.
 
On the wall, painted in what he just knew was real blood, a message read: Swans mate for life.
 
“He is trying to stake a claim on you, isn’t he,” Albert hissed, pointing at the crime scene. “He made the corpse look like you, down to the scar you accidentally got when we were children, and the eyes – he put some red contact lenses in his eyes, if you were wondering. Who else could it be but you?”
 
Louis stared in astonishment at the crime scene for a long time, barely breathing.
The bridal gown, the feathers, the painted message… Swans mate for life.
His heart skipped, then fluttered as in a slow, warm shiver.
 
Of course. Of course, Sherlock was still courting him. Having Louis in his bed wasn’t sufficient; it couldn’t be.
Sherlock wanted to claim ownership on Louis’ life and death. He wanted to be the centre of Louis’ world. The only man Louis would ever love, the only one in his mind and heart. Sherlock’s courtship would never end with just some tumbles between the sheets and unusual dinners.
 
Louis pressed his lips together, trying to suppress the involuntary smile tugging at the corners.
 
It was deranged. It was inappropriate. And, in its own twisted way, it was incredibly romantic.
Swans mate for life. Not a threat; a promise, in Sherlock’s own, peculiar language of love.
Who else would take something as grotesque as a crime scene and twist it into a dark declaration of devotion?
 
Louis dropped his gaze, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason than anyone else there could imagine.
He had been so taken, so enthralled with the sight in front of him, that he didn’t hear Albert step closer. But he felt it when his brother’s arms wrapped around him in a sudden, unexpected hug.
 
He stiffened in surprise.
 
“I know what this looks like,” Albert said quietly. “But you don’t have to carry this alone.”
 
The detective blinked, unsure what he meant.
 
“You’re not to blame for what they’re doing, or for how far they’ve gone,” His brother went on, his grip tightening slightly around him. “You didn’t ask for it. I promise you - we will catch the monster behind it.”
 
Louis wanted to say something. To explain that maybe it wasn’t so black and white. That maybe the person they were chasing wasn’t a monster at all - not to him. That maybe it was complicated, strange, illogical, and yet he liked it.
 
But he didn’t.
 
Instead, he allowed himself to lean into the hug, just for a second longer, and nodded.
Because he knew what Albert meant – and that he meant it in brotherly love.
 
Even if their hearts spoke completely different languages.
 
 
***
 
 
The room was quiet as Louis placed the final sheet of his dossier onto the presentation stand. A bunch of policemen lined the table, while Albert stood at the other end of it. Milverton leaned in his chair near him, wearing his usual half-snobbish, half-disgusted expression.
 
Louis cleared his throat and turned toward the screen, where a profile summary was being displayed.
 
“Based on the escalation pattern, symbolic language, and staging of the most recent scene,” He began, “we are looking at a spree killer in his early stages. It’s only a matter of time before his behaviour intensifies.”
 
(If there was one thing Louis knew, it was that Sherlock was not a spree killer. He would’ve probably stopped at two, at most three victims at the time. Going on a spree would have been very much unlike him.)
 
He clicked the remote.
A new slide appeared: Behavioral Profile - Active Subject.
 
“Likely male. Mid-thirties to mid-forties. Possibly possessing formal training in the psychological or academic field, or alternatively, someone with access to highly specialized knowledge through observation and experience.”
 
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Louis ignored them.
 
(He had skewed the age range on purpose. Just slightly - enough to make the profile credible while subtly pushing the description out of range from Sherlock’s actual age. And psychology? Academia? Fields Sherlock had never belonged to. Louis had picked them precisely because they created distance, not connection.)
 
“This person wants – no, needs - an audience. That’s why he sets up these scenes; to make himself be noticed. That points to narcissistic traits - not necessarily diagnosable NPD, but someone with an inflated ego..”
 
(Sherlock might have had an inflated ego, but that was certainly not the cause behind his killings. He didn’t want to be seen for the sake of his own personal vanity; he only acted out of love.)
 
Another slide: Predicted Social Pattern.
 
“They most likely work in or adjacent to law enforcement, media, or academia - anywhere they can observe public response to their actions without raising suspicion. They’re hiding in plain sight. He’s probably a figure known and respected, which offers them the possibility to be seen, while staying in full security.”
 
(Sherlock had never worked in law enforcement. Louis felt a strange flicker of pride at how well he was steering the room - how effortlessly the thread of suspicion was weaving away from his lover.)
 
Milverton’s hand went up.

“Yes?”
 
“What’s his connection with you?” He asked. “Why would he target you specifically?”
 
The room went still, and even Albert turned slightly toward his brother.
Louis let a pause settle between them all, just long enough to seem thoughtful, before responding.
 
“There are two possibilities,” He said calmly, pacing slightly in front of the screen. “One - this is personal. Revenge. I’ve been involved in several high-profile investigations. It could be that someone I helped put away found a way to reach back. In that case, we need to be looking through old cases - especially the ones with messy endings. Anyone with a grudge. Anyone who still has friends on the outside.”
 
He stopped pacing, turning to face them more squarely before putting the final nail in the coffin.
 
“Or two - this isn’t about me at all. The subject may have chosen me to make a broader point. A message saying that no one is safe. That he can strike inside or outside the department - wherever he wants to. That neither rank, nor reputation will stop him. All the rest? The setup? It's just a ruse.”

Chapter Text

Much to Mycroft’s dismay, Albert’s mood had not improved at all in the last few weeks; if possible, it had even gotten worse.
 
And it was all too visible in the way his shoulders were tense and his teeth clenched, even while doing something that should’ve been relaxing – like reading on the couch, in quiet, silent company of his own lover.
 
As a matter of fact, that evening Albert could hardly sit still. He kept turning pages without reading them, tapping his foot against the floor, shifting his weight every few minutes. The cushions rustled beneath him with every movement, and Mycroft, seated nearby, registered each movement with a quiet glance.
 
Finally, when the restlessness had become impossible to ignore, he broke the silence.
 
“You’re unusually fidgety,” He teased mildly. “Which, I must say, is more alarming than any ranting you usually do.”
 
Albert ignored him. He snapped his own book closed, mechanically, and tossed it on the table before walking toward the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine. It was his sixth tonight - maybe seventh.
 
“I’m not restless.”
 
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so the pacing, sighing, and rearranging of the same two pillows were signs of serenity, then?”
 
When Albert did speak, his voice was cold and clipped.
“I don’t see why you care.”
 
Mycroft tilted his head just slightly. “I care because you do. And because I’ve never known you to look so... upset. Does this always concern your little brother and the gifts he’s been receiving? Have there been more?”
 
The other laughed under his breath – although it was not a joyful sound.
“No. Just a corpse set up to look like him.” He admitted at last, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m trying to keep things under control. I’m trying to protect him. But he’s so damn stubborn. Sometimes I ask myself whether I should just send him away, perhaps in Durham, with William.”
 
Only if you want Sherlock to set London on fire, Mycroft thought.
 
“And this still worries you.” He said instead, eyeing his lover carefully. “You’ve been stretched thin, I understand that much. Carrying too much without letting anyone help. Perhaps it’s time you allowed someone else to look into things for you.”
 
Albert looked at him then. “You think I’m overreacting, too. Just like him.”
 
“No,” Mycroft said. He set the book aside and stood slowly, approaching him like one would do with a spooked cat. “I think you’re doing what older brothers usually do - worry about their younger pests. Would you be amenable to try a different approach to this, though?”
 
Emerald eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you suggesting?”
 
“Only that I know someone... fit for the occasion. Reliable, if occasionally infuriating. I could ask him to look into your brother’s situation and keep an eye on him.”
 
“You want to involve someone else?”
 
“I want to help,” Mycroft replied. “You haven’t been sleeping properly for days. You’re constantly checking in on your brother, second-guessing every decision you’re making about him. You can’t go on much longer like this, kitten – it will drive the both of you mad, and push you into saying or doing something you will later regret.”
 
Albert didn’t answer right away, swirling the wine in his glass and staring at it absentmindedly.
Finally, he asked, quieter, “Who is this person?”
 
Mycroft gave him a reassuring smile. “My younger brother. Someone personally trained by yours truly, and someone I trust not to make your brother’s life more difficult. His name is Sherlock, and if you’d like, we could arrange a dinner all together – so that I can introduce him to you.”
 
 
***
 
 
“A dinner with you and your pet pig? I’ll pass,” Sherlock snorted, wrinkling his nose.
 
“With Albert, me, and your own pet,” Mycroft corrected pointedly, not even looking up from the teacup in his hand. “It’s the least you can do, after the mess you made with your last little gift. Hadn’t I already told you multiple times to find another way to court your beau?”
 
“Louis is not my pet, and when I want to dine with him, I just have to climb the stairs and let myself in his flat.”
 
“And Albert is not mine,” Mycroft replied evenly. “Honestly, the way you speak about my own work associations is juvenile at best.”
 
The younger man scowled, folding his arms. “Work associations? Bullshit. You like him. You would have never offered to introduce me to any of your previous liaisons, unless it was for asking me to melt their corpses in my tub.”
 
“I appreciate his role in my line of work and his ability to be effective when needed.” His older brother interjected. “Especially whenever he’s passing me information about his department’s busts. And since I am not planning to have him melted any soon -”
 
“That is such a diplomat’s way of saying you like him.”
 
“- I need him to stay all nice and pliant. He’s so much looser when he’s relaxed, and it saves us all time if I don’t have to spend half the day talking him down from righteous fury.”
 
Sherlock gave a theatrical gag.
“That’s the most affectionate sexual allusion I’ve ever heard from you. Disgusting, don’t do that again.”
 
“Coming from you, that almost counts as a compliment,” Mycroft said dryly, then fixed his brother with a look. “Regardless, I would appreciate if you behaved yourself. It’s only one dinner.”
 
Sherlock huffed. “Fine. I’ll come. But only because Lou will be there,” He said. “And if it gets unbearable, I’m stealing the dessert, fucking Lou in the toilets of the restaurant and leaving early.”
 
 “You would never do something like that in front of your beau.”
 
“That’s just because I’m too polite,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, which earned him a snort from Mycroft.
 
“Then let’s hope that rare bout of politeness holds through one evening,” He replied. “It’ll do wonders for diplomatic relations with Albert, if you really want to keep his brother around and alive.”
 
 
***
 
 
The car door clicked shut as Louis slid into the backseat, smoothing out his coat as he glanced over at the only other passenger.
 
"No escort for going out?" He asked, arching a brow.
 
Albert, seated with his hands folded on his lap, offered him a smile.
"Am I not a policeman, too? Just assume I will be your escort tonight."
 
A hum of mild curiosity. "This is not your car."
 
"No, it isn’t."
 
"So where are we going?"
 
Albert glanced out the window, then back at Louis.
"To see someone I would like you to meet."
 
The rest of the drive passed in relative silence. The city began to thin out, buildings giving way to larger properties, and then to the country - until at last they pulled up before a gated mansion. The entrance was probably surveilled by some cameras, for the driver didn’t have to do anything to signal their presence there; the gates just opened without a sound, and the car glided forward.
 
Louis looked around, eyes narrowing just slightly at the sight of the wonderfully manicured park they were passing through.
 
"This friend of yours is well placed, isn't he," He murmured.
 
Albert shifted, just slightly. A flicker of something undefined passed over his face before he offered another smile, a little more nervous than before. "…Yes. You could say that."
 
The car rolled to a stop before the wide front steps of a mansion, where a silver-haired man in a dark suit immediately stepped forward to open the door. Albert got out first, straightening his jacket and nodding politely to their driver. Louis followed.
 
They were led through the double doors and into the foyer of the mansion. The interior was as splendid as the exterior, and at this point, Louis’ mental alarm bells had already gone off. Few people would’ve been able to afford such a place, let alone maintain it in perfect conditions; either its owner was some kind of wealthy politician, or…
 
Louis opened his mouth to tell his brother something, but fell suddenly silent as his gaze landed on the two figures awaiting them near the staircase.
 
He knew at least one of them; it was Sherlock, who was standing right next to the staircase, arms folded, looking just a touch too smug. Beside him stood a taller man, sharper in dress and posture, yet with a startling resemblance – he had the same handsome features as Sherlock, yet somehow colder.
 
Louis blinked, then threw a quick side glance to Albert - who was already busy avoiding eye contact.
 
So, this was the man his brother wanted him to meet. Did Albert know about his connection to Sherlock, then? But if that was the case, why the secrecy, the worry over the gifts, the insistence over his building being constantly watched? If not… then how -
 
Albert cleared his throat. “This is Mycroft Holmes. He’s my…”
 
“…colleague.” Mycroft finished smoothly, stepping forward with an extended hand. “We have made our acquaintance on the workplace. We were just in… different groups. In any case – it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Albert.”
 
Louis shook the offered hand but noted the shadow that passed in Albert’s eyes – brief, easy to miss, and masked just as quickly - so he kept his expression neutral.
 
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” He said politely.
 
“And this is my younger brother, Sherlock.”
 
“Pleasure’s mine,” The other Holmes muttered – which at least answered one of Louis’ questions; if Sherlock was pretending not to know him, then Albert didn’t know about their relationship.
 
Fine. He could play this game.
 
A few more empty pleasantries, and then they were soon seated around a long, elegant table. A young, dark-haired man in a pristine suit entered silently and began serving dinner: paper-thin slices of smoked fish on a bed of lemon zest, followed by a velvety soup whose aroma alone spoke of hours of preparation.
 
They were halfway through the second course, and right after some light exchanges - mostly about Albert’s job and some dossier this man had apparently been expecting – that Mycroft’s gaze shifted to Louis.
 
“I’ve heard,” He began, “about the recent… incidents.”
 
Louis set his fork down slowly, meeting the older man’s gaze.
 
Mycroft gave a vaguely apologetic smile. “Apparently, you’ve found yourself the subject of what could be called…” He paused delicately, “…some macabre gifts of doubtful taste.”
 
Suppressing the sudden impulse to laugh - and not quite sure if it came from disbelief or something darker - Louis straightened in his chair, fingers brushing the edge of his napkin while he pointedly avoided looking at Sherlock.
 
“I’m sure my own brother has already told you more than necessary,” He said carefully.
 
“It’s understandable, of course, that your brother would be concerned. As an older brother myself, I know what it means to want to protect one’s family.” Mycroft’s voice was perfectly calm and soothing, displaying all the abilities of a talented orator.
 
Louis glanced at Albert, who shifted slightly in his seat but said nothing.
 
“And I don’t believe in ignoring reasonable worry. So, if you’ll forgive a direct proposal…” The elder Holmes folded his hands lightly on the table. “…Would you allow my younger brother to keep an eye on you? It would, I think, do wonders to ease Albert’s concerns, as well as provide something to do to my…otherwise hot-headed brother.”
 
Louis blinked, once.
 
Is this a joke?, He thought. Unable to find an evident answer to his doubts, he turned to to meet Sherlock’s gaze – only to find it already fixed on him, bright with mischief and knowing amusement, like a cat who’d left a bird on the doorstep and waited to see if it would be accepted as a gift.
 
How much did Mycroft know?
How much had been guessed, or worse - shared?
 
He slid his gaze back to the elder Holmes, seeking any clue in those unreadable eyes. But there was something in the deliberate phrasing and coldly polite smile, that made Louis certain: he knew. Mycroft Holmes knew exactly what was going on. And, for some reason, he was enabling it.
 
Either way, Louis couldn’t show eagerness. Not with Albert sitting next to him and watching him like a hawk. A misstep would raise questions Louis wasn’t prepared to answer.
 
So he asked instead, almost idly, “What if I accepted? For my brother’s sake, of course.”
 
Mycroft inclined his head graciously. “Then I would consider it a sign of both good sense and courtesy. Sherlock is more than capable of assisting in case of any trouble. He’s trained, adaptable, and - though I hesitate to praise him too openly - quite effective when he puts his mind to it. And besides, the gardens are quite beautiful this time of year. If you wished to speak with him privately - to see if such an arrangement might suit you both - this evening would be a lovely time.”
 
The implication was gentle, but very clear.
And now, the choice - or at least the appearance of choice - was his.
 
“Perhaps a walk,” Louis murmured at last. “For the sake of my brother’s peace of mind.”
 
Sherlock’s face lit up, and he rubbed his hands together with theatrical cheer. “Excellent! Shall we discuss the finer details outside, then? Leave our dear brothers to their awfully boring work talk?”

Chapter Text

The garden truly was beautiful, just as Mycroft had said – and above all, immense.
 
Roses climbed along wrought-iron trellises in decadent clusters, heavy with bloom. The soft evening breeze carried their dense, heady perfume, mingling with the sweeter fragrance of lavender hedges lining the paths. Every corner held something new; a statue half-swallowed by moss, a fountain murmuring gently behind a veil of honeysuckle, and low borders thick with marigolds. Overhead, clematis trailed from arbors in soft violet blooms, while jasmine crept up the side walls of the mansion, spilling even more sweetness into the air.
 
Louis glanced at the many paths in front of him, then at Sherlock, before finally accepting his lover’s offered hand. Sherlock's fingers closed around his in a confident, possessive grip that sent an involuntary thrill up Louis’ spine.
 
"A stroll through the garden, hand in hand? Very gallant of you. Do you bring men here often?” Louis teased, smiling at him.
 
"Plenty," Sherlock joked, swinging their hands lightly as they began walking along the nearest path. “I’d just seen off my last guest when your car pulled in. Barely had time to change the sheets.”
 
“How efficient. Does your brother know his estate doubles as your personal boudoir?”
 
“He pretends not to. We maintain a silent agreement: I don’t ask about his secrets, and he doesn't look too closely at what goes on in the garden after dusk.”
 
Louis gave a short laugh. “Smart of him. It must be bothersome, to manage the endless queue of suitors of such a devastatingly handsome young man.”
 
Sherlock faltered a step, his cheeks flushing in a deep red shade that climbed toward his ears.
“I -” He cleared his throat, recovering fast but not fast enough. “Do you really think I’m handsome?”
 
His lover’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “Of course I do. Surely you’re not only just now realizing it?”
 
Sherlock led him down a narrower path shaded by an arch of wisteria; when they emerged on the other side, the garden opened into a more secluded courtyard, where a stone bench stood beneath a twisted oak.
“And you don’t think Mycroft’s more your type?” He asked, sitting on the bench and pulling Louis into his lap. “He has that… stuffy attitude of his that some people find attractive.”
 
Louis burst out laughing, letting himself be manhandled in that pleasurable position. “Oh, Sherlock. That’s what this is about? Jealous of your own brother, now that I’ve met him?”
 
The dark-haired gave him a narrowed glance, though the blush still hadn’t left his cheeks.
“Merely offering a comparative.”
 
“Oh, a comparative, I’m sure of that,” Louis said, a giving him a knowing grin. “But my answer is still no. I still prefer you over him.”
 
Sherlock looked pleased then, almost shy beneath it all, though he tried to mask it with a dry, “You have questionable taste, but since it’s convenient to me, I won’t be complaining.”
 
“Clearly,” Louis said, shifting in his lap to adjust himself into a straddling position. “What would’ve happened if I had told you otherwise? Would you have taken me right here, or in front of him, to stake your claim?”
 
“Fu –“ Sherlock almost swore, then pulled Louis down, letting him have a nice feel of the hardening bulge between his own legs. “Why not both, love? And then, if you had kept liking him more, I would’ve been left with no other solution than to bury you here, under this tree, so that you would stay only mine now and forever.”
 
“Careful,” His lover panted, moving gently back and forth and rubbing their clothed groins together, “You’re going dangerously close to proposing –“
 
“Good, it would mean that I have more common sense than Mycroft. Have you already realized that my brother’s been fucking yours?”
 
“I gathered that he is not Albert’s colleague from another department.”
 
“Astute.”
 
“And he’s not just some civil servant, either. I mean - look at where we are.” Louis gestured vaguely around them. “He’s… some kind of crime lord, isn’t he?”
 
“He’d be almost flattered about being called a crime lord, if he weren’t pathologically incapable of experiencing feelings in a healthy way.”
 
“Pot calling the kettle black?”
 
That earned a breathless laugh from Sherlock, before he leaned in and kissed Louis again.
“I mean it! I don’t think he would actually be able to actually know whether he’s in love or not. He mostly uses people, gets things from them and occasionally sex. Whereas I’m a natural romantic at heart, am I not?”
 
That drew Louis’ attention away from the kiss, if only for a bit.
“What does Albert give him?”
 
“Intelligence.” Sherlock admitted easily. “Information about certain activities of your department, you know - just enough to keep Mycroft a few steps ahead. To ensure certain efforts fail quietly, or to let them take just as little as possible.”
 
“…Does your brother know what you’re doing?”
 
“Oh, he knows,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “He’s lodged his objections more than once. Loudly.”
 
Crimson eyes narrowed at that. “Has he been threatening you?”
 
Sherlock arched an amused brow at the question, but before he could answer, Louis added: “Because no one gets to threaten you. Except me.”
 
That gave Sherlock pause; then a delighted grin spread across his face. “Fuck, it’s so hot when you’re jealous over my well-being,” He said, mouthing at Louis’ neck hard enough to leave red bruises behind.
 
And then, just as quickly as he had previously manhandled Louis, Sherlock now rose to his feet again, gently but firmly guiding his lover off his lap and onto solid ground. But he didn’t let go completely; he grabbed Louis’ hand again instead.
 
“Come with me. There’s something I want to show you,” He said, already turning toward a path that lead out of the little courtyard. Without needing to ask what or why, Louis followed.
 
He had assumed they’d loop back toward the house eventually, perhaps to sneak discreetly inside his lover’s bedroom, but their path took an unexpected turn, one that led to an older, glass-paneled structure partially hidden by hedgerows. A greenhouse?
 
Sherlock reached the door and held it open with a smile. “After you.”
 
Louis did not even hesitate before stepping through. Warm, damp air met him instantly, heavy with the scent of soil, jasmine, and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined with orderly rows of orchids and other rare, costly flowers stretched along the sides. Hanging vines coiled around beams above.
 
And in the centre of it all, a man sat in a chair.
 
He was bound - wrists tied behind his back, ankles secured to the chair legs. His clothes were neat but dishevelled, as though he'd been dragged here, and he as staring at them both in pure fear.
 
“What is this?” Louis asked, caught by surprise, eyes darting between the man and Sherlock.
 
His lover closed the door behind them. “A surprise,” He announced playfully. “I thought you might like a bit of fun together. You know – bonding through shared interests and all that.”
 
“Hmmm. And who is he?”
 
“A minor bureaucrat who’s been working in asset tracing for…an organization Mycroft oversees. Recently decided he’d try to sell some information. Silly man! Thought no one would notice.” Sherlock walked toward the bound figure, circling around him like a shark.
 
“He tried to double-cross your brother?”
 
Sherlock’s smile sharpened. “Yes. And while we were looking for evidence of his misdeeds, we also found some more...unsavoury contents on his pc. Very unsavoury – I will spare you the details.” He turned back to Louis. “You see, we might be criminals, but we still have morals. We wouldn’t want to be associated with scum.”
 
Louis glanced at the man again; he was pale, sweating, breathing hard. He probably knew, or could at the very least guess, what was coming for him.
 
“Rightly so. What do you want me to do?”
 
Sherlock smiled even more. “I want you to get naked.”
 
“…In front of him?”
 
“We wouldn’t want to make your brother worry by seeing our clothes all dirty with blood, wouldn’t we? He won’t live to tell the tale anyway, love. Only I get to enjoy your body in every way and then live on unscathed.”
 
Louis obeyed without any further questioning. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, folding it neatly before setting it. His trousers followed, then the rest, each item placed in a tidy stack, until he his pale skin was left fully exposed under his lover’s hungry gaze.
 
“Beautiful,” Sherlock exhaled, before dropping his own clothes on the floor and kicking them away, in a corner. Then he got nearer to a table, where a full rack of knives and blades had been waiting. He picked up the largest - a broad-bladed, gleaming carving knife - and offered it to Louis.
 
The younger man did not say a word as he picked it up. The weapon was heavier than expected, solid and cold in his hand; yet, to his surprise, it felt quite nice in his own hand.
 
Sherlock moved behind him, close enough that Louis could feel the warmth of his breath near his neck. Then he reached around, his fingers brushing Louis’ as he repositioned his grip on the handle with slow precision.
 
“There,” He whispered in his lover’s ear. “Now - steady. The trick is always being in full control of the blade.”
 
The blade sank into flesh, and together they pulled it out, then in again.
 
Louis was caught off guard by the visceral pleasure of it; the way the knife gave resistance, then yielded. The way the man’s chest transformed into a bloodied canvas beneath and around the blade. Blood sprayed from the wounds; one drop landed on Louis’ collarbone, then slid slowly down his chest, warm and sticky. He didn’t flinch, nor wipe it away. He liked the primal feeling that came with it.
 
“It’s so exciting,” He exhaled. “The way it gives.”
 
“Everything gives,” Sherlock replied, still guiding his hand. “If you know how to touch it.”
 
The dark-haired man’s voice was low and patient behind him, his breath warm against Louis’ ear as he spoke between motions - suggestions, corrections, and then praise. “Good. Follow the muscles - let the flesh itself show you where to cut. Don’t fight it.”
 
The knife worked in slow arcs, cutting, opening wide, exposing the man’s insides again and again.
 
The man had long been dead, his body almost fully dismembered on the floor, when Louis turned his head slightly toward his lover.  “…Have we already finished?” He murmured, almost reluctantly.
 
He received a loud, messy laugh in response.
“Silly Lou, we haven’t. We haven’t had our dessert yet!”
 
Sherlock let go of him – just shortly, though, enough to bend and rifle through what remained of the man’s insides. There was not much left or still recognizable; they had really done a number on him, hadn’t they?
 
And yet, when he got up again, he had the man’s bleeding heart between his hands; he raised it carefully, and brought it toward Louis’ mouth in an almost reverent gesture.
 
Louis leaned forward and took a slow bite, blood trailing from the edge of his lips and down his chin in a bright scarlet line. He licked it away, unthinking, then glanced up at Sherlock.
 
“Aren’t you eating some, too?”
 
Blue eyes glistened in pleasure and feral excitement at those words; a moment later, Sherlock turned the heart in his hand and bit into the other side.
 
They ate it like that, alternating bites on either side of it – until, on the final bite, their lips nearly brushed.
Louis didn’t pull back, and Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.
 
Again and again they tasted the coppery flavour of raw flesh in each other’s mouth, and Sherlock’s bloodied fingers curled possessively around Louis’ waist, keeping him close.
 
When they finally parted, Sherlock looked at his lover with half-lidded eyes. “Did you…like it?”
 
The other gave him a hungry smile. “Maybe. You’ll need to check again, to be sure. Maybe try to look for the answer to your question a bit lower, between my legs?”
 
Sherlock did.

Chapter Text

“So,” Albert began as soon as his brother disappeared down the corridor with his newly appointed bodyguard. “Colleagues, are we?”
 
“Don’t take it so personally, kitten,” Mycroft replied smoothly, folding his napkin. “Tonight isn’t about us. What matters is that your brother is beginning to consider our offer. They seem to be getting on rather well, wouldn’t you say? Not much conversation during dinner, true - but no visible hostility either, which is encouraging. At least, on Sherlock’s end.”
 
Albert stabbed a berry with his fork and pushed it absent-mindedly across his plate.
 
“Don’t play with your food,” The older man said mildly. “Are you truly upset over this?”
 
“I’m not.”
 
“Liar,” The other said with a knowing smile. “One thing at a time. Let them get used to each other. Then – ”
 
“I have the intel you asked for,” Albert cut him off in a clipped tone. "About the latest bust Charles has been organizing."
 
This made him earn a cold, warning stare from those dark eyes.
“And you’ll give it to me when I request it. Not before. Not after.”
 
The younger man tensed, jaw tight, but he held his tongue.
 
“You’ll stay here tonight. I’ll have a guest room prepared for your brother.”
 
Albert scoffed. “And where am I meant to sleep? Your bed? I thought colleagues didn’t share quarters.”
 
“Don’t be petulant.” Mycroft snapped, rising from his seat. “It’s beneath you.”
 
He didn’t raise his voice, but the firmness in his tone brought a flush of heat to Albert’s cheeks nevertheless; whether that was from irritation or embarrassment, it was hard to tell.
 
Silence stretched between them until Mycroft stepped closer, putting a finger beneath his lover’s chin and making their stares meet.
 
“Kitten,” He said more gently, “you’re tired, and these last weeks have been stressful for you. I know that…”
 
His thumb traced a gentle line across Albert’s cheek.
Emerald eyes looked away.
 
“…But these weeks have been stressful for your brother as well, and we might want to ease him into things in a very gradual way. One step at a time.”
 
An unconvinced snort, albeit not as hostile as it could’ve been.
A protest for form’s sake more than anything.
 
“You know, for someone so brilliant, you can be remarkably impatient. But not everyone can match your pace, darling. Some require a…more delicate touch.” He let that linger for a breath before adding, smoothly, “And I know no one better than you at playing a long game when it matters.”
 
Albert’s posture changed just slightly: his shoulders lost a fraction of their stiffness, his gaze flicked back toward Mycroft without quite meeting his eyes. His anger was slowly dulling - like a sword lowered, if not sheathed.
 
“I didn’t mean to belittle you. Quite the opposite - I admire your qualities more than I have words for.”
 
Mycroft’s hand slid slowly down, fingertips brushing along Albert’s neck and shoulders, before playing lazily with the buttons of his shirt.
 
“Let’s not turn this night so potentially pleasurable into a quarrel, hm?”
 
A long breath left Albert’s lungs, and with it, some more of the tension in his shoulders.
“Fine, I’ll stay the night,” He conceded. “But only because I want to make sure Louis is ok with the offer you made.”
 
“Of course,” The elder Holmes replied as he eased the fabric down, exposing Albert’s torso.
 
The other man cast him a sideways glance, one brow arching. “Here, really?”
 
“Why not?” As he spoke, Mycroft let the shirt fall to the crook of his lover’s elbows, and then to the floor. “My brother loves that garden, and I’m sure yours will be...just as interested. Between them, I imagine they’ll find plenty of things to do to occupy their time - at a thoroughly unhurried pace. Which, very conveniently, gives us a little time of our own.”
 
“What about the butler? He could come in and -”
 
“He won’t. He knows better than to interrupt.”
 
Before Albert could offer a proper reply, Mycroft made him rise from the chair. With one hand braced at the small of his back, the other cradled his shoulder, he folded Albert into an arch just enough to bare the curve of his throat.
 
“My staff is discreet,” He murmured, lips brushing just beneath the other man’s jaw. “And I… am not in the habit of wasting opportunities.”
 
His mouth moved along the pale skin of Albert’s shoulders, leaving red marks in its wake. The younger man let out a low sound - half a sigh, half a moan - and that was all the encouragement that was needed: Mycroft guided him until Albert’s palms met the edge of the table behind him. In another moment, the elder Moriarty was bent over it, just at the right angle, with his trousers pooled at his ankles.
 
“Relax,” came the low whisper, closer to his ear now. “I intend to be very thorough with you tonight. This is just the beginning.”
 
And Albert, despite himself, didn’t resist.
 
 
***
 
 
Mycroft Holmes was (usually) not a man prone to dramatics. So, when he was awoken in the dead of night by muffled, irregular sounds echoing from down the corridor, he didn’t immediately leap into action. Instead, he stayed a bit longer in bed – the same bed where Albert was also laying sound asleep.
 
Keeping his eyes closed, he counted slowly under his breath.
 
One…
 
Two…
 
Three…
 
More shuffling. Then, other noises.
He sighed.
 
A moment later, wrapped in his dressing gown, he opened the door and padded down the corridor, passing past some guest bedrooms. The noise had come from one of the guest bathrooms, and as he reached the end of the corridor, the picture that greeted him was one that could only be described as unfortunate.
 
Sherlock was kneeling beside the toilet, holding Louis upright with one arm while the younger man leaned over the bowl, clearly ill.
 
What the hell.
 
“He is retching.” Mycroft said dryly, instantly feeling stupid for saying it out loud. “Why is he – never mind, I don’t want to know. Do you need anything?”
 
Louis groaned faintly, waving one hand to signal he was at least aware of the conversation.
 
“Nothing at all,” Sherlock said, giving him a side eye while he gently kept Louis’ tuft out of the way. “My love is just not used to eating raw flesh yet. I’ve given him the antibiotic shot I used to take years ago; he’ll be fine by morning. Now, if you don’t mind, the situation is under control and –“
 
“Wait, what. You’ve… poisoned your charge on the first night of your assignment?”
 
He got another glare in response. “He’s not poisoned. Just unwell.”
 
Mycroft exhaled, stepping back from the threshold of the room.
 
He’s your brother, don’t kill him, he told himself.
He’s your annoying brother, don’t kill him.
He’s your very annoying brother, don’t kill him -
 
“See that he recovers by morning, if you don’t want his brother to murder you on the spot. I am not sure I would actually stop him, if he decided to do that.” Then, before turning away, he added with a pointed glance at both of them, “And try to keep the chaos at a minimum in my house, if that’s not too much to ask.”
 
These two will be the death of me.
 
 
***
 
 
The following morning, Albert made his way into the breakfast room looking half-awake and with his shirt uncharacteristically creased. He dropped into his chair with a quiet grunt, pouring himself coffee before casting a quick glance around the table.
 
“Where’s Louis?” He asked, frowning.
 
Mycroft didn’t look up from the newspaper. “Sherlock mentioned your brother was feeling a bit under the weather tonight. He’ll be a little late for breakfast.”
 
“…He was perfectly fine yesterday night, at dinner.”
 
He got a shrug in response.
“Perhaps it was the walk outside, then. A stray breeze, slightly colder than expected. These things happen.”
 
Albert snorted. “It wasn’t that cold outside. And anyway, it’s not as if he was running outside naked…” He paused mid-sentence, words halting on his tongue as some kind of realization dawned on him.
 
“Oh god,” He muttered, looking vaguely horrified. “They’ve been fucking in the garden, haven’t they?”
 
Mycroft paused, lips parting as though he might deny it - then closed them again with a sigh.
Certainly so, but that might not be the reason why your brother was sick.
 
“I’m sure there are reasonable explanations about this,” He said instead, as he folded the paper and set it aside. “But even if that was the case, your brother is an adult man – which means that he’s free to act as he wishes. I trust Sherlock would behave with the utmost respect toward him.“
 
His lover covered his face with one hand and muttered something unintelligible into his coffee. Mycroft politely ignored him.
 
“In any case,” He went on, tone turning mildly reproachful, “Louis is a grown man. You needn’t act like such a mother hen. I have every confidence Sherlock would take care of him properly - physically, emotionally, and otherwise.”
 
Albert opened his mouth to say something in response, but he didn’t have the time. The sound of footsteps interrupted them, and both men turned as Louis entered the room - slowly, with an unsteady, sleepy gait. He looked pale, though more like someone recovering, than someone actively unwell. Sherlock followed close behind; without a word, he pulled out the nearest chair, and Louis all but collapsed into it with a soft exhale.
 
“Good morning,” He mumbled, eyes drifting over the impressive spread of fruits, toast, preserves, and gleaming trays. His gaze lingered blankly for a moment before he muttered, “I think I’ll just have tea.”
 
Albert was already halfway out of his seat. “Let me -”
 
But Sherlock moved at the same instant. Both reached for the teapot, hands nearly colliding. There was a brief pause as they stood frozen, staring at one another across the table; then, with a movement as smooth as it was smug, Sherlock slipped the pot from under Albert’s nose and poured the tea with theatrical care.
 
“Earl Grey,” The dark-haired man said, setting the cup gently in front of Louis. “No sugar, no milk. Easiest on an upset stomach.”
 
Louis gave a small, grateful hum and wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain.
 
Albert sat back down slowly, although his gaze was still fixed on Sherlock.
Mycroft, observing all of this over the rim of his own cup, said nothing - but the lightest smirk was there, at the corner of his mouth. And it was still there when he saw his lover take notice of the way their younger brothers’ fingers lingered a bit too long, the way their heads were ever so slightly back toward each other, the little glances -
 
Albert blinked, his gaze snapping from their hands to their faces and back again. He turned his head sharply toward Mycroft then, and stared pointedly at him.
 
The elder Holmes raised his teacup with deliberate calm, sipping slowly to disguise the laugh that very nearly escaped from his lips. Then, with the exaggerated nonchalance of a man who knew exactly what kind of light-hearted jab he was doing, he lifted the morning paper and flicked it open.
 
“Hm,” He murmured, scanning a headline with faux interest. “It seems someone’s hens in Sussex have gotten into the herb beds again. Far too lively for their own good. But then, perhaps it’s no great tragedy. Let nature take its course, and the garden often ends up better for it.”

Chapter Text

[Sunday. Three days before the dinner]
 
 
Milverton wrote out every detail with the utmost care, as he usually did.
The timing, the expected number of suspects, the layout of the warehouse, the angle of approach best suited for stealth. It was a rare opportunity – a chance to cut off one of the Lord of Crime’s major supply lines.
 
Until then, the man had been acting like a hydra: you cut off one head, two more grew in its place. And even just hitting him had become increasingly difficult, due to the mole working against their best efforts.
Milverton would be a snake, then – patiently coiled, waiting for his prey to appear and be near enough to strike. He would wind tighter and tighter around the hydra’s body until it could no longer breathe, until its writhing ceased, until its many heads went still. And if Albert turned out to be one of them? Then it would be even more of a pleasure to be the one who squeezed the monster to its own death.
 
Milverton was sure of himself and his own plan, this time; and even if the blow wouldn’t be fatal, it would still send a message.
It wouldn’t end the war with that delinquent, for sure; the Lord of Crime would adapt and evolve. But if this bust crippled even one artery of the network, and if in doing so it helped him root out the department’s traitor? Well, then it would already be something. Something worth writing into his next quarterly report. Maybe even the kind of thing that earned commendations. A promotion, perhaps…
 
But he couldn’t indulge in daydreams right now. He had no time to lose.
So he shook the image from his mind, and got back to work.
 
He drafted the team rosters with equal care. Three squads; two for entry, one for perimeter and support. Officers were assigned based on rotation and skill. Everything was locked in.
 
Then came the final step: the folders.
 
He printed seven copies of the operation dossier, each labelled with the names of the officers in charge of the planned action. Six folders were identical, containing the correct information: 3:00 p.m. Friday, East Docks. Full briefing in the second-floor meeting room, Thursday at 2:30 p.m.
 
The seventh folder - the one marked for Albert - was prepared last.
 
Milverton maintained the same location; no need to use a decoy. However, he altered the details slightly, and he pushed the arrival time forward by one whole day. 3:00 p.m. Saturday, East Docks. Full briefing in the second-floor meeting room, Friday at 2:30 p.m.
 
By the end of that same day, the folders were neatly stacked on his own desk. Officers came in one by one to receive their initial briefings, and he took care to save Albert James Moriarty as the last.
 
"Here it is," The white-haired man said, handing him the altered folder. "You’ll be leading the support unit. Full briefing’s scheduled on Friday; we act on Saturday."
 
Albert took the folder without comment. "Understood."
 
Milverton watched him go, a tight-lipped smile forming once Albert disappeared down the corridor.
 
 
***
 
 
[Wednesday. After dinner]
 
 
“Such an obedient kitten,” Mycroft purred, smoothing a hand down Albert’s spine as the younger man lay sprawled across the dinner table, breath still uneven, lashes low over half-lidded eyes.
 
Albert grunted softly - half in satisfaction, half in protest of how thoroughly undone he still felt.
 
Mycroft flipped the folder open with one hand, skimming its contents with dispassionate efficiency, as if he hadn’t just rearranged his lover’s guts until some moments before.
 
“Saturday? Fine, we’ll unload and move the shipment on Friday, then. It won’t be much of a problem – its arrival is scheduled for tomorrow night anyway.” Mycroft closed the dossier and set it aside. His hand returned to Albert’s backside, smacking it again. “You did well, kitten. Really, really well.”
 
Albert made a low noise, this time closer to a pleased scoff, his fingers flexing faintly against the table.
 
“You’ve earned a reward,” The elder man announced, before sitting again and pulling the other man onto his lap. Although he had already decided what reward would it be, he still pretended to think about it for a long moment, while Albert squirmed.
 
“Let’s see… what about that new birching bundle you wanted to try?”
 
 
***
 
 
[Thursday. Full briefing]
 
 
Milverton stood at the head of the long table in the second-floor meeting room, posture composed and hands neatly clasped behind his back. He looked every inch the model officer - making his first step towards the department’s golden career ladder, with his eyes fixed firmly on the summit.
 
One by one, the officers filed in, taking place around the table. The folders in front of them remained untouched for now - closed, waiting.
 
Milverton allowed a beat to pass, then cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” He began. “Thank you for being punctual. We have important work ahead, so let’s begin.”
 
But before he could continue, a voice rose from near the back.
"Shouldn’t we be waiting for Chief Moriarty to arrive as well?"
 
Milverton didn’t miss a beat, giving the young officer a pleasant smile.
 
"Ah, he is already engaged for the rest of the day, I fear," He announced. "He’s been assigned a very important collateral task. Sensitive in nature. Indirectly essential to this operation." He brought one finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, the smile sharpening just slightly. "To ensure that everything on his part will go smoothly, we only require one single thing from all of you – your absolute silence. He mustn’t be disturbed until our operation has ended."
 
There was a light ripple of whispers across the room, a few exchanged glances - curiosity stirred but quickly subdued into silence. No one dared press the matter further.
 
In truth, he had sent Ruskin (his most diligent, pedantic junior officer) to Albert that morning, armed with a thick pile of dead-end case files and minor incidents - petty thefts, procedural reviews, and a few irrelevant internal reports. All perfectly valid on the surface, but entirely useless. Enough to keep the man buried and unquestioning for the rest of the day.
 
Milverton watched the room settle, then gave a curt nod.
"Good. Open your folders. Let’s get to work."
 
 
***
 
 
[Friday, 2:30 p.m.]
 
 
Albert sat alone in the second-floor meeting room.
 
He had come directly here upon arriving for his afternoon shift, just as the schedule instructed. Straight from the underground parking lot, to the second floor, just like he always did in these occasions. But the meeting was scheduled to start right now, and he was still the only one there.
 
So where was everyone?
Could it be that the meeting had been called off and he hadn’t been notified of it?
His disquieted eyes flicked to the clock once again.
 
2:31 p.m.
 
Still nobody coming in.
 
2:32 p.m.
 
Something about the whole situation was definitely off. He stood suddenly and strode out into the corridor, making his way to the lift with his heart thumping wildly.
 
Downstairs, the department's main offices should have been bustling, but as Albert passed each door, he found them dark, empty. Milverton's office? Vacant. The desks of his best officers? Abandoned.
 
His pace quickened, panic beginning to set in.
 
He caught sight of a junior officer rounding a corner, and he seized him by the arm.
"Where is Charles?" He demanded.
 
The young man blinked, startled and wide-eyed. "He’s - sir, he’s out. They left earlier for the bust."
 
Albert released him without a word, and bolted down the stairs, and then down to the parking lot. His car door slammed shut behind him, engine roaring to life as he threw it into gear.
 
2:42 p.m.
 
Too late. Too late. Too late.
 
A red light stopped him again, and he slammed a fist against the steering wheel.
"Damn it - bloody bastards - goddamn snakes!"
 
The light changed.
He sped forward.
 
Too late.
 
 
***
 
 
[Friday, 2:59 p.m.]
 
 
Milverton stood in the command van, listening to the final comms checks come through.
 
"Alpha Team, in position. Bravo, ready on the northeast. Charlie holding perimeter."
 
"Copy all teams. Proceed on my mark…" He checked the time. "…Go."
 
Entry teams moved as one.
Alpha breached the west entrance of the hangar; Bravo swept in from the loading dock.
 
Men had been unloading crates - dozens of them, heavy, sealed and unmarked - from a ship, transporting them inside the hangar to be loaded on trucks, far from prying eyes. The moment they spotted the uniforms, two tried to bolt. They didn’t get far.
 
"Get on the ground! Hands where we can see them!"
 
The suspects were quickly immobilized, cuffed, and lined up along the eastern wall. The rest of the squad secured the area, sweeping behind pallets and containers for any hidden personnel or traps.
 
Only once the all-clear had sounded did Milverton step out of the van, like an albino peacock in full, spectral strut.
 
"Well, well, well," He said, his tone smooth as velvet and twice as smug. "What do we have here?"
 
 
***
 
 
[Friday, 3:18 p.m.]
 
 
Whatever had been going on, it was too late to stop it, Albert knew it by then.
And yet, he wanted to see it with his own eyes.
 
By the time he reached the East Docks and got off his car, the streets were alive and coloured with flashing lights. Squad vans were parked in formation. Officers were already coming in and out the open hangar door.
 
Albert stared at the scene, the sound of his own rushing blood buzzing in his ears.
 
All of a sudden, a familiar voice rang out, far too cheerful.
"Chief Moriarty! Just in time."
 
Milverton appeared from the side of the hangar, strutting across the dockyard like a man arriving for his own coronation – just to casually drape an arm over Albert's shoulders as if greeting an old friend.
 
"Come along, you’ve arrived at just the right moment. I was about to have a nice look at what we’ve got here. It's always good to appreciate the fruits of our labour, don’t you think?"
 
Albert moved stiffly beneath the gesture, asking almost mechanically: "Wasn't this scheduled for tomorrow?"
 
The white-haired man paused with a theatrical frown, then burst out in a long, loud laugh.
 
"No, no – it has always been today," He said cheerfully. "Must’ve been a little misunderstanding. These things happen sometimes, don’t they?"
 
He gave Albert's shoulder the lightest pat before releasing him. "Still, what luck that your absence didn’t impact the mission. Remarkable, really. We’ll have to review the files together later. But for now, come inside. It’s quite a sight."
 
A misunderstanding? A trap, that’s what it is, Albert thought.
But he had no other choice than to follow Milverton in tow, despite the heaviness in his chest.
 
As they entered the hangar, the white-haired man barked an order over his shoulder.
"You there, open that row of crates! The nearest one."
 
The officer obeyed without hesitation, prying the lid off with a crowbar. The wooden panel gave with a creak, and inside, neat rows of weapons gleamed under the overhead lights. Guns. Rifles. Modified sidearms. Even a few military-grade pieces clearly not intended for civilian hands.
 
Albert stared, his mouth going suddenly dry.
 
Milverton’s eyes sparkled with barely-contained glee. "Beautiful, isn’t it? At least ten upper-level gang members in custody, and a shipment of unregistered military-grade secured." He murmured, before turning to Albert, his smile now stretching wide. "Tell me, do you think this’ll be enough for a promotion?"
 
Albert said nothing.
 
Milverton tilted his head as though disappointed, but the smile remained. It only softened.
 
"It doesn’t matter, really," He said sweetly. "Let’s head back, shall we? I think someone will be asking you a few questions. Formalities, of course... but you and I both know what’s been going on. Don’t we?"
 
He didn’t waste any more time before stepping back and nodding to one of the nearby officers.
 
"Put the cuffs on him. We have our mole."

Chapter Text

The room was cold, and a long metallic table divided Albert from the commission - three figures seated across from him, flanked by aides and silent observers.
 
He sat still, his hands folded on the table, wrists still contained in handcuffs.
 
"Chief Moriarty," One of the officials began. "You’ve been presented here today in connection with serious misconduct and possibly treason. The evidence is not yet conclusive, being mostly circumstantial, but the situation raises... troubling questions."
 
Albert didn’t respond.
 
Another member leaned forward. "Do you deny any involvement in the previous failed operations, or the potential leak of departmental intelligence to criminal elements?"
 
Still, Albert said nothing.
 
A third voice cut in, sharper. "If the accused refuses to cooperate, perhaps he should be held in jail until we acquire further evidence."
 
That’s when Milverton stepped forward from the side, as though on cue.
 
"With all due respect," He said with dangerous gentleness, "I’ve known Albert James Moriarty for a long time. A man of honour, through and through."
 
Some kind of ironic smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he spoke.
 
"He would never flee. That’s not in his nature. So rather than subject him to the indignities of a cell, might I suggest confinement at home, under surveillance? A compromise, until the investigation concludes."
 
Albert glanced sideways, stone-faced.
 
It was like being sentenced to death, he thought. House arrest would strip him of any form of protection – if there really was any. And men like Mycroft didn’t leave trails. If he died, he would not be able to talk. No way to trace it back. No way to prove anything.
 
For all the hopes he had desperately tried to nurture, up to that moment, the situation was so dire that even he wouldn’t be able to keep any delusion up. He was a liability, and he would certainly be eliminated.
 
The lead commissioner conferred briefly with the others, then nodded.
 
"House arrest it is," She declared. "Effective immediately. Surveillance detail to be assigned before the hour ends."
 
 
***
 
 
Albert was left alone in his home, with only by a pair of officers stationed just beyond the front door. Not even remotely enough to ensure his safety, if Mycroft's men decided to show up.
 
His hands shook slightly as he slipped into the best suit he owned - deep charcoal with a silver thread on the side, pressed to perfection. The very one he had worn that night at the opera, when Mycroft Holmes had first approached him with that deadly charm of his. The night everything changed.
 
He tried to still his fingers as he fastened the buttons. The cuffs. The lapels. But still, they shook.
 
He had been forbidden from contacting anyone. No calls and no messages, not even to Louis.
And so, Albert had no way of knowing if his brother was alive and well.
 
But then again, he had done everything in his power to keep Louis in the dark about his own sins. About the arrangements and compromises he had made behind locked doors, all for the sake of a sentiment he had been a fool to call love.
 
He should’ve known that nothing good would come from it. He should’ve known it since the first time he had murmured those three words in bed for the first time, and Mycroft had gagged him and fucked his brains out. He should’ve known all the times he had tried to get Mycroft to define what they were, uselessly. He should’ve known when Mycroft introduced himself to Louis as a colleague. He had preferred to delude himself into thinking that maybe, one day…
 
And what was worse, he had made a grave mistake entrusting Louis’ safety to another man’s hands – especially so when that man was Mycroft’s brother. Still, perhaps that connection was enough. Perhaps the two were sufficiently taken with each other. After all, Louis was gentle, unthreatening, and utterly lovable. Albert could only hope that his brother’s innocence would be his protection.
 
And William, officially, held the purse strings of the organization. It was his brilliant mind that ensured that Mycroft’s empire of crime never slowed - his mathematical precision that kept every ledger balanced, every coin accounted for, and every investment flourishing. He was the mastermind who treated the organization’s financial ecosystem like a living equation, turning resource management into an art form. As long as the cause needed funding, William’s value was undeniable.
 
They wouldn’t touch them... Would they?
 
He sat on the edge of the sofa - the same one that had once borne the weight of Mycroft’s body on his own, while Albert’s mind and soul was being slowly poisoned.
 
Would this be where he died?
Would it be swift?
Would they allow him dignity?
Would they shoot him where he sat?
Would they drag him to the floor like a mutt?
Would he be allowed to speak? To say something? Would anyone be listening?
 
If so, he knew what his final words would be: he would beg. He would beg for Louis’ life. For William’s. That they not be punished for his ruin.
 
Would Mycroft come himself?
No. That wasn’t his style.
But someone would.
 
And so, Albert kneeled. Before the sofa, dressed in the costume of his downfall. He took the rosary from its place in the drawer, and he prayed.
 
He prayed for his soul, for his hopeless love that would never see daylight. For the mistakes that could never be undone. He closed his eyes and let the tears fall silently.
 
He waited for the sound of the door opening.
For the creak of the floorboards.
For the cold metal of the gun against his head.
For the shot.
 
He waited, and waited, but the hours stretched, and the night passed. And when the first light of dawn filtered in through the windowpane, Albert James Moriarty was still on his knees, with his eyes reddened and swollen, and his rosary in hand.
 
But he was still alive.
 
 
***
 
 
Mycroft Holmes had never been a man prone to outbursts. Rage, in his field of work, was usually a quiet thing best served cold. But when he read for the umpteenth time the first report of the East Docks operation, the teacup in his hand shattered.
 
"Sir?" came a hesitant voice from the hall.
 
"Leave me," Mycroft snapped, sharp enough to draw immediate retreat.
 
He stood alone in his office, the folder in his hands now trembling with restrained fury. His eyes flicked over the report again. Ten of his men in custody. Hundreds of weapons seized. The raid, the report said, had gone "flawlessly".
 
And it had happened on Friday.
 
He crossed the room in three quick strides, opened the secured cabinet against the far wall, and withdrew the folder Albert had given him.
 
He tore it open.
 
Saturday, 3:00 p.m.
Not Friday.
 
Mycroft stared at the date, as if he could will it to change – at least it would be “only” an error on his part.
Shameful, but easy to explain.
 
Yet it remained there, in black and white. Saturday. A full day too late.
 
He had been played like a fool.
 
His hand clenched the folder so tightly the paper crinkled beneath his fingers. With a guttural noise that no one outside that room had ever heard from him before, he hurled the folder against the far wall. Pages flew outward in a fluttering mess.
 
He turned, chest heaving.
 
Albert.
 
The thought of that name now sent bile to the back of his throat. Had it all been false? The man’s quiet pining, the sidelong glances, the breathless cries of pleasure and pain?
 
Albert James Moriarty had humiliated him. Tricked him into being outmanoeuvred by a bunch of fools.
Was it personal? Political? Had he turned coat? Or had he simply grown tired of the game?
In any case, Mycroft had been a fool to put his trust in someone who had been so good at acting smitten.
His own indulgence in lust had blinded him in fatal ways - the very thing he warned others against.
 
His wounded honour cried now for murderous compensation.
 
Those emerald eyes should already have become dull and vacant. That warm, pliant body - the one that reacted so perfectly into his hands - should already have grown cold, disposed of or dumped somewhere.
 
Damn him.
 
What made it worse - what made it utterly infuriating - was that Albert wasn’t even that special. Mycroft had had lovers more handsome, more powerful, more intelligent. He’d bedded foreign diplomats, noblemen, politicians. He’d shared drinks with men far more dangerous than his little mole.
 
And yet… And now, some quiet part of him recoiled at the idea of ordering his traitorous lover’s execution outright. Why was he hesitating so much? Why hadn’t he given the order yet? To lose all of it… and to lose it for good, should’ve been the right thing to do. It was dangerous to keep a liability like Albert alive. He knew who Mycroft was, how he looked like, and where one of his mansions was.
 
So why was Albert still breathing?
Mycroft should’ve been taken his own revenge by now.
He should’ve -
 
The door to his own office opened without even a knock.
 
"What a dark mood," Billy’s voice came, light and amused. "And here I thought you'd be celebrating the arrival of one of your best ships."
 
The elder man turned slowly.
 
His American business partner (turned permanent guest when the Pinkerton Agency had begun to have a look a bit too close to this man’s overseas affairs) stood at the threshold, gazing at the mess of scattered pages on the floor.
 
"Ah," He said, stepping inside. "So it’s that kind of evening. Something happened?"
 
Mycroft picked up a page from the floor, then another, and held them out.
"Read the date," He ordered.
 
Billy took the page and glanced at it.
"A bust, supposed to happen this Saturday," He said after a moment, then read the first lines of the rapport. "But it happened this afternoon."
 
Mycroft said nothing.
 
"Ah," Billy said again, but quieter, before looking at him again. "You think your little informant sold you out."
 
Mycroft turned away.
"I think," He said slowly, "that I made the mistake of trusting someone without sufficient evidence."
 
Billy watched him in silence for a moment, then moved to gather the scattered pages and put them back on the other man’s desk. "What are you going to do?"
 
The dark-haired man didn’t have the time to answer that question. His phone began suddenly to vibrate on the edge of the desk, screen lighting up with Sherlock’s name. He picked it up, silently pleading to any god he didn’t believe in that his brother wasn’t calling with more bad news.
 
“What is it?”
 
Sherlock didn’t waste time. “They suspended Louis.”
 
Mycroft blinked once. “Come again?”
 
“You heard me. Department’s freezing him out. They’re saying until everything clears with your pig, he’s a liability. Conflict of interest. All that lovely bureaucratic theatre. Apparently, being Albert’s brother is now a disqualifying trait."
 
Mycroft said nothing.
 
Sherlock’s voice grew quieter. “He’s been crying for hours for his brother, too.”
 
The elder Holmes stared at the far wall. “And what would you like me to do about that?”
 
There was silence for a moment. Then, “You’re really not going to do anything for your pig? After he did the dirty job for you so many times?"
 
“I see no reason to intervene,” Mycroft’s tone was pure ice. “They are not wrong. Albert James Moriarty made his choices. If his brother suffers for that, it is regrettable - but expected. Just get rid of him before his presence in your life becomes a danger for you too.”
 
Silence again.
 
“Formality always was your defense mechanism.”
 
“Spare me the psychoanalysis.”
 
“I’m not psychoanalyzing,” His younger brother said. “I’m pointing out that if he were anyone else, you would’ve had him buried six feet under by now.”
 
“And your point?”
 
“My point,” Sherlock said, “is that I was at that dinner. I saw how he looked at you.”
 
Mycroft’s grip on the phone tightened.
 
“And I saw how you looked back sometimes, when he wasn't paying attention - although I admit I was indeed surprised by that” Sherlock added. "It’s eleven o’clock now - if you haven’t killed him yet, it’s because you haven’t made peace with the idea."
 
Mycroft exhaled slowly. “Is there anything else?”
 
“Yes,” Sherlock said flatly. "You want the truth? Fine. I don’t think he betrayed you of his own will. And I think you know it too.”
 
“Then he was weak. And weakness has consequences.”
 
“No, what had consequences was the use you did of him. If he has been compromised, that was for helping you. You should’ve been more careful in using his intel so frequently -"
 
“I did what I had to. You wouldn’t understand.”
 
“No,” The younger man snapped. “I do understand. I understand you care more about being right than admitting you might feel something for him. I understand you let him hang in the wind because you can’t stomach the idea that you might have miscalculated. You're punishing him for your bruised pride.”
 
Mycroft’s expression darkened dangerously. “You are in no position to speak to me about miscalculations.”
 
Sherlock scoffed. “You know what I think? I think you're a selfish, heartless man. You use people until they have nothing left to give, and that’s all you do. And I pity you, truly. Because you will never know what it means to actually love someone.”
 
There was a long silence on the line.
 
Seeing that no answer was going to come, Sherlock laughed bitterly. “I won’t be like you. I already made that choice. I will never be ashamed of the man I love. I’ll show it to the whole bloody world, if I have to. That’s the difference between us - I still know how to feel.”
 
“Enough,” Mycroft said, his voice rising at last. “You will stay out of this. If you do something reckless again, I will - ”
 
“What?” The other cut in. “You’ll what? Send your goons to threaten me? Cut my funds? Bury me somewhere unpleasant?”
 
Mycroft didn’t answer.
 
Sherlock’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Go ahead. Try. See what it changes.”
 
And then the line went dead.

Chapter Text

Officially, the party was meant to be a very discreet thing in the main conference room. Nothing more than a “department morale gathering” to acknowledge recent operational successes.
 
Unofficially? It was his day.
 
Milverton’s temporary appointment as head of the department, following Albert’s house arrest, had been a bureaucratic formality that he was certain would become permanent soon enough. The awaiting trial would do the heavy lifting for him, and the public opinion would do the rest.
 
The party was the first moment he allowed himself to enjoy it.
 
Officers, lieutenants, inspectors – most of them smiled at him when he passed by. As if Charles did not know perfectly well what they used to say behind his back… Yet, now some of them nodded cordially. Others raised their glasses. A few, wisely, said nothing.
 
He stopped his lazy walk only when he reached the small podium near the buffet table, giving a small, deliberate cough to get his colleagues’ attention.
 
No one noticed.
 
The white-haired man’s eye twitched – albeit just slightly. He glanced down, picked up a silver dessert fork from the table, and tapped it sharply against his champagne glass. Ting, ting, ting.
 
Conversations died down, heads turned, and the room finally fell into silence.
 
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Milverton began, “I won’t keep you long. I know full well that many of you are more interested in the good wine and food and not my voice - but I’ll indulge myself for a few minutes nonetheless.”
 
A few polite chuckles rippled through the little crowd.
 
“We’ve had a difficult few months to deal with, but despite all that, we’ve made progress.” He raised his chin slightly. “Just in the past four weeks, since I’ve taken up this vacant role as my duty required, we’ve seen unsavoury gifts left at our door.”
 
Milverton smiled, making a small theatrical pause.
 
Just as I suspected, he mused privately, swirling his champagne. That pig’s heart was probably nothing more than a cry for attention; that fucking detective’s work, for sure. I wonder if what came after was done by a copycat who had a grudge with him and pushed the thing a bit too far, or whether he himself paid someone to keep the drama up…
 
He sipped delicately from his glass.
 
Perhaps the detective harbours a penchant none of us is privy to. Oh, wouldn’t that be an interesting development…, Milverton thought then, a more wicked gleam flickering behind his glasses. I’ll have to open an investigation about him personally. With some luck, something interesting will slither out of his closet. Something ugly enough to be his ruin.
 
Another sip, and then he resumed his little speech. “The Home Secretary himself called personally to congratulate us on our splendid success at the docks, one month ago. And I’ve been told - though I wouldn’t dare name names - that even some of our old ‘acquaintances’ seem to have vanished. Who knows, maybe they have decided to finally quit the city for good. So I ask you: coincidence? Or the natural result of a department finally returning to the principles it was meant to uphold?”
 
There were murmurs. Some light applause. A few raised brows from the old guard, but none bold enough to interrupt.
 
Milverton raised his glass. “To justice, integrity, and discipline. To us.”
 
A gentle chorus of "To us!" echoed back at him, and crystal glasses were raised in toast. Elated, Milverton sipped his champagne slowly, eyes sweeping across the cheering men in front of him.
 
That’s exactly how it should be, he thought.
The aftertaste of victory had never been sweeter on his tongue.
 
And that was when the doors to the conference room burst open.
 
A young officer staggered through, his cap askew, his face blotched red with panic.
Several heads turned in his direction.
 
“Sir - Constable Milverton -!” The young man gasped, eyes wide as though he had just seen a ghost.
 
Milverton frowned slightly, refraining just by a hair to snap and correct the title used. “Yes?”
 
The officer nearly tripped over himself reaching the front of the gathering, stopping two paces from the podium, chest heaving as he let out a breathless torrent of half-formed words.
 
“It’s the - a call, sir – a corpse - the parish – I just came back - St. Stephen Walbrook – more of them -”
 
Milverton blinked once. “A parish’s been found dead?”
 
“No – no, sir – more than one, I mean – “
 
Milverton lifted a hand. “I strongly suggest you take a breath and speak like someone who completed basic training.”
 
The young man nodded furiously, drawing in a series of sharp, deep inhales. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead and tried again, more slowly this time. “I was out patrolling, sir. I got a call from the parish of St. Stephen Walbrook - Father Harrow. Said someone had forced the front doors of the church.”
 
Milverton arched one pale brow but said nothing.
 
“So I went to check, sir,” The officer continued. “Went inside. Thought maybe it was a break-in. But then I -then I saw -” He choked slightly and shook his head. “Corpses, sir. Many. It’s - God, it’s a massacre, sir.”
 
Silence fell over the entire room, and Milverton’s good mood vanished on the spot.
 
“Get the cars,” He barked. “Call the scene team. No statements to the press. None. I want the site locked down before someone with a camera finds their way in.”
 
The young man nodded and bolted.
 
Milverton stood there for one last second, then turned to his subordinates and colleagues, gaving them a tight, forced smile. “We’ll have to resume our celebrations later, it seems. Duty calls.”
 
 
***
 
 
As the first officers stepped into the church, a low murmur of shock and horror spread among them.
 
There must have been over twenty corpses in there, arranged in pairs.
 
For each couple, one body wore a blond wig, its face scarred after death; the other wore a long, dark wig. Both were surrounded by dozens of candles, set up in some macabre masquerade of tenderness, devotion, or doomed yearning. Behind every pair, scrawled across the stone in smeared blood, were feverish messages that were half prayers, half curses.
 
The first pair of corpses were mimicking Romeo and Juliet’s balcony scene. One leaned dramatically over the edge of the balcony above the entrance, reaching down with outstretched arms, while the other gazed up from the floor below, posed mid-confession.
 
“We said ’til death. No one said whose.”
 
Another pair stood in the choir stall, arm in arm like newlyweds. The one with the blond wig wore a bridal veil; the other held a bouquet of faded lavender. They faced one another, foreheads almost touching.
 
“He said forever. So I gave it to him.”
 
By the northern aisle, two corpses sat across from each other, a tea service set between them. The blond one had a teacup nailed to its lips, the other was mid-laugh - mouth painted open, the sound forever withheld.
 
“You’ll never stir another man’s tea the way you stir mine.”
 
Near the base of a side column, a pair reclined on the floor, intertwined in a loose embrace. Their limbs were tangled like ivy vines, and their heads nestled close together, as if whispering secrets no living human would ever hear.
 
“I will hold you so tightly, you’ll forget how to breathe.”
 
Another pair had been impaled on two metallic pedestals and arranged in a dancing stance. The dark-haired corpse was holding on the other’s waist with an arm, and grabbing one of its wrists.
 
“He danced like he’d never stop. So I made sure he didn’t.”
 
Near the back, another pair was reclined on a bench. The one with the blond wig rested his head on the lap of the other, who held a book in his own hands.
 
“I’ll always read to you until you fall asleep. Even when you’ll stop waking up.”
 
In the darkest corner of the apse, half-hidden by shadows, another pair, this time immortalized in a shamefully obscene moment; the corpse with the blond wig was kneeling rigidly, and the other was mounting him from behind.
 
“He’ll pierce me with his love, and make our sin divine.”
 
At that point, Milverton hadn’t even seen them all, and already he felt the bile rise in his throat.
 
His gaze dropped to the nearest candle rack and he stared at it blankly for a little bit, as if trying to convince himself that all the corpses he was seeing were just mannequins. Dummies. Dolls. Whatever helped him stomach that unholy sight without appearing weak in front of his subordinates.
 
He swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and forced himself to look up again.
 
The central platform with the altar had been cleared of flowers and linens. In their place, two corpses: one suspended in midair from above, one kneeling below.
 
The blond-wigged suspended corpse was being held aloft by a barely visible rigging system made of silken cords. It was angled slightly forward, as if descending from heaven; the arms were outstretched, and from the right hand, secured tightly by black ribbon, extended a long, slender spear. The tip of the spear pointed downward, precisely aligned with the heart of the dark-haired corpse below – which knelt in a posture of utter rapture. One arm reached forward, towards the hovering corpse; the other arm had been nailed to its chest, positioned to guide and welcome the spear’s descent.
 
"Till death do them part.”

Chapter Text

Louis had been waiting since the darkest hour, curled up on the sofa; only when he finally heard the latch turn and the door of their flat finally creak open, at dawn, he stood at once.
 
The moment Sherlock stepped inside, the younger man crossed the room in a rush and threw himself into his arms, burying his face in the hollow of his shoulder.
 
“You’re late,” He whispered in aching relief.
 
“I did it as quickly as I could, love. It takes time to set up all those corpses.”
 
Sherlock held him tightly, one hand instinctively rising to press against the small of his lover’s back. Louis pulled back just enough to find his face, and kissed him - once, twice, slowly.
 
“Did you do it according to the plan?” He murmured between soft kisses.
 
“Yes, dear,” Sherlock said tenderly against his lover’s skin.
 
“Set them up in pairs? Written something romantic and vaguely threatening on the walls, too? Enough to let anyone think one component of the pair has some kind of jealous beef with the other?”
 
Another kiss, this time with their tongues involved. “Yes, love.”
 
Louis gave a soft laugh, breath ghosting over Sherlock’s lips.
“Good. Now we wait.”
 
 
***
 
 
The knock wasn’t polite – hitting the wood in a series of sharp, impatient blows four, five, six times.
 
Inside, Louis sat at the edge of the armchair in his dressing gown, still stirring his second cup of tea. He didn’t even flinch at the sound; if anything, he looked rather amused by it.
 
“Now, what do we think that is?” He said dryly, glancing toward the door. “Jehovah’s Witnesses? Or a misplaced brass band?”
 
Sherlock chuckled and looked up from the book he’d been lazily reading on the settee; he was still shirtless, with some recent red marks and bites along his collarbone. “Judging by the boot echo, I’d say at least four officers. Five, if you also count among them the albino idiot.”
 
The knock came again, this time louder and angrier.
 
The younger man rose to his feet, taking his time to set down the cup on a silver tray.
“Well,” He said, brushing invisible dust from the front of his robe, “Best not keep him waiting.”
 
He strolled to the door with affected elegance, unlocked it, and swung it open just wide enough to fill the frame. Sherlock had been right in his deduction; Milverton stood on the threshold, and behind him stood four armed officers, each already at attention.
 
“My, my,” Louis drawled, resting one hand lightly against the frame. “A pleasure to see you here, Charles. I don’t usually get house calls from you before breakfast. How intimate.”
 
The white-haired man grimaced in disgust. “I’ll decide what’s intimate, Mr. Moriarty,” He snapped. “Step aside and let us in. We have a few questions to ask you.”
 
“Be my guest, then,” The other said, stepping aside and letting the five men brush past him.
 
But as soon as he was inside, Milverton’s gaze locked instantly on Sherlock. The man was still lounging on the couch, now with both arms stretched lazily along the top edge, legs crossed in a pose that looked both languid and somehow vaguely obscene. He didn’t even bother to reach for his shirt.
 
“You,” Milverton barked, after the initial moment of shock. “On your feet! Identify yourself, now!”
One officer drew his gun at the command. Another followed suit.
 
Sherlock gave them a soft, infuriating smile, and slowly - very slowly - uncrossed his legs, preparing to rise.
 
But he didn’t need to; Louis had already stepped between them. “Put your weapons down,” He said coldly, glaring at the officers first, then Milverton. “You’ve brought enough drama to my morning without adding murder to the list.”
 
Milverton narrowed his eyes. “You are harbouring an unidentified civilian during an ongoing suspension due to your brother’s misdeeds. Explain yourself.”
 
“I’d be delighted,” Louis said with syrupy venom. “You see, after you so graciously saw fit to remove the guards from the entrance of my building a month ago, claiming “necessary budget cuts in the department”, I found myself in need of... alternative security. So I hired my own.” He glanced back at Sherlock with a smile. “This is my own private bodyguard. Charming, isn’t he?”
 
“If he is a bodyguard, then I am a raccoon rummaging in the trash,” Milverton snapped, letting his gaze fall on Sherlock’s marked collarbone. “He looks more like a stripper for hire than anything.”
 
“Well, you’d be sorely wrong then; we have a regular contract.” Louis said through clenched teeth, retrieving a bundle of papers from a drawer and holding them up for the other man to see.
 
“If I were a stripper for hire, you couldn’t afford me even if you wanted to. Anyway, the trash can is in the kitchen,” Sherlock added with a malicious smile, earning a vicious glare from the recipient of his jab.
 
Milverton’s golden eyes flicked from Sherlock to the papers in Louis’ hands, and as he read them, his mouth stretched even thinner with disdain. “Well,” He said at last, as dry as dust, “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I’m not entirely convinced. Considering that half the bodies arranged at St. Stephen Walbrook this morning just happened to resemble your ‘bodyguard’ here, and the other half as you… With some ominous messages written on the walls – messages that seem to be hinting at a certain jealous, possessive attitude… Would you say that’s a coincidence, Mr. Moriarty?”
 
Louis tilted his head slightly, as if weighing how long it would take to push Milverton out of the door of the flat and slam the door in his face. “So – apparently there’s a new crime scene, with corpses supposed to look like my bodyguard and me, and you come in throwing accusations at him? He’s the only one actually doing something to protect me! It just means that we’re both being threatened, why can’t you see that?”
 
“Oh, I’m not throwing accusations at all. But it is a curious situation, isn’t it?” He turned back toward the officers. “We’ll have to bring him in for some questioning.”
 
Sherlock slipped on his shirt with deliberate nonchalance, not even bothering to button it.
“Well - if you have some free time to waste, I guess I’ll come,” He drawled.
 
Louis didn’t laugh. Instead, he stepped in front of Sherlock, his voice rising higher and sharper than usual.
“You can’t take him like this! This is absurd - he hasn’t done anything!”
 
Milverton didn’t even look at him. “Step aside.”
 
“No!” The younger man snapped. “You removed the officers guarding the door of my building - you left me exposed. He’s here to protect me. Is that so hard to understand?”
 
Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “Louis -”
 
But the detective wasn’t listening. “You’re humiliating us and putting me in danger again. I am the victim here! Do you want me to be killed? Is that what you want?”
 
If it saved us from all this dramatic wailing…, Milverton thought grimly. He wisely didn’t say it aloud.
 
“Louis,” Sherlock said more firmly, dipping his head until their foreheads nearly touched. “Stop. It’s alright. I’ll be back by supper.”
 
Louis grabbed his wrist suddenly, fingers tightening.
 
“Don’t - don’t say it like that. You don’t know when you’ll be back. Don’t lie to me like that.”
 
Sherlock smiled, bright and tender in a way that made Milverton visibly grimace. “Then let me say this instead: be nice in my absence and don’t open the door for anyone. Hmmm? Just wait for me.”
 
Louis took a faltering step back, lips parted as though one more plea might tumble out - but none did. Then, with all the elegance of a romantic heroine swooning in grief, he turned and threw himself onto the sofa, limbs sprawled, one hand pressed dramatically to his forehead.
 
“If someone breaks in and I die, then my blood will be on your hands,” He declared, making Milverton’s eyes roll in exasperation.
 
“If only,” The white-haired man murmured in an almost imperceptible tone, letting his officers manhandle Sherlock out of the door. One last disdainful glance at the man sprawled on the sofa, and then he finally closed the door behind himself.
 
Louis lay like that for exactly three seconds – just in case.
And then, his lips curled in a smirk.
 
He let out a small, satisfied exhale and sat up, cold and sharp-eyed once more. He reached for the tea he’d left aside, gave it a swirl, and took one last delicate sip. Everything was going according to his brother’s plan, and he couldn’t be any happier for it. Just like he was happy that William had taken so well to the idea of Sherlock and him being in a relationship; God bless, at least one of his brothers didn’t think of him as a delicate, fragile flower in need of protection.
 
But he didn’t have time to dwell on that; he had to focus on the current situation.
 
Sherlock had played his part well.
Now, it was his turn.
 
 
***
 
 
Sebastian Moran hadn’t expected visitors - especially not ones who showed pale and trembling at his doorstep.
 
“…Louis?”
 
The man standing in front of him was barely recognizable. His hair was ruffled and damp, and he was dishevelled as though he'd dressed in a hurry. His eyes were rimmed with red, the kind of redness that doesn’t come from a bad night's sleep but from crying his heart out.
 
“I -” The younger man’s voice cracked, and then he visibly swallowed it back, looking around like he was expecting someone to follow him. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
 
Moran’s heart gave a strange twist.
 
“Get in,” He said quickly, grabbing Louis by the arm and pulling him inside. He shut the door behind them with more force than necessary and double-locked it. He turned back just in time to catch his ex-lover swaying slightly where he stood.
 
“What happened?” Moran asked anxiously. “What the hell’s going on?”
 
Louis didn’t answer immediately. His mouth opened, then closed. His throat worked like he was trying to swallow down the words before they escaped. Then –
 
“Milverton,” He said in a rush. “Milverton is trying to destroy me.” He wiped at his face with the back of one trembling hand. “He’s stripped the guards from my building. Removed the only people who were meant to keep me safe. And now he’s arrested the private bodyguard I had hired -”
 
“He did what?” Moran echoed, eyebrows raised.
 
Louis nodded desperately, his voice cracking again. “They found a crime scene somewhere this morning, I don’t know much about it, just that the corpses were set up during the night to look like me and my bodyguard. So Milverton came straight to us, treating us like we were suspects! He brought Sherlock away, leaving me alone… He said it was for questioning, but it’s all – I know he wants me vulnerable, exposed to whatever might happened to me at the hand of my stalker. I’ve done nothing wrong, but he’s acting like I’ve got blood on my hands and I deserve what’s coming for me.”
 
He looked up then, and there was something far too raw and emotional in his expression.
“I’m scared, Sebastian.”
 
Moran did not answer immediately, eyes caught on the sight in front of him.
 
Louis was beautiful, even undone like this - especially undone. The collar of his shirt had gone askew, almost slipping down slightly to reveal the pale lines of his collarbones. He looked like something out of a painting - the tragic damsel left behind to fend off for herself.
 
The older man stared a second too long; then cleared his throat and looked away, a hint of colour rising to his face.
 
“I’m sorry. I – uh…” His words faltered. The last time he had spent some time with Louis, things had ended in blood and pain. You lost your cock because of him, you idiot, just let him go this time, a little voice in his head reminded him drily.
 
“…Do you want to stay here a bit?” He asked anyway.
 
Unwise, the voice of his self-preservation instincts muttered. He ignored it.
 
Louis gave a strained laugh, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I’d only be putting you in more danger. God, I already did something foolish just coming here. What was I thinking? When I’m already responsible for the horrible things that happened to you…”
 
“You aren’t,” Moran interrupted firmly. “You hear me? You’re not.”
 
Louis shook his head, not meeting his eyes, but the dark-haired leaned towards him.
 
“It’s not like you pointed a finger and sent that madman after me. You didn’t know. None of us did.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “And if it helps - the last thing I did before the… well, all of that - was spend the night with you. I will never regret it.”
 
Louis’ lip wobbled at that, and this time the tears fell freely. He turned away, curling his shoulders inward as if ashamed of the display.
 
Moran winced and reached out, awkwardly patting his back in a rhythm that suggested he was far more familiar with loading guns than comforting anyone. “Hey. Hey, now. Don’t -”
 
But Louis shook his head again, voice barely audible between quiet sobs. “Milverton will never believe me. He’ll twist everything. And he’ll keep doing it — just to get his petty little victories. It doesn’t even matter if I’m innocent or not.”
 
The other man’s hand stilled against his back. After a pause, he said gruffly, “Would it help… if someone vouched for you? Said you and your bodyguard wasn’t involved in anything shady tonight?”
 
Louis blinked, lifting his head slightly. “A witness?”
 
An embarrassed shrug. “Could be useful. I don’t know.”
 
The younger man looked at him fully now, eyes wet but clear. “…Would you really do that? For me?”
 
Moran looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I would. If it helps.”
 
Louis sniffled and gave him a small, unsteady smile. “Oh, Sebastian… you’re an angel. But he will never believe us. He’ll say you are just covering up for me or whatever –“
 
“Then we’ll be going behind his shoulders,” The older man said, getting up and retrieving something that he threw between Louis’ hands. “You’ll have to drive, though, I still find it difficult to do some things with the dressing still on and everything. They’re going to do some more surgeries to give me an implant, you know, to palliate the loss of… you know… uh, anyway -“
 
“Drive where?” Louis asked, looking confused at the car keys in his hands.
 
“To the general commissioner, of course – I’ve known her since our training. She should be high enough in grade to halt a temporary detention made by our shitty head of department, don’t you think?”
 
 
***
 
 
“For the last time,” Milverton snarled. “What were you doing last night?”
 
Across the table of the interrogation room, Sherlock sat with his legs lazily crossed, eyes half-lidded, posture the picture of insolence. “Are you still suggesting I’m responsible for the crime scene you found? Just how dumb do you think me to be – setting corpses up to look like me and a man who’s been stalked for a while? At that point, I should just leave my own signature on a wall. It would be less incriminating than what you’re accusing me of doing.”
 
“Don’t play games with me.”
 
“You brought me in on the base of circumstantial ‘evidence’ at best: half of the bodies looking like me. And the other half?” Sherlock retorted. “Styled after Louis, yet what a curious strategy… You’ve arrested me and not the man you’ve conveniently left without protection. Curious. One might say… telling, at the very least. You're hoping the culprit's me, but in case it's not, then leaving him alone might be an opening for something to happen. Ethically questionable at the very least, certainly very petty. Do your superiors know about this?”
 
“Enough,” Milverton snapped. “Tell me where you were last night.”
 
“But I already told you. It’s just not my fault if you don’t believe me.” Sherlock mocked him, folding his hands under his chin. “In my bed. Fucking the best detective of your department very thoroughly.”
 
“Watch your tone.”
 
“Oh, I am. Very carefully. Just as carefully as I usually watch Louis’ back. Anyway, I could describe what happened last night in detail, if you'd like. Or would that be inappropriate in your place of work?”
 
Milverton’s nostrils flared.
 
Sherlock continued, keeping his taunt as sweet as silk. “It’s just - your fixation seems so oddly personal. Almost as though you’re angry he likes me. Jealousy? Not a good look on you, let me tell you that.”
 
The chair legs screeched as Milverton stood abruptly.
“You think this is a joke?”
 
Sherlock didn’t blink. “No. But I think you are.”
 
The older man raised a hand, looking ready to strike him in the face, when his phone rang.
 
For a second, he didn’t move. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose – in a rather controlled, mechanical way that was supposed to help him come down - and reached into his pocket.
 
He swiped to answer without even looking at the caller ID.
“Milverton here. You’d better have a good reason to be calling me right now -”
 
“Commissioner Moneypenny here.”
 
Milverton’s entire frame stiffened.
 
“I’m holding a signed affidavit from a worthy officer of your own department. Dated this morning. Stating, under penalty of perjury, that Mr. Holmes spent the entirety of last night at a known location, with two individuals who can corroborate it – your best detective and the aforementioned officer. The same people currently claiming you didn’t actually check the man’s alibi before detaining him. Are you aware of this?”
 
Impossible, Milverton thought. It had to be a cover up. It had to be -
“What officer?” He asked though clenched teeth.
 
“The one whose cock was cut off by your detective’s stalker, if you really want to know.”
 
A long pause.
 
“As you said, Commissioner, he doesn’t have his cock anymore. How -”
 
“I will email you the affidavit, so you can read it yourself. He was watching. The other two were going at it. Seems at least plausible to me. Unless you think he’s lying to defend the same man who mutilated him.”
 
The description seemed at least to confirm Holmes’ taunts on the subject.
Milverton grew paler. “That seems improbable, but…”
 
“No ‘but’. I don’t care what excuse you think you have. He has a valid alibi, that you didn’t ask for or check before bringing him in. This is wrongful detainment. Release him immediately, and be glad if he doesn’t sue you for that. And be warned; this is your first strike – at the second, your temporary position will be assigned to someone else.”
 
The line went dead.
 
Sherlock tilted his head, all faux innocence. “Oh dear. Looks like someone’s in trouble.”
 
Milverton said nothing for a long moment. Then he stepped aside and yanked the door open with a snarl.
“You’re free to go.”
 
Sherlock stood slowly, straightening his shirt with theatrical calmness. He stopped at the threshold, looked back, and gave Milverton a single, mocking wink.
 
“Do send my best to your bruised ego.”
 
And then he was gone, his merry laugh echoing down the corridor.

Chapter Text

Milverton stared at the documents in his own hands without really reading them, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt as though his teeth might crack under the strain.
 
The humiliation still burned through his chest like a cruel wildfire. General Commissioner Moneypenny had spoken to him not as a peer - but as one might scold an unruly cadet or a child caught in a lie. It was shameful at best, degrading at worst. And all over one minor miscalculation! One single oversight!
 
It was intolerable.
 
He slammed his folder shut, throwing it in the upper drawer of the desk as though it disgusted him.
 
If he didn’t move quickly, someone would replace him; and he couldn’t afford that, of course, not after all his efforts. He needed a win – one that was possibly quick and flawless.
 
And a few days later, the occasion Milverton was looking for finally arose.
 
Whispers were heard of another cargo, supposed to arrive at the end of the month. The details were vague; vague enough to be very risky. But also ripe for glory if it turned out to be real.
 
"No more interference, now." He murmured aloud, basking in his own self-pride as he pulled out a fresh pad of paper and began sketching his tactical plan. "No mole. No other obstacles. No second-guessing. Just me, and a clean, quick operation."
 
There was still much to be done, of course; team assignments to finalize, approach routes to calculate, perimeter placements to lock in, and fallback contingencies to plan. But if this worked - and it would, it had to - then no one would remember his recent stumble. They’d remember one thing only: the name Charles Augustus Milverton, stamped proudly beneath another high-profile success.
 
With Albert out of the picture - silenced, caged, disgraced - there would be no rivals left to challenge him. No one left to stop his rise.
 
At last, Milverton would stand where he’d always known he belonged.
 
 
***
 
 
Mycroft looked up from his stack of reports, one eyebrow lifting just slightly.
"Billy," He said without any preamble, as usual, "you’ve kept a strict eye on our new mole, I assume?"
 
The younger man, perched with one leg slung over the arm of the nearby chair, gave a casual salute.
"Aye aye. Fred’s a sweet one, that he is. Quiet. Very quiet. Even when we -"
 
Mycroft’s gaze sharpened dangerously.
 
Billy caught it in an instant and held up both hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright, boss. I won’t say another word. But Fred is a good one, I swear - he spread the info you gave him so well that they all fell for them, hook, line and sinker. And he's collecting intel for us about what they're going to do about it."
 
"Good," Mycroft murmured, returning to his documents. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t stop his American associate from watching him with a glint in the eyes.
 
“So,” Billy said casually, “What’s next for Albert, then? We're helping him regain his original position? You're going back to him?”
 
Mycroft didn’t look up at the mention of his former lover.
Didn’t so much as twitch.
 
Billy waited – but when the silence stretched for too long, he just clicked his tongue.
“Ahhh. Still in denial, are we?”
 
The other man’s pen paused, just for a fraction of a second.
Billy took it as invitation enough.
 
“Come on. You two were cute together – and don’t kid yourself, the rest of the household actually knew of all those night visits that no one was supposed to notice. If you'd just crown him your narco queen and be done with it, we could all get some rest.”
 
Mycroft’s voice, when it came, was dangerously razor-sharp.
“Mind your tongue, if you want to keep it.”
 
Billy held his hands up once again, standing from the chair and backing off with a crooked grin.
“Alright, alright. No need to spit venom. Just saying... it’d be a beautiful reign. Chaos and all.”
And with that he slipped out of the room, letting the door click gently shut behind him.
 
The office fell silent again after Billy’s exit, but Mycroft did not immediately resume writing.
Instead, he sat there, unmoving - with the pen in his hand suspended above paper he was no longer seeing.
 
It was irrational, and he’d never tolerated irrationality in others, let alone himself.
 
Yet there he was – with his most secret thoughts still wandering towards a man he should’ve gotten rid of a while ago.
 
What was Albert doing now? Was he sitting in that overly curated home of his, drinking wine and nursing old pride like an open wound, still waiting for a sentence that hadn’t been passed?
 
Did he still think of Mycroft, sometimes?
 
Had he come to resent everything about their rel - their alliance, he corrected himself in time - that had ended so abruptly?
 
Not that Mycroft cared.
Of course he didn’t care.
 
It wasn’t about sentiment. It was about stability. About understanding whether the weakest link in the chain of command was still... keeping his loyalty through silence.
 
And yet…
 
His hand moved before his thoughts had quite caught up with it - reaching to the side of the desk and unlocking the drawer with the smallest silver key; a key that never left his person. The mechanism gave way with a barely audible click, and the drawer eased open.
 
He didn’t glance down as he reached inside; he knew all too well what it contained.
 
The photograph was small, nearly squared.
The kind you might tuck into a wallet, if you were the kind of man to carry those things.
 
Albert’s head was slightly turned in profile, sending a provocative smile in the photographer’s direction. The light had caught just enough of those emerald eyes to make the image look almost ready to come alive, even now.
 
Mycroft stared at it a moment too long. Then, as if remembering himself, he sighed - and placed the photo facedown on the desk.
 
It didn’t mean anything, of course.
Still, his eyes lingered on the back of the card, and the words it bore.
 
To M.H. -
For when you're buried in reports and need a reminder of what’s waiting for you.
Happy birthday.
- A.J.M.
 
 
***
 
 
Albert was laying on one side, eyes open yet unfocused.
 
The light filtering from the half-drawn curtains was just a vague grey haze that did little to define the shapes of furniture or time. Early morning, perhaps. Or already late afternoon. He didn’t know, and didn’t much care.
 
The television had been silenced weeks ago.
The voices coming from it had grown increasingly unbearable; he didn’t need to be reminded again and again how far he had fallen. Or how easily he had been left behind.
 
His body had changed – it was a bit thinner now, Albert could feel it in the way his shirt fell on his sides. After all, he ate when it became absolutely necessary. Enough to avoid headaches. Enough to keep his heart moving.
 
Why?
Because William and Louis would be devastated if he died.
 
It was the only thought that got him up in the mornings - if you could call 1 p.m. morning. He would go to the kitchen, warm something without really tasting it, return to the bed or sofa, and simply… exist.
 
Existence. That was all he had left.
 
He had spent the first week in a kind of anxious paralysis - expecting, at any moment, someone coming in. The creak of a floorboard. The sound of someone, anyone, arriving to carry out a sentence that had not yet been spoken aloud.
 
But no one came.
 
And the days stretched. And the world outside moved on. Or perhaps it didn’t; he wouldn’t know. He no longer read the newspapers. No longer asked.
 
No longer wondered what Mycroft thought of him.
 
Perhaps it would’ve been easier to be hated outright. Easier than being… forgotten.
That was what this was, wasn’t it?
A dismissal.
An erasure.
 
He turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling with dull eyes. His hand drifted to his chest, resting there absently. The beat of his heart was slow, but steady. What would it take for it to stop?
 
He hadn’t wept in a long time. That, too, had left him.
Apathy was colder than grief, and more efficient.
 
His eyes closed, not in rest, but in resignation.
 
To be alive did not always mean to be spared. Sometimes, it was simply a longer death sentence.

Chapter Text

Milverton’s alarm had buzzed at 4:10 a.m. sharp, long before even the first pale rays of dawn.
 
Today was not just any day. It was the day.
 
More precisely, the day Milverton would get to be known as the one who had brought down the most elusive criminal empire in the country. Single-handedly. A victory yet to be won, but so close by then that he was already tasting it. He would seize everything within reach; of that, he had no doubt. Busts were his domain, after all - his battlefield and crown. It was precisely why he had snatched Albert’s title from the man’s hands.
 
It would also be the day he would get his dignity back after having been played by those fools. Of course, he still didn’t believe in their innocence; they had made a good move to turn the General Commissioner on him.
 
Today would also be the day he clawed back the dignity that had been so publicly challenged. That humiliating dressing-down from General Commissioner Moneypenny still burned bitter in his mind, undeserved as it had been. Because of it, he hadn’t been able to probe further into Holmes’ possible murders, not without risking accusations of persecution. Every move of his was already under scrutiny. The General Commissioner had an eye on him. The press was watching. The department was twitchy.
 
But once this bust was a success, everything would change. Every supposed blemish on his record would be washed clean in the glow of triumph. No one would question his motives then. He’d be free to act, to dig, to purge what needed purging.
 
And he would enjoy it.
 
He still didn’t believe in their innocence - of course not. The timing alone made the hair rise at the back of his neck, and the rest stank of theatre. First the detective didn’t give a damn about someone sending human remains to the department and leaving corpses in his image, and suddenly he was so worried by it to get a “bodyguard” who looked at him with bedroom eyes? Ridiculous.
 
No, Milverton was sure there was something fishy behind it. It made sense, didn’t it, for Holmes to be the detective’s homicidal stalker – although Milverton wasn’t actually sure whether the other man was just deluding himself into believing his new lover’s innocence, or he actually knew. Either way, something had happened between them - some spat, some fallout. And in a fit of lover’s vengeance, Holmes had gone out and set up the crime scene in the church. Then, when he had gone back, they’d conveniently reconciled; and when Milverton had showed up to bring righteous justice upon them, they had managed to turn the whole narrative upside down, against him. Either because the detective actually believed his lover was innocent and wanted to protect him from Milverton’s clutches; or because the detective knew fully well his lover was a monster, and wanted to give him a way out. Or he just covered up for the murderer out of fear for possible retaliations.
 
A clever ploy, either way. But one that would not hold under the weight of his success.
 
He swung his legs out of bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom. In the mirror above the sink, the grin stretched across his face looked a little bit on the verge of madness - but no one was there to witness it, so he let it widen freely.
 
He even sang, tuneless and triumphant, as he stepped into the shower.
 
“Let them try to forget what is about to come,” He whispered to himself, letting himself enjoy the steam. “Retribution will come, and oh, how sweet it will be.”
 
On the kitchen counter, the dossier of the oncoming operation waited. He flipped it open one last time, to give it a quick glance as the kettle hissed to life behind him: everything was perfect. The layout of the docks defined, the timing set up precisely, the intelligence confirmed and re-confirmed. He didn’t bother double-checking anymore. There was no need; the time for caution had passed. This was the moment to act, to seize, and finally - to win.
 
The kettle clicked off, and he poured himself a cup of tea, no sugar, stirring it slowly before taking a slow sip.
Perfect, even that.
 
When he stepped into his car thirty minutes later, the streets were still empty and the horizon was still dark, only a sliver of bruised indigo giving shape to the skyline. As the city slept, Milverton was awake, alive, and on the cusp of glory.
 
 
***
 
 
By 6:15 a.m., Milverton stood in the command van parked one street away from the targeted warehouse.
 
His whole team was already in place and ready, armed with tactical gear, high-grade flashlights. Every man on the squads had been handpicked. All the weapons had been checked and authorized, for the occasion. All had been done by the book; no one would find one single thing to complain about.
 
The tactic he chose wasn’t dissimilar from the one that had already worked so well in his previous successful bust. To his immense satisfaction, his teams were finally in position, exactly as he had commanded; Alpha crouched behind a shipping container at the south entrance, Bravo creeping in along the northern wall where a second access point had been mapped, Charlie stationed across a three-block perimeter.
 
And it was with immense pleasure that Milverton gave the final order to move, once all the comms checks had come in.
 
The feed jumped to life. The sound of booted feet, doors crashing in. The cameras shook as the squads moved into the compound.
 
He waited, breath shallow. This was it. Any second now…
 
“…Clear.”
The word didn’t register in his mind at first.
 
Another voice: “Front loading dock - clear.”
 
A third one: “Interior corridor - no contact.”
 
Then silence.
 
His stomach dropped.
“Alpha, report status,” He demanded.
 
“Sir, the main floor is empty. No crates, nobody.”
 
“Bravo, confirm sweep.”
 
A pause, then: “Sir, confirmed. The building shows signs of having been vacated in the last few days.”
 
Something in Milverton’s jaw spasmed, and his hands tightened on the console edge.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out for a second too long.
 
“No. There’s no way,” He hissed under his breath. “They were supposed to be still here.”
 
He fumbled with the intel sheet in front of him, eyes scanning the location, time stamp, logs.
All verified. Cross-confirmed. Perfect.
All worthless.
 
He slammed his hand down on the console, and the junior analyst beside him flinched. Then he turned away from the screen and let out a string of curses so sharp the young officer near the rear door of the van looked up in alarm. With one last curse, he ripped off the earpiece and hurled it as far as he could.
 
“Out of my way,” He snapped, shouldering open the door of the van.
 
He stormed across the narrow distance toward the hangar, eyes darting over the patrols, the sealed perimeter, the agents waiting in confusion. The tactical team was already regrouping outside. Inside, nothing had been left, and there were no secondary compartments where the stack might’ve been temporarily hidden.
 
That place was just an abandoned shell.
There were no men kept at gunpoint; no crates.
Which meant - no victory.
 
“Somebody fed us false intel,” Milverton snarled, turning back with a venomous sneer twisting his mouth. “There’s no other way they could’ve gotten away that clean.”
 
One of the Alpha team officers tried to interject. “Sir, with all due respect, the intel was checked and secured under your own -”
 
“Do not finish that sentence,” Milverton snapped. “I –“
 
He barely had time to say that, when a black department vehicle pulled up with a screech of tires, headlights full on. And then, the silhouette of General Commissioner Moneypenny emerged from the backseat.
 
Milverton stiffened. His first instinct was to wonder - who called her? Who had reported the failure before he’d even had the chance to try and do anything to rectify it?
 
She didn’t wait for pleasantries.
“Milverton,” She barked, striding toward him. “What the hell am I looking at?”
 
“Commissioner,” He began, “There was an unexpected lapse in -”
 
“Lapse?” She cut him off. “The warehouse is empty. There’s not so much as a box of boot polish left behind. This was meant to be the biggest bust of the quarter, and instead you’ve mobilized half the city for a ghost hunt.”
 
His jaw clenched. “We were misled. The intel must’ve been tampered with -”
 
“And whose clearance verified that intel?” Her tone sharpened. “Let me remind you that this is the second time you’re pulling out some very questionable operations. First, wrongful detainment. Now - this? Assuming the verification you did was right...it only means that you have framed the wrong man for being the mole.”
 
Milverton’s throat worked silently as he glanced to the side, toward a group of junior officers who were pretending not to listen.
 
“Albert James Moriarty was our mole. I am sure of that,” The white-haired man snapped. “And I proved it by leading a successful operation when he was fed false information. I…”
 
“If that’s the case,” Moneypenny cut in, “and your suspicions about him were right, then you will be able to explain why you were played, this time. If no mole was there to tip anyone off...”
 
He wasn’t. He simply shot her a look - surly, dark, with all the weight of his wounded pride.
He didn’t have a clean answer, and they both knew it.
 
“Congratulations. You just proved you took out the wrong man. Again.”
 
 
***
 
 
Albert lay stretched across the length of the sofa, one arm flung over his eyes.
 
He had been reinstated two days prior, officially cleared, name restored. His brothers had been the first ones to visit him, of course, throwing their arms around him in the warmest group hug ever. William had come all the way from Durham to see him; Louis had had the good sense to avoid bringing his bodyguard with him. His colleagues had even thrown him a little reception - champagne, polite applause, and far too many apologies from people who hadn’t lifted a finger in his defence while he was locked away. As for Milverton, he had been demoted and now worked in their archives.
 
He should’ve felt vindicated. He should’ve felt anything.
But he didn’t.
 
The reinstatement meant nothing, because the one thing that mattered hadn’t come back with it. Worse than that, the fact that Milverton’s latest bust had failed was only another confirmation that Albert had been left behind and replaced, even in his dirty work.
 
He sighed, basking in perfect, melancholic silence – until the knock at the door startled him.
 
He hesitated, then reluctantly rose, brushing a hand over his unkempt hair with little care. Whoever it was, he didn’t care about how he would look. His brothers would understand, and everyone else could go to hell, for all he cared.
 
With the same reluctance, he unlocked the bolt and opened the door.
 
There, standing with a polite, composed smile, was the same silver-haired man who had once opened the doors of the Holmes mansion to him and Louis. He held a modest bouquet of roses in one hand, and in the other, a dark canvas bag.
 
Albert stared, brows lowering slightly. “Did… Mycroft send you to get rid of me properly this time?” He asked dryly. “Flowers before the bullet. That’s considerate.”
 
The man blinked, then gave a near-imperceptible sigh.
“No,” He said. “May I come in?”
 
The younger man opened the door wider without a word, confused but too tired to object. He stepped aside instead, letting Mycroft’s butler - or whatever he truly was - into the room.
 
The man walked in, placing the bouquet gently on the small side table near the window. Then the bag was set on the kitchen counter without ceremony.
 
Albert finally spoke. “What is this?”
 
“Something he wanted you to have.” A pause, then: “He wanted to come himself. But he judged it unwise - for now. The surveillance around your home may have been lifted, but it’s too early... one can never know”
 
His laugh came out bitter and half-choked.
“So he sent flowers instead?”
 
“...As an apology.”
 
That made him scoff under his breath, before looking away.
“Of course he did. Well, tell him that I -”
But he didn’t finish the sentence; the older man had drawn a thick folder, bound in a red ribbon, from the bag - and was now holding it out to Albert.
 
“Have a look at this first,” He said gently.
 
“He doesn’t waste time, does he?” Albert asked bitterly, then narrowed his eyes. “If this is about departmental plans, I just returned to work. I’ve got nothing for him yet. Unless he’s that eager to find out who’s been moved to traffic duty.”
 
The man didn’t react to the jab. “Just take a look,” He said again. “Then we can talk.”
 
Albert hesitated; then, reluctantly, he stepped forward and took the folder – flipping it open and skimming the contents. Pages and pages with locations, names, dates... Shipment quantities... Routes.
 
Slowly, he moved to the table and sat down.
 
“What is this?” He asked quietly, staring transfixed at the pages in front of him. So many data. So many proof of illegal activities going on; proof against Mycroft. Albert could’ve taken his (former? actual?) lover down in a breath, if he ever decided to use those info against him.
 
The silver-haired man sat across from him. “It’s exactly what it looks like,” He said. “I can’t leave this around, for obvious reasons, so you’ll have to learn and commit it to memory. All of it.”
 
Albert looked up, shocked.
“…Who are you? Why is he trusting you with this? Why are you showing it to me?”
 
The man gave a small, pleasant smile. “You can call me Jack. I’ve been the one helping Mycroft manage his activities – just as I helped his father, before his untimely demise.”
 
Albert blinked, mouth parting slightly. But Jack was already reaching into the bag again, this time pulling out a small stack of annotated maps and dropping them gently beside the folder.
 
“And let’s just say… if the king needs to crown someone, it’s only fair the queen learns how to rule at his side, isn’t it? Starting tonight, if you’re willing,” He went on. “There’s a lot for you to catch up on.”

Chapter Text

If anyone had ever asked Milverton to imagine his own personal hell, this would be it.
 
Buried in the stale, airless guts of the department building, surrounded on all sides by rusting filing cabinets and dust-caked boxes, filled to the brim with abandoned case folders. A flickering neon light buzzed overhead, making the place look a bit like the crime scene in a b-rated horror movie. The only other officer assigned to the archives had taken one look at Milverton’s nameplate and vanished soon after, avoiding him like the plague.
 
He had been left alone; exiled and forgotten in his disgrace.
In a word, useless.
 
Each morning was the same: he walked into the archive office with a mug of lukewarm coffee, sat at his desk, and filed away casework that hadn’t mattered in over a decade.
 
The only way out of this bureaucratic graveyard was to drag himself out by force.
To solve an unsolvable case…. to prove they’d judged him wrong.
 
But which case?
 
Most were dead ends. Dried blood, dead witnesses, lost evidence...
Some files weren’t worth the paper they were printed on.
And even if he found something, he’d still need clearance to put himself at work on it officially.
 
Unless…
 
Unless he took the only one he technically had been handed, although off the record: the Watson case.
 
He stood, crossed the room, and dug into one of the lower cabinets - the neglected ones, where the unsolved dossiers from the last decade were kept. And the original folder was indeed there, thin and brown and already starting to curl at the corners. On the first page, someone had scribbled:
 
WATSON, J. H. – DISAPPEARANCE (PRESUMED DEAD?) – STATUS: UNSOLVED.
 
But there was nothing in there that Milverton didn’t already know.
 
Dr. John Watson.
Conscientious objector, well-known in his local circles for his advocacy against the UK’s military foreign policy, particularly its alignment with the US in Middle Eastern conflicts. Never served in the army, but not an agitator, either. No enemies. No suspicious associates.
A quiet life, mostly. A modest medical practice in Marylebone. A loyal secretary, Miss Hudson, who managed the day-to-day appointments. A flat on the first floor in 221 Baker Street, above his landlord - a young man named Ruskin.
And then, one evening, he left his clinic…and never arrived home.
No body found. No note left, no ransom demanded. No confirmed sightings.
 
It was, in every way, a perfect mystery. And for that very reason, the case had remained unsolved.
 
Milverton leaned back in his chair, covering his face with his hands.
He hated dead ends. Hated chasing ghosts. But more than that, he hated being a ghost.
 
There’s no other way out, he reminded himself.
 
He needed to start somewhere. Questioning a second time the secretary and the landlord wouldn’t raise any alarms; it was fieldwork, technically, but harmless. It could easily pass unobserved.
 
He could start with that.
 
He pulled a fresh page from his faithful notepad, and took note of the two addresses.
 
 
***
 
 
The first surprise was that it was Miss Hudson who opened the door to 221B Baker Street - or rather, Mrs. Ruskin now. Apparently, somewhere in the interim of Dr. Watson’s disappearance and today, the secretary and the landlord had married and now lived under the same roof. That, at least, made things easier for Milverton.
 
The second surprise was that Mr. Ruskin didn’t seem to have an “off” switch. Whether it was his natural disposition or some unexplained sympathy toward Milverton, the man was unrelentingly chatty, and not in a useful way.
 
After two long hours seated stiffly in their sitting room, Milverton had been offered tea (six times), handed endless biscuits, shown a framed photo of a cat named Dot and a whole album of the said cat’s progeny, and regaled with the entire history of a leaking pipe under the floorboards two years before. All of that before being finally able to talk about Dr. Watson at all. He now knew that Watson had a taste for cinnamon biscuits and never took sugar in his tea. That he used to play the violin. That he always paid the rent on time, and left generous tips at the corner café.
 
Charming, of course.
Probably endearing, for someone.
Utterly useless, for Milverton.
 
The constable kept a neutral expression as Ruskin rambled on, folding his hands over his knee with something close to theatrical patience. Miss H - no, Mrs. Ruskin - sat silently nearby, occasionally casting her husband a glance that hinted she was silently counting the seconds until he paused for breath.
 
“And really,” Ruskin was saying, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm, “Dr. Watson was the best tenant we’ve ever had. Neat, respectful, quiet – even when he brought friends over, they were, you know, polite types. I think he was thinking of moving out, actually, said the practice was doing quite well, looking into something in the country – a shame, really, but I understood. Of course, what with everything that happened… the flat ended up vacant anyway. Been hard finding someone decent to fill it since, we have already changed five tenants. You’d be surprised how rare it is to find someone who doesn’t blast their television at two in the morning, you know?”
 
Milverton stared at him with the blank expression of a man drifting slowly into migraine territory. His temples throbbed faintly. The tea had gone cold in his hand. Somewhere, deep down, he questioned every decision that had led him here.
 
Despite all of that, he still offered a tight smile.
“And the night he disappeared… do you remember anything unusual at all?”
 
“Oh,” Ruskin said brightly, “Well, since he never came home… I’d say no. I’ll let the missus take that one. She was the one closing the cabinet after him, and probably the last one to see him alive.”
 
Surprisingly, Mrs. Ruskin was all the opposite of her husband; that is, a rather quiet, taciturn type. She must’ve made for a good secretary, Milverton thought; she was reserved, and seemed quite efficient. He just had to prod further to get the answers he needed.
 
“So you’re saying he left at the usual time?”
 
The woman nodded, hands folded in her lap. “Yes. Closed the practice a little past six. It had been raining most of the day, and it hadn’t let up.”
 
“He called a cab?”
 
“No. He rarely did. There was a Tube entrance not too far from the cabinet. He usually walked there.”
 
“Did he mention anything odd that day? Anyone strange hanging around outside? New patients behaving unusually?”
 
Mrs. Ruskin paused, lips pursing. “No. Nothing I remember. It was quiet. A normal day.”
 
Milverton tapped his pen against the side of his notebook, not bothering to disguise his frustration.
“You’re sure?”
 
“Well, as sure as I can be. He was a good man. Dedicated. Very considerate. He used to go to great length to take care of his patients, so they wouldn’t have to worry about anything. And he was just like that with us, too, you know? If something was troubling him, I doubt he would’ve shown it. He wouldn’t have wanted us to fuss and worry about him. Sometimes I wonder…”
 
The white-haired man stared at her, but she didn’t seem willing to go on, after letting the sentence trail off.
She had zoned out a bit, looking out of the window, as if reminiscing something.
 
“…yes? What is it that you wonder?”
 
Mrs. Ruskin turned her gaze back toward him, then lowered it to her hands.
“He was generous, and kind,” She said finally. “Too kind, perhaps. Took on cases no one else wanted. Patients that were… difficult. People who’d been turned away elsewhere. But Dr. Watson was soft-hearted. If someone asked for help, he didn’t always follow protocol to the letter. He always said a doctor’s duty was to treat, not to judge.”
 
Milverton nodded slightly, encouraging her to go on.
 
“Some were elderly, at the end of their lives. Others had no family. Or just needed someone to listen. Sometimes, they weren’t even really patients, just people who wanted five minutes in a quiet office with someone who didn’t look at them like they were broken beyond repair. And some others had… problems. Chemical dependencies, you know.” She gave a wistful smile. “It was sad to see them throwing their whole existence away. He never turned anyone away, doing all he could to help take their lives in hand again.”
 
“And among those… was there anyone you remember more clearly?”
 
Mrs. Ruskin hesitated again. A trace of something passed over her face; uncertainty, or maybe guilt.
 
“There was one,” She admitted. “A young man. Someone - his brother, I think - had brought him for the first time to the cabinet to have him treated for some dependency. He wasn’t very willing, in the beginning; but the doctor won him over, apparently, because after a month he was coming in regularly, all by himself…”
 
Milverton perked up, his pen stilled.
“Do you remember his name?”
 
“…He was a sweet thing, shy, very polite. He always greeted me and asked me how my day was.”
 
The white-haired man narrowed his eyes. She had ignored his question, and that was a very interesting thing.
Was she hiding something? Or someone?
 
“How long had this mystery patient been coming?”
 
“Some months.” She glanced away. “He stopped showing up when the doctor disappeared.”
 
“Anything else you remember? Age, build, voice?”
 
“Oh, he was young. Very young. Early twenties – no more than twenty-two at best. Thin, pale, with dark hair always tied in a ponytail. Overall, good looking.” She shook her head. “But it can’t have been him. He was such a nice young man. And he was improving so much! He had stopped taking whatever it was that he used to…”
 
Milverton stared at her incredulously.
 
Thin. Pale. Dark hair tied back in a ponytail...
All of a sudden, Holmes’ face flashed in his mind.
Was it even possible that…?
It was London - how many young men would fit that vague outline? He wasn’t the only one. He couldn’t be.
And yet… the longer Milverton turned it over in his head, the harder it became to dismiss the coincidence.
 
What if…?
 
“…Although he still showed up at the cabinet once a week; must’ve had some other chronic condition Dr. Watson was helping him manage.” She sighed. “Sometimes I still wonder what happened to him, and to the other patients our good doctor had helped so much…”
 
“Do you remember his name?” Milverton pressed on.
 
Mrs. Ruskin hesitated, still looking down at her hands. “I… I don’t think I do.”
 
“Are you sure about that?”
 
“I’m sorry,” She said softly, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s been some years.”
 
He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Well. We’ve recovered copies of the medical records from the cabinet's archive. It shouldn’t be hard to find this young man’s file.”
 
She winced. The movement was subtle, but Milverton still caught it.
“I will find him,” He repeated, keeping his gaze trained on her. “Won’t I?”
 
Her hands began to tremble just slightly in her lap. Seeing her distress, her husband - who had been idly listening until that moment - suddenly spoke up. “Alright, that’s enough. She’s done everything she can. You don’t need to badger her.”
 
“I’m not -” Milverton began.
 
“Yes, you are,” The man snapped. “And if you’ve got more questions, maybe you can come back when she’s not about to break down.”
 
Mrs. Ruskin gave him a watery smile, brushing her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.
“It’s alright, really. I just… I… oh dear, how can I say this…” She inhaled deeply, probably to give herself some more courage, and finally confessed: “When your colleagues came to the cabinet, they took away all the medical dossiers they could find. Possible evidence, they called them. They needed to make copies. But I knew it would take a lot of time for that, and some of those patients had some severe or terminal diseases… they would need to find quickly some other doctor to follow them, and it would’ve been difficult to adjust their treatment without a dossier quickly available… so…”
 
“…So you hid some of the dossiers away.” Milverton completed the sentence in her stead, watching her carefully. “You gave them back to the patients.”
 
“I did it for the patients’ own good!” She was openly crying, now, while his husband was staring at her wide-eyed. “And I couldn’t even give all of dossiers back! A certain number of them never came back to claim them; I am not even sure some did even know Dr. Watson kept a dossier for each of them - some of them were a bit paranoid about him registering any information about their health status, but then again, how is a doctor supposed to treat your conditions without keeping records?...”
 
“And the young man you mentioned? The one with the ponytail. Did he come back for his dossier?”
 
She shook her head slowly. “…No. I never saw him again…”
 
Milverton felt the weight in his chest shift slightly.
“Then you still have it.”
 
“I may need to look at it,” He said gently, softening his tone just enough to keep her from shutting down. “I understand what you were trying to do. Really. And I won’t breathe a word about it to anyone… if you give me that dossier now.”
 
After a long moment, she gave a slow, reluctant nod. “It’s in the back room. I… I’ve kept all of them safe, in a box. Let me get it. I… I never opened any of them. I wouldn’t.”
 
“I believe you,” Milverton said, as she disappeared in the nearby room. Her husband stayed there instead, watching him warily and, for once, in blessed silence.
 
Minutes passed and then, at last, she returned. In her hands was a simple beige folder.
“I never opened it,” She repeated as she handed it over. “Never. I respected our patients’ privacy.”
 
Milverton’s eyes finally landed on the name scrawled across the cover page, and all colour drained from his face.
 
Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

CONFIDENTIAL CASE NOTES
 
Attending Physician: Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.
Patient: Holmes, S. (21 y.o.)
Date: [redacted]
 
Presenting Complaint
Substance misuse, primarily involving injectable stimulants.
Consultation initially sought upon insistent request from his brother.
 
History of Present Illness
Reports a lifelong tendency toward stimulation-seeking, whether intellectual, chemical, or interpersonal. Reports boredom as “the greatest enemy,” frequently justifying risky behaviours as necessary to maintain vitality.
 
Observed Behaviour
Restless, oppositional, often passive-aggressive in body language.
Highly articulate, markedly intelligent, with a tendency to dominate conversation.
Resistant to authority.
 
---
 
Treatment Course & Follow-up Notes
 
1st follow-up visit
Scarcely compliant. Patient minimizes substance use. Appears to attend only to appease brother.
 
2nd follow-up visit
Oppositional behaviour. Refuses standard treatment protocols. Resists any directive perceived as controlling.
 
3rd follow-up visit
Scarcely compliant. Abstinence from stimulants questionable. Patient avoids direct answers, often deflects.
 
6th follow-up visit
Continues to deny ongoing substance misuse, though evidence suggests otherwise. Refuses psychiatric referral. Mood notably labile.
 
8th follow-up visit
Reports abstinence. Mood swings observed. Refuses psychiatric evaluation.
 
10th follow-up visit
Reports abstinence. Increased verbosity; monopolises session with elaborate digressions. Shows dismissiveness toward treatment, but begins to display unusual attentiveness toward myself personally.
 
12th follow-up visit
Reports abstinence. Behaviour more intrusive. Employs innuendo and flirtation during consultation. Appears to derive stimulation from boundary-testing.
 
15th follow-up visit
Substance use disorder: complete remission? Traits consistent with narcissistic personality disorder and antisocial features (sense of entitlement, disregard for rules, rationalisation of transgressions, impulsivity). No frank psychosis evident. Insight remains partial.
 
17th follow-up visit
Substance use disorder: complete remission? Flirtatious behaviour intensifying. Persistent comments implying personal interest in myself. Begins reframing treatment as “shared intimacy” rather than medical process.
 
20th follow-up visit
Substance use disorder: complete remission. Frequently asserts that my presence has “replaced the needle.” Flirtatious, intrusive, often boundary-crossing. Employs innuendoes, with little regard for convention or consequences.
 
22nd follow-up visit
Patient increasingly preoccupied with me as subject of discourse. Dismisses all discussion of addiction, psychiatric evaluation, psychiatric treatment - steering dialogue toward his perception of “our relationship”. Appears amused when challenged.
 
25th follow-up visit
Possible C-PTSD? Occasional emotional numbing, general mistrust in people, and abrupt emotional flooding. Evidence of maladaptive coping behaviours. Increasing difficulty distinguishing professional boundaries.
 
27th follow-up visit
Fixation intensifying. Patient describes dreams involving myself, frames them as “shared experiences”. Begins interpreting neutral comments as veiled reciprocation.
 
30th follow-up visit
Obsessive/delusional thoughts - erotomaniac tendencies directed toward myself. Persistent affect dysregulation. Refuses psychiatric referral. Explicitly states he will not accept any “interference” in what he perceives as a mutual bond.
 
32nd follow-up visit
Patient appears calmer. No longer argumentative, but disturbingly certain of his convictions. Declares any psychiatric treatment unnecessary, claiming he has “already found his cure” - namely, me.
 
---
 
Prognosis
Guarded to poor. While patient demonstrates periods of abstinence from stimulants, his obsessive fixation upon myself appears to have supplanted his addiction. Traditional therapeutic interventions unlikely to succeed while such obsession persists.
 
 
End of Notes - For Clinical Record Only
Signed,
Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.
 
 
***
 
 
Private Addendum – Not for File
Watson, J.H.
 
Mr. Holmes’s condition concerns me increasingly. His moods swing rapidly: sardonic wit one moment, despondency the next. His fixation upon myself has not abated; indeed, it has become more unabashed.
 
Today he alluded, almost inadvertently, to an incident involving a former friend. He will not name the man nor the circumstances. It is possible this trauma is the reason behind his need for control in relationships.
 
I confess to my own unease. He believes utterly in his perception of our “bond,” and though I know it to be a delusion, he insists upon it.
J.H.W.
 
 
***
 
 
Private Addendum II – Not for File
Watson, J.H.
 
I have today resolved to recuse myself from Mr. Holmes’s case.
 
His dependency on me has become the central pathology. I can no longer claim to treat him objectively; my very presence is the substance he abuses now, the needle replaced by my attention.
 
The deterioration is plain. His delusional attachment to me has grown fixed, resistant to challenge. He dismisses any suggestion of psychiatric referral, interpreting it as betrayal. In our last session, he declared outright: “You are not my doctor. You are mine.”
 
He has not displayed overt violence, although he leaves little room for refusal. I feel I cannot disentangle myself from his obsession while holding the role of physician. For his sake, and for mine, I have withdrawn. Whether he will accept transfer of care remains doubtful.
J.H.W.
 
 
***
 
 
Milverton snapped the folder shut, put it down on his desk, and for a long moment he just stared at it, in disbelief.
 
“What the hell.”
 
At this point, there were two things in the world Charles was sure of. The first one was that Holmes had to be the serial killer they were looking for. As for the second…well, after reading this medical dossier, he was quite sure the good doctor wouldn’t ever be found alive.
 
And yet, for all the pages of Watson’s careful notes concerning this man’s evident insanity, there was nothing the constable could actually use to build a case.  There was neither confession, nor clear evidence of crimes. Only a passing reference to some “incident”, left maddeningly vague.
 
Other than that, according to the date, the last addendum had been written a mere week before Watson’s disappearance. Not incriminating in itself - after all, being a difficult patient was no crime, and all the things written there were circumstantial at best. Especially since Watson himself had written: “He has not displayed overt violence”.
 
Milverton needed something more consistent than this.
 
Plucking a thick black felt pen from its holder, he crossed his own study room until he came to stand in front of the broad white board, and began to write down his deductions.
 
First of all, he had to understand what had been going on and get a real profile. Assuming that the good doctor had indeed been kidnapped and killed, as Milverton suspected, then he wasn’t Holmes’s first victim. Which meant only one thing: when Dr. Watson had disappeared, Holmes was already no novice to murder.
 
To the list already present on the board (Male, between 20 and 30 y.o.), he added: experienced killer.
Then: first murder unknown.
 
By all account, it would’ve been easier for all of them, if Holmes had been another disorganized offender. One of those delusional individuals driven by their psychosis, who left behind chaotic scenes littered with evidence.
 
He wrote ‘delusional’, then drew a hard slash across the word ‘disorganized’.
Evidently, this was not the case.
 
Erotomaniac delusions often fuelled persistent, organized behaviour rather than wild impulsivity: stalking, surveillance, planned intrusions, manipulation would all be rationalized as acceptable steps toward his delusional goal. Any other “impulsive” – or non-planned – action would’ve still been goal-oriented.
 
‘Stalking/surveillance’, ‘Creepy gifts’, ‘Mutilation of a rival’ ended up on the left side of the board, all of them grouped in the same cluster, tagged with Louis’ name.  
 
On the right side, ‘Obsessive behaviour’ and ‘Erotomania’ ended up being tagged under the doctor’s name. Just below this cluster, connected with a red arrow: ‘Incident?’
 
Milverton took a step back, and stared at the board with narrowed eyes.
 
Two names. Two halves of the same pattern.
 
If Watson had disappeared, it was likely because he had refused Holmes at last.
And Holmes, unwilling to be denied, had removed him. That much seemed clear.
 
But then, why was the detective still alive?
 
A month ago, he might have believed Louis was merely a victim-in-waiting, a lamb circling the wolf without yet realizing the danger. But then the detective had covered for Holmes, the very night Milverton’s men had dragged him in. Not to mention that the profile the detective had traced about his own stalker seemed, at this point, entirely wrong.
 
That could mean only one thing.
 
“Folie à deux,” Milverton breathed, and those words tasted like poison on the tip of his tongue. “Watson died because of Holmes’s madness. Moriarty…has welcomed it.”
 
Shared madness.
An obsession indulged and reinforced.
The supposed victim becoming part of the disease itself.
 
A cold shiver stole down Milverton’s spine, as he instantly realized he had been lucky to even come out alive from their confrontation.
 
If Moriarty was as unhinged as Holmes, then the whole situation was far worse than Milverton could’ve ever imagined. The department would have to deal with a maniac who might, at a word, be turned on anyone else; and with another maniac holding his leash, while hiding within their very ranks.
 
“God above.”
 
On the other hand, if he was right… then the evidence would be out there, somewhere. Buried in forgotten files and unsolved cases, the evidence of Holmes’s beginnings was waiting to be uncovered. And Milverton would dig for it; he would scour every unsolved disappearance in the city for the last fifteen years. That span would cover Holmes’s adolescence through his adulthood, and in there would lay the truth: his first murder, and all the other crimes he might've perpetrated.
 
It would take time. Endless hours bent over dusty folders, combing record by record, file by file. He could not afford to leave a trace of his curiosity in the department’s digital system; one careless search would bring attention he did not want, not yet. No, this had to be done quietly, in silence, with only his own hand and eye to guide him.
 
“I will find it,” He promised himself in a whisper. “I will know what birthed this monster. And then, I will make sure to take back everything that should’ve been mine.”

Chapter Text

The door of the sleek, black-windowed car swung open, and Albert stepped inside.
 
Jack was already seated across from him, impeccable as ever in his tailored suit, silver hair neatly tied into a low ponytail. “Ready for tonight, Mr. Moriarty?”  
 
The younger man gave a single, tight nod. “I suppose I’d better be.”
 
Jack tapped once on the partition glass, and the car slid smoothly into motion.
“You’ve seen how the game is played,” He murmured then, turning his gaze to the dark streets slipping past the window. “Now it’s your move.”
 
Albert said nothing, and the rest of the trip was spent in silence – until, at last, the car rolled to a gentle stop in front of what looked like an abandoned industrial site: red-brick walls, high fencing, narrow windows boarded long ago. The sign above the gate had been stripped clean, and nothing about the place invited curiosity. If anything, it discouraged it.
 
Jack stepped out first and motioned for the other to follow.
“This way.”
 
Inside, a single corridor stretched ahead, bathed in the cold light of the overhead fluorescents. They passed through a security checkpoint, and then finally entered a room that looked like it might’ve belonged in the lower levels of a high-clearance agency. Cement walls, low lighting, a long table; and around the table, twelve people sat waiting.
 
All looked up as the two men entered.
 
Jack gestured toward the head of the table, and Albert moved without a word, taking the seat. As he settled in, the older man stepped behind him, positioning himself on his right side.
 
“Treat him as you would treat our boss himself,” Jack warned. “From this point forward, he represents him in this matter. You’ll treat his word as you would his.”
 
Across from them, a lean man with blonde hair and sharp blue eyes opened a folder on the table.
“Name’s James,” He said with a grin. “We’ve been briefed that you’re stepping in as interim coordinator for this route. I'll get straight to the point; we have confirmation that the next shipment of weapons will move within the forty-eight-hour window. There are three possible ports in play - this time it’s not fixed to just Lambeth, which complicates early staging.”
 
Albert's eyes dropped to the open folder, and his stomach turned slightly. They expected him to run this, didn’t they? And they expected to do it well. But this wasn’t law enforcement, and these weren’t standard officers. These were criminals, loyal to someone higher up. Loyal to Mycroft. And loyal to him, by extension.
 
He laced his fingers together on the table, willing them not to shake.
“Very well,” He said. “Here’s what you need to do…”
 
 
***
 
 
“He handled it well,” Jack said, lifting the glass of whisky to his lips. “Didn’t even hesitate. Gave orders like he was born to it. And the plan he suggested is actually good”
 
Mycroft’s eyes didn’t move from the documents in his own hands. “And the men?”
 
“They listened. James even called him ‘sir’ without a trace of sarcasm. They may not trust him yet, but they’ll follow him, I think. He’s quick on the uptake, gutsy, and he thinks fast under pressure.”  He swirled the whisky in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light before adding casually, “I also told him that you’d go see him and have dinner together, if things go well.”
 
Mycroft’s head snapped up. “You did what?”
 
“He’s desperate for your attention. But even the strongest devotion dies out when it’s starved for too long. You know that.”
 
“You didn’t have the right -”
 
“I had the judgment,” The older man shot back. “The question is - do you still trust me?”
 
Mycroft’s silence stretched just a beat too long.
“Yes,” He said at last. “But…”
 
Jack raised a hand, stopping him.
“I saw what your father did, and I’ve helped you pave your way, making sure you became something different. A stronger leader. A better man.” He let the words settle before adding, “Are you afraid of making the same mistakes he did?”
 
Mycroft didn’t answer, pressing his lips instead into a thin line.
 
The other watched him for a moment, then stood and walked over, resting his glass on the edge of the desk. “Your father’s faults are not your own,” He said gently. “And if your heart is set on Albert… then pursue him.”
 
A shadow of rare fragility passed through the otherwise impenetrable mask of Mycroft’s face.
“I don’t know how,” He muttered, as if admitting it scraped painfully against something inside him.
 
Jack smiled, then reached out and ruffled Mycroft’s perfectly neat hair with an affectionate hand, ignoring the immediate scowl it earned.
 
“You’ll figure it out,” He said warmly. “You always do.”
 
 
***
 
 
Two days later, the door of Mycroft’s office flew open, and Sherlock strode into his brother’s office without knocking, as was his custom.
 
“A little bird told me you’re in need of help for courting your pig,” He announced cheerfully, a self-satisfied grin stretching across his face.
 
The elder Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Spare me –“, He began to say, but before he could protest further, Sherlock dropped a heavy, time-worn volume directly under his nose.
 
“Here! You’re going to need it.”
 
“A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Matrimony. London, 1860.” Mycroft read, then arched one brow. “Good God, Sherlock. Where did you even find this? I’m fairly certain your methods are already… outdated.”
 
“Outdated, perhaps, but effective. It worked perfectly well with Louis.” Sherlock sat with a little hop on the border of his brother’s desk, ignoring the glare he received for that. “Have a look at the titles of the chapters, you will already find some nice, useful ideas.”
 
Reluctantly, the elder Holmes began to read aloud: “Present modest tokens of admiration, that she may know her virtues are noticed.”
 
“Like the hearts I sent Lou at the beginning of our courtship. He accepted them all, even left me a message in his letter box saying he had appreciated them.” Sherlock beamed. “I knew he would understand immediately that I was courting him.”
 
“Employ discreet intimations of your sentiments, never crude declarations. Letters are of great assistance, allowing one to express what may be too delicate to say aloud.”
 
“I prefer to leave… more tangible signs. Corpses, for example. They’re superior to paper, really, and you can make them look incredibly romantic with a little bit of an effort. For example, only the best ones were chosen to be styled up to look like Lou. They will never be as handsome as him, of course, but I’m sure he loved my efforts.”
 
“A suitor must avoid jealousy, and bear rivals with dignity, lest he betray a want of gentlemanly control.”
 
“On that point, the Victorians were wrong. Rivals should be eliminated, not endured. But I made an effort anyway, and to my own knowledge, Sebastian Moran is still alive, albeit with a missing piece, so…”
 
“Show yourself a protector; shield her from the unworthy attentions of others.”
 
“As I said, I’m sure Moran has learned his lesson well. And if he hasn’t… I won’t shy away from teaching him another one.”
 
“Convey that your affections are grounded in virtue, constancy, and seriousness of intent.”
 
“I am particularly proud of this one. I have already told him several times that my devotion is permanent. He will never get rid of me, unless he kills me. He found my declarations very romantic.”
 
“Contrive moments of privacy, that your union may take root unseen.”
 
“We have lots of privacy when we make love in his flat. The only ones who have access to the cameras are me and him. Sometimes we like to rewatch our performances while we go at it again.”
 
“Too much information, Sherlock.”
 
“Booo, don’t be such a prude! As if you haven’t done any kind of play in your life. And I won’t believe for a single moment that your pig is a blushing virgin, either. Anyway, go on.”
                                                                                     
“A gentleman must endeavour to win the good opinion of the lady’s household, that his attentions may be seen as honourable and worthy.”
 
“William knows of us and doesn’t really mind. Actually, he told me he’s fine with it if I spare him the finer details. A pity, I would love to call him sometimes and gossip about Lou’s taste in bed. They are twins, he might have some useful insight that I could apply on his brother -”
 
“I don’t think William is actually interested in either romance or sex, so please don’t scare my best accountant away with your perversions. And I don’t think Albert actually knows about your…eating proclivities, though.”
 
“Well, Albert still accepts me as his brother’s bodyguard, and probably suspects we’re lovers. The rest will come with time. I bet my brothers-in-law will both adore me, in the end.”
 
“If you say so. But what you just said goes after the title of the last chapter: Once mutual affection is secured, he must restrain his ardour, keeping the courtship honourable until marriage vows may be exchanged.”
 
“Well, I have restrained myself…to a degree. The first time he baited me, at the club, I left him untouched. He tried to bait me again, and I showed him a piece of Heaven. Moderation, after all, is relative, if he asked for what we did.”
 
Mycroft closed the book slowly, regarding his brother with equal parts horror and reluctant fascination.
“Sherlock,” He said at last, “you’ve taken the most pedestrian of courtship manuals and turned it into a catalogue of tips for Victorian stalking. If the author could see what you’ve done with his advice, he’d fall dead a second time.”
 
“Who cares, if it worked.” The younger Holmes smirked, entirely unbothered. “The book is quite clear; I’ve followed every instruction. I have been the very model of a dutiful husband-to-be.”
 
He hopped down from the desk, brushing a few imaginary creases from his trousers.
 
“I’ll leave it with you, since you’re clearly in such dire need of it.” Sherlock announced, winking on his way out. “Be nice with your pig. Louis and I would be so sad if I had to deal with him.”
 
Mycroft stared after him, stone-faced, as the door swung closed behind his brother. Then he set the book down again, folded his hands atop it, and stared at the door where his brother had gone.
 
“Definitely too late for a good psychiatrist.” Mycroft murmured. “God help us all.”
 
 
***
 
 
Milverton was already certain he had cast the first stone in what was fast becoming an avalanche, when he pulled out another cardboard box - one marked with a faded red stamp indicating “Unresolved” - that he had noticed while looking for cases similar to Watson’s.
 
Missing Person Report
Trevor, Victor.
Age at time of disappearance: 22.
Status: Missing.
Occupation: Student. BSc Chemistry - Final Year.
 
Victor had vanished in his last spring term, just three weeks before finals. He had gone back home for the weekend, for his sister’s birthday… and then, on Sunday evening, he had “gone out for a short walk”, probably to meet someone – though he didn’t say who.  But then he never went back home, so he was reported missing by his father, a retired naval officer.
 
The university had initially dismissed it as stress; young people dropped off the grid all the time. Travel, burnout, a too-pressured life. Sometimes they ran away for a while, and then made their way back. Only his family had insisted that something was wrong; that Victor would’ve never run away all of a sudden, like that.
 
Another fair-haired, handsome young man, disappeared on a rainy weekday evening with no evidence of robbery or signs of struggle. No body ever found.
 
It seemed very similar to Watson’s case. A bit too similar… And Milverton didn’t believe in coincidences.
 
According to the report, Mr. Trevor Sr. had shown up in person for the report, speaking of his son as diligent, kind, bright - but lonely. He’d mentioned Victor didn’t have many friends, but had kept close to a small group of fellow chemistry students… The same students who had probably asked for Victor’s photo to be included in the Yearbook of that year, despite the fact that the young man had never showed up again to finish his education.
 
A spare copy of that same yearbook had been included in the box, and Milverton fished it out to have a look at it, his pulse ticking just a little faster. If his suspicions were right, then…
 
He flipped to the chemistry section and found Victor’s photo easily.
 
And three rows down - there it was. Another name. Another face.
Dark hair pulled into a ponytail. Blue eyes, staring with sardonic coldness at him.
Sherlock Holmes.
 
Milverton’s fingers tightened in impotent anger around the edge of the page.

Chapter Text

In the end, the cargo had been delivered and resold without incident… Which was why Mycroft was now standing at Albert’s door with a large bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
It had taken him over two hours to choose them – which was absurd, really. He had negotiated with other crime lords in less time.
 
Before he could knock twice, the door opened.
 
“Well,” Louis said, stepping aside with a teasing smile. “Some more wine for my brother, what a surprising gift. The world may not survive the shock. Please come in.”
 
The elder Holmes gave him a dry look. “I’ll let you know this bottle of wine dates back to 1798. It might not be an original gift, but at least it’s not cheap. Try to appreciate that, at least.” He stepped inside and handed it to Louis, who raised it with an approving nod before setting it gently on the nearby table.
 
“Oh, but I do appreciate it. Just like I appreciate that you have finally stopped ghosting my brother. It would’ve been a pity if Sherlock and I had to do something about it.” Louis said, in a sickeningly sweet tone. “Albert is in the sitting room, anyway. I’ll leave you to it.”
 
Mycroft paused, staring at him in shock.
Did he just…. Did he just threaten me? Dear God, this man really is insane.
 
And yet… he still walked further inside.
 
It’s so stupid, Mycroft told himself, to feel this eager. To walk into someone’s home like a character in one of those dreadful romantic novels. But then he stepped into the sitting room and saw him - and his heart fluttered, against all reason and logic.
 
Albert was seated in his usual armchair - shirt open at the collar, one leg crossed over the other – and he was nursing a half-filled glass of wine in his hand. He looked as handsome as ever, and the older man tried not to think too hard about that armchair. About what the two of them had done there, not so long ago. How Albert had looked. Sounded. Moved. How Mycroft himself had –
 
“Mycroft,” He said quietly.
 
“Kitten.” The other man inclined his head in greeting, ignoring the slight awkwardness that still lingered between them. “…You look well.”
 
“Thanks.” Albert gave a short, bitter laugh, then took a sip from the glass. “Long time no see, of course. Why are you suddenly wanting to have dinner with me?”
But there was a certain degree of weariness, and perhaps resignation, in his voice. Like he was already bracing for the polite but distant explanation that would follow.
 
“I came to congratulate you,” He said, keeping his own gaze carefully trained on his lover’s face. “You’ve done exceptionally well on the mission I gave you.”
 
“Really. Is that all?” Albert drained the rest of the wine in his glass in one smooth motion. He refilled it halfway, paused, then looked up with a small smile that didn’t really reach his eyes.
 
Mycroft looked at him for a long moment. Then he sat down on the edge of the couch across from him, folding his coat carefully before resting his hands on his knees.
“No, it isn’t.”
 
Albert tipped the glass back again.
 
“I missed you,” The older man murmured. “And more than that, I missed the version of myself that existed when I was with you. I’ve spent most of my life getting people to either fear or hate me, with no expectations of affection. But you stayed faithful for a different reason, I think. And with you, I began to think I could… somehow being a little more like myself again.”
 
“Then why did you disappear?” The other snapped. “You left me alone when I needed you the most. And then what? You hid behind your right-hand man, giving me work to do! The fucking face you have!”
 
Mycroft flinched, just slightly. “I didn’t intend it to be cruel.”
 
“Of course not. You just didn’t intend it to be anything at all.” He set the glass down on the teatable and started to rise. “Maybe this was a mistake. I should call it off and…"
 
He didn’t get the chance to finish. Mycroft moved faster - rising as well and pressing forward, forcing his lover back down into the armchair with the weight of his own body. His hands braced against the armrests of the chair, his face inches from Albert’s.
 
“Listen to me!” He hissed. “Don’t you understand? You're still alive.”
 
Although Albert initially tensed in surprise, he didn’t push back, nor shove, nor fought. His body just shifted beneath Mycroft’s, arching slightly. “Let me go,” He tried to command, but it came out far too weak, and his hands stayed where they were.
 
The shame hit him almost instantly.
 
What are you doing?, a voice in his head whispered. How can you still want this man? After everything?
But God, if he could feel that body against his one more time... if he could taste what he’d once had, before it all crumbled down again… just once more…
 
Mycroft was so close now, and Albert hated it. Hated how much he wanted him. Hated how his body ached to give in, how his pulse quickened with need. How much he needed to submit, to stop thinking, to just give in, be tied up, and –
 
The older man leaned closer still, until his forehead almost touched Albert’s, his warm breath brushing across his skin.
 
“Had it been anyone else, every trace would have been mercilessly erased. That’s how I work; I cannot afford to leave loose ends, and I’ve never hesitated before. But with you… I just couldn’t. Even when every instinct told me I should at least do something about it. You had seen too much. You knew too much. If you ever decided to talk… And still, I couldn’t do it.” He sighed, and his voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I let you live. Do you understand what that means, Albert?”
 
 
***
 
 
“Boring,” Sherlock snorted, a hand deftly flipping a strip of steak in the pan while the other reached for a handful of herbs. He cast a quick, disdainful glance at the little portable screen set up on the kitchen table, then turned his attention back to the stove. “Your brother’s too easily pleased, if he’s satisfied with just this. Had I slighted you, I would have crawled back on my hands and knees, bringing the heads of at least three of your worst enemies as an apology. What is this sappy fuckery?”
 
“Hey, don’t call my brother easy. And we can’t all be like you, I suppose.” Louis said from his spot at the counter, popping a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth before grinning at him. “I’m a very lucky man, to have such a caring and sentimental lover. Although, I would like to know when exactly you wired Albert’s flat.”
 
Sherlock didn’t look the slightest bit sheepish. “Quite recently, actually. I was curious to hear what kind of bullshit my brother would say to worm his way back into Albert’s bed. A good laugh’s always worth the effort. And before you ask, my jealous little dove – it’s just the living room. Bedroom and bathroom are off limits.” He tossed the herbs into the pan, and shot a heated look over his shoulder. “There’s only one Moriarty I would watch everywhere, and that’s not Albert.”
 
 
***
 
 
Somehow, those words only managed to incense Albert’s anger and bitterness further.
 
“No, I actually don’t. You’re saying so many pretty words,” He managed to spit out, opposing fierce resistance to his own inner desire to just give in and go back to how things had been before. “And yet, you’ve been cold and distant every single time I tried to figure out what exactly was going on between us. Ghosting me was just the cherry on top of the fucking cake. So tell me - what the hell did I do to deserve that?”
 
The other man opened his mouth to say something, but Albert wasn’t finished.
 
“You knew I’d obey, didn’t you,” He sneered. “You trusted that I’d play along like a good soldier, that I’d take every request from you, and never ask for more than scraps. You thought I’d stay quiet because you had trained me to. Because you’d conditioned me -”
 
Before he could finish, Mycroft stepped forward and pressed a hand over his lover’s mouth to silence him.
 
“Don’t,” He said, almost pleading, but the gesture only made something snap inside Albert. His body stiffened beneath the touch, and he tore Mycroft’s hand away, finally shoving him back with the flat of his palm.
 
“Don’t what? Say the truth? Name what you did? You never said one word about how you felt. Not once. Do you even feel anything for me at all? I’ll tell you what I think: that you let me live just because you still saw me as some useful asset, somehow.”
 
“Kitten… Albert, I… It’s not like that, you got it wrong. It’s just that… My father was a shitty man.”
 
After a moment of stunned silence, Albert’s fury only seemed to grow stronger.
“Oh, I see,” He drawled. “We’re pulling the ‘daddy complex’ card. That’s original.”
 
“Kindly shut up and let me speak, if you want some answers.” Mycroft snapped, which gained him a long resentful glance along with his lover’s silence. “I’m sorry for speaking to you like this, but – yes, maybe you should know why I’ve been pulling back, before… well… asking whatever you want to ask for. My father wasn’t just bad,” Mycroft went on. “He was dangerous. Violent. He set his eyes on my mother, hid his own nature until marriage, and then, once he had her in his clutch… didn’t let her go, not even when she discovered how he really was. When she found out she was pregnant with me, she tried to run. He caught her. Locked her in the basement of the estate and kept her there.”
 
Albert listened in perfect silence, staring at him in shock.
 
“She delivered me down there. And I stayed with her, for the first few years of my life. Frankly, I don’t remember much of it – except maybe for the way her arms felt when she held me close so I wouldn’t cry loud enough for him to hear. On my sixth birthday, I was brought upstairs. As the future heir, I needed to begin my education – which meant switching my old cage for a new, gilded one. And then, one year later, I fell ill. So ill, in fact, that everyone thought I might’ve died. I pulled through, somehow, but my father decided he needed a spare. Just in case.”
 
“Sherlock.” The younger man murmured.
 
“Yes.” Mycroft confirmed. “My mother had to deliver him alone in the basement, just as she had done with me. My father kept them both down there. And then one day, when Sherlock was still a child... my mother took her own life. My father died soon after…” He paused. “…in an accident. I was left to take his place. I became what he had been. What I was taught to be.”
 
Albert shook his head slowly. “Just because you took his place doesn’t mean you are him.”
 
“But what if I am? What if one day you decided to leave? What if you gave your heart to someone else? Would I let you go - or would I become just another monster? Lock you away. Keep you where no one could ever touch or see you again…”
 
“You seem to underestimate my brothers.” Albert shot back, looking strangely a bit too calm. “William would carve you into neat little cubes if you tried anything like that. And Louis would rope Sherlock into helping him hide the evidence.”
 
A sharp pain suddenly bloomed in Mycroft’s hand, and he instantly looked down – only to discover, to his complete and utter shock, that a knife was now embedded in the flesh of his palm.
 
“You also seem to underestimate me.” Albert’s slender fingers tightened on the hilt and gave the blade the slightest twist, making Mycroft inhale through gritted teeth. “I am not your mother. You are not your father. And if you try to pull some shit on me again, I’ll make sure that’s the last thing you will ever do.”
 
 
***
 
 
“That’s it, they’re going to kill each other,” Louis gasped, rising in panic from his seat. “We should do something -”
 
“Hell no,” Sherlock cut in, eyes glued to the screen, utterly fascinated. “Your brother’s finally showing some balls. I’m not interrupting that.”
 
“But –“
 
“Fine, I’ll admit that they’re toxic as fuck, but somehow it works for them. Someone had to beat some sense into Mycroft eventually. Or stab it into him. Whatever. Let them do their thing a little longer, until they sort it out.”
 
 
***
 
 
“You stabbed me,” Mycroft said, still staring in dazed disbelief at the knife lodged in his hand.
 
“That I did,” Albert replied without a shred of remorse. “And now, I’ll tell you exactly how this is going to go. You’re going to go to the bathroom and patch yourself up. Then we’re all going to sit down and have a nice, civilized dinner together. And once my brother’s gone home with yours…” He leaned in, close enough for the other man to feel the heat of his breath. “You’re going to fuck me into my bed until I scream.”
 
Mycroft exhaled in a long, sharp hiss – staring at his lover with pupils blown wide in shock and adoration.
“I love you,” He breathed. “Never loved anyone else. Never will.”
 
Albert went very quiet, and suddenly his eyes began to look misty.
“…Took you long enough to say that.”
 
Fuck, how could Mycroft resist that sight? He pulled the knife free from his palm and let it fall on the carpet.
“Forget the dinner,” He growled, reaching for his lover’s hips. “I’ll have you right here, right now -”
 
The kitchen door slammed open.
 
“Like hell you will,” Sherlock snapped, striding in with a full tray and a look of utter disgust. “I’m not letting you depraved little heathens fuck here in front of my steaks.”
 
Albert yelped in red-faced consternation. Mycroft – despite being slightly more used to his brother’s antics – still turned around in shock, his gaze zeroing in on the pile of meat now being deposited in the centre of the table.
 
“Medium-rare. Perfect crust. A rosemary-butter finish. If you let them grow cold, or I find a single bodily fluid on any of it, I swear I’ll kill you both myself.”
 
Somehow, caught up in the anxiety of seeing Albert again and trying to make up with him, Mycroft had failed to connect the most obvious dots.
 
He should’ve known.
Of course he should’ve known.
If Louis had been the one to open the door, then Sherlock had to be in the kitchen.
And if Sherlock was in the kitchen, then Sherlock was the one cooking.
 
At that thought, Mycroft’s pulse spiked.
 
The meat on the table looked… good. Suspiciously good. Perfectly seared, evenly browned, glistening with just the right amount of juice. Lightly seasoned, beautifully rested.
 
Of course his brother would prepare it at the best of his abilities; the kitchen was his reign.
And that was exactly the problem.
 
Was it beef?
 
It generally looked like beef. It smelled like beef. But then again, this was Sherlock’s work, and when Sherlock cooked, there was always a chance that what appeared to be a fine cut of Angus could just as easily be something that should’ve been considered entirely unfit for human consumption.
 
The odds were 50/50. Either it was a perfectly normal, socially acceptable dinner… or it was something harvested from some fucking victim of his.
 
“You’re bleeding all over the carpet.” Louis deadpanned, putting the wine in the middle of the table.
 
“I’ll buy Albert another carpet,” Mycroft said mechanically, still staring at the meat. Then his gaze snapped up, towards his brother-in-law, trying to convey his inner panic. Please, tell me this isn’t what I’m thinking of.
 
The fucker didn’t seem inclined in the slightest to answer his questions. “It’s still considered unpolite to bleed out during dinner. The bathroom’s down the corridor. You’ll find the gauzes you need in the second drawer.”
 
Mycroft had never dressed a wound so quickly in his life. In less than a minute he was back – only to see that Louis and Albert were already seated at the table, while Sherlock was dishing out the food.
 
“Lou suggested we do a double date,” His younger brother said, with a grin that told Mycroft he was enjoying the situation a bit too much. “I personally think it’s a great idea. I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as me.”
 
But Mycroft barely heard him. Instead, he just stared in growing panic as his brother slid a nice, thick steak onto Albert’s plate.
 
He should do something about that.
He should stop Albert.
He should -
 
The moment Albert picked up his knife and sliced into the steak, Mycroft’s body moved on instinct. Before the other man could raise the bite to his mouth, he lunged forward, stabbed the piece clean off his lover’s fork… and popped it into his own mouth.
 
Much to his own relief, the meat tasted like real beef. Unfortunately, the price of his impulsive little stunt was that they were all staring at him – especially Albert, who was still frozen mid-movement, holding his now-empty fork in midair.
 
A beat of stunned silence followed.
 
“I merely…” Mycroft began to say as he returned to his seat, face blooming a vivid shade of red, “…thought it prudent to test for poison.”
 
Louis let out an amused snort.
Sherlock looked two seconds away from pissing himself for the effort of not laughing out loud.
 
Albert narrowed his eyes. “You thought my steak was poisoned?”
 
“Not yours specifically,” The older man said stiffly. “Just… generally. One can never be too careful. For all we know, the butcher could’ve been bribed to sabotage the food and…”
 
He stopped mid-sentence. His gaze had just fallen on his own steak – which looked slightly different from the others. A little darker. Somewhat leaner.
 
What the fuck is this?
 
Cautiously, he glanced up - and locked eyes with Louis, who was already watching him from across the table, with the sadistic sparkle of a man who was enjoying a little mindfuck at his expense.
 
Mycroft’s stomach knotted a little when he slowly reached for his knife and sliced into the steak.
It was red meat, at a first glance. He prodded it with the fork; the consistency was at least similar to beef.
 
Sherlock let out an affronted scoff, so fake it was essentially ridiculous.
“I’ll have you know it’s all locally sourced, grass-fed Aberdeen Angus,” He said. “Don’t be so fussy, dear brother. Yours is simply a different cut, there’s nothing suspicious about it. Your job has made you a little paranoid.”
 
“Of course,” Louis chimed in, lifting his glass. “We personally know the butcher. He would never.”
 
Mycroft screamed internally.
 
“Locally sourced from where, exactly?” He muttered, as he reached for the wine as well. He was definitely going to need it, if he was to survive this dinner with some of his mental health still intact.
 
“Some local farm.” Sherlock waved him off, before adding with a grin: “Lovely place, really, you would love it. This specific cow’s name was Gertrude.”
 
Albert snorted. “Resorting to black humour, aren’t we? I suppose I should’ve expected my brother to start sharing case details with you.”
 
“…What case are you talking about?” Mycroft asked warily, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter.
 
“Oh, just some woman we were investigating. Suspected grooming and trafficking. She disappeared not long ago. Her name is – was? – Gertrude.” Albert shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of his past victims managed to get a hold on her. Who knows. We’ll be damn sure after her ass if she shows up again. If she doesn’t… well, it wouldn’t be such a terrible loss, would it?”
 
Mycroft stared at him, then down at his plate - his appetite dying a swift and silent death.
 
“Anyway. Aren’t you going to eat that?” Albert asked, glancing with a frown at his lover’s mostly intact steak.
The only missing part of it was the tiny bit still speared on Mycroft’s fork.
 
With dawning horror, the elder Holmes realized he had no way out. If he pushed the plate aside now, Albert would start asking questions - and the last thing he needed right now was for his lover to suspect anything beyond some form of culinary paranoia.
 
Fuck it, we bail.
He cast one last, mournful glance at the fateful bite… then shoved it into his mouth.
 
It was beef.
 
Across the table, Louis wore a smirk so smug it grated endlessly on Mycroft’s nerves.
And Sherlock himself? The picture of innocence, of course.
 
Mycroft chewed passive-aggressively piece after piece of his steak, his fork stabbing each bite with a little more force than necessary. From his right side, Albert’s voice droned on in the background. Something about work? Or maybe about some kind of wine.
 
He wasn’t really listening.
 
After all, his thoughts were fixed solely on the two younger pests who had been toying with him - baiting him with sinister little double meanings and half-allusions - and he had fallen for it.
And as if that wasn’t already more than enough, Louis wasn’t even making the barest effort to hide his own sadistic amusement. All while Sherlock - the enamoured fool that he was - kept staring at his psychopathic detective with starry eyes.
 
Mycroft made a mental note to and dish out his own revenge in seven distinct stages, if Sherlock ever grew tired of the little shit.
 
“…dessert?”
 
Albert had clearly asked him something, and Mycroft realized - far too late - that he hadn’t been listening.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
 
“…I’m sorry, I was distracted… thinking about how beautiful you look tonight. Would you mind repeating the question?”
 
Sherlock let out a loud, theatrical gagging noise – which Mycroft promptly ignored.
 
The elder Moriarty instantly turned the shade of a ripe red pepper.
“Oh. Oh, I… I only asked if you wanted some dessert,” He stammered in dazed surprise. “There’s some crème brûlée - I made it earlier. And Louis brought, uh… fortune cookies.”
 
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, turning a neutral glance on Louis. “I didn’t know you believed in that sort of thing.”
 
“I don’t,” He said placidly. “I just think they’re quite funny, sometimes.”
 
At those words, Mycroft’s eyes narrowed slightly - but he still nodded.
“Then I’ll try both. Just to cover all possibilities.”
 
Albert rose, still looking a touch dazed; but before he could do anything else, Sherlock abruptly sprang up from his chair.
 
“I’ll go get them,” He announced, already striding toward the kitchen. “I’m faster.”
 
Even Mycroft barely had time to process the rare offer of assistance – because of course it couldn’t be innocent altruism - before Sherlock was gone.
 
A moment later, he returned, placing the already full tray on the table.
“Louis already plated everything ahead of time. For practical reasons.”
 
Of course he did, Mycroft thought.
 
He picked up the fortune cookie resting neatly beside the crème brûlée. It looked ordinary enough, at a first glance, and a less attentive eye would’ve missed the way the seam along the side had been tampered with. But at that point Mycroft already had a solid guess why, so it didn’t truly surprise him when he cracked it open and unfolded the message inside:
 
[My brother let you off too easily. If you ever make him cry again, I’ll make sure you relate much more with my ex.]

Chapter Text

Dinner, all things considered, had gone remarkably well.
Or, at least, that was Albert’s opinion.
 
He had eaten good food; drunk excellent wine; laughed merrily in his brother's company. And then, when the others had gone and he was finally left alone with Mycroft… well, let’s just say that, by the time the first rays of dawn crept in through the windows, Albert was utterly spent – thoroughly worked past his wit and limits, to the point that he had called the day off at work and stayed in bed, a pack of ice pressed between his legs.
 
There was just a few small details that felt… off.
 
Off enough that even now, when he was dozing off in bed at the end of a long day, he couldn’t stop thinking about them.
 
Mycroft, for once, had been strangely distracted during most of their dinner. He’d seemed – airheaded was the wrong word, perhaps, but something close. Unfocused. Focus on something else?
And uncharacteristically fussy, too. Not about the food in general – no, just the steak, specifically. The way he had stabbed the first piece off Albert’s fork... The way he had stared at his own, before tasting it…
 
Odd.
 
And then, given what Mycroft had told him earlier – about his childhood, about his difficult relationship with his father, his mother’s death…  It made sense that he had come out of it emotionally guarded at the very least, stunted even.
 
Sherlock, on the other hand… seemed so normal in comparison.
Or maybe, a small voice in Albert’s mind whispered, he just learned to hide it better.
 
The trauma in Mycroft had manifested as an almost pathological need for control. That was painfully evident in his work – Albert had seen it firsthand, by now; had seen how everything was always traced and accounted for down to the smallest detail, as William’s records as Mycroft’s accountant made abundantly clear.
 
Sherlock didn’t seem to carry the same compulsions. His life didn’t orbit around control the way Mycroft’s did; for all his dramatics around Louis, there was something strangely functional about him. Centred, in a way that didn’t quite make sense for someone raised in the same dysfunctional, violent household.
 
Or maybe he only seemed that way because the circumstances were different.
 
Lately, Sherlock and Louis had been practically inseparable. Always together when Louis wasn’t working; and even then, Sherlock had developed a habit of tagging along during field work. Normal enough, perhaps, for a bodyguard. But what struck Albert most wasn’t Sherlock’s constant presence; it was Louis’ reaction to it. His brother - normally intolerant of anything that so much as disrupted his solitary peace - hadn’t just accepted the intrusion. On the contrary, he seemed to welcome, even enjoy it.
 
And strangely enough, even Louis’ murderous stalker had gone quiet over the past few weeks.
 
After that grotesque display in the church, the killings had stopped – at least for now.
No bodies. No messages. No bloodied gifts sent to his workplace.
Just silence.
 
Not that Albert had given up on catching him, of course; far from it. He knew how these stories usually ended. A dramatic confrontation. A confession of undying love, usually rejected. Then, almost inevitably, an attempt to kill the victim - and often, themselves, in some kind of Romeo and Juliet emulation.
 
At least, Sherlock’s constant presence at Louis’ side was… reassuring, for Albert. His brother was never left alone, and that was one extra line the stalker would have to go through if he wanted to lay his own hands on Louis. And if Louis had taken a liking to Sherlock, then it would be one less reason for him to adopt certain risky behaviours, like hooking up with (potentially dangerous) strangers in clubs…
 
Albert shifted in bed, turning onto his side with a lazy groan. The sheets were warm, cocooning him in a quiet post-dinner haze that made him all nice and pliant. If only Mycroft had been here…
 
To Louis’ stalker, he thought with dry, dark humour, Sherlock’s job would be the perfect fantasy, wouldn’t it? Spending every waking – and sleeping - hour by his side…
 
And then, suddenly, Albert’s eyes flew open in the dark.
 
There was something wrong.
There was something very wrong going on, and he was just noticing it now.
 
By all logic, the younger Holmes should’ve been targeted by now.
After all, Moran had been savagely mutilated, for the simple sin of spending a night with him.
 
So why not Sherlock?
 
Yes, the dressed-up corpses might count as indirect threats - but beyond that?
Nothing.
 
What if…?
 
Albert’s stomach turned, as he threw off the covers in one swift motion and anxiously sat up.
What if the reason the stalker hadn’t struck… was because he was already there?
 
Louis must’ve royally fucked up something in his criminal profile. He had to have missed something. Misread some crucial signal. Because the profile he’d given of his stalker was nothing like Sherlock at all – and yet, Albert’s new perspective made it all fit together, in a dark, sickening way.
 
Yes, it made so much sense for Sherlock to be the murderer they had been looking for.
 
And it would’ve been so fucking easy for him to manipulate them all, working on their weaknesses (Mycroft’s affection for him, Albert’s affection for Louis…); easy enough to work his own way into becoming Louis’ bodyguard. At that point, he would be free to keep Louis close to him all the time, right under their noses; to isolate him as much as possible, and to use him for his own dark desires… and then Louis would finally become his latest victim.
 
His brother might be in bed with his own killer, and not even know it.
 
Albert scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to calm the sudden rush of adrenaline and fear.
 
He needed to act, and he needed to do it fast. Sherlock had already wormed his way into Louis’ bed, surely suggesting it under the convenient guise of convenience. The constant proximity, the long hours side by side… it was the perfect setup to convince Louis into giving in all his pent-up frustration and having some ‘innocent’ fun under the sheets. Albert loved his brother dearly, of course, but he wasn’t blind to certain faults he had – such as his enormous weakness for tall, dark, handsome men. And Sherlock seemed to fit his brother’s type so perfectly...
 
It was during that first dinner at Mycroft’s estate, wasn’t it? Sherlock must’ve taken advantage of Louis’ frustration that night. Had Mycroft known about his brother’s obsession for Louis? If he had, he must’ve been tricked into thinking it was something innocent. Or maybe… he was too afraid of Sherlock to warn Albert about it. His wariness about Sherlock’s potentially poisoned steaks, after all, seemed to talk out loud.
 
To think of his brother - his innocent, naïve, loving brother - being seduced to his own death right under his eyes, and without a single word of warning from Mycroft, made Albert’s blood boil. And worse still was the knowledge of the heartbreak Albert would have to inflict if Louis had already begun feeling something for this monster, while staying blissfully ignorant of his true nature.
 
But at least, such a heartbreak would be better than a funeral.
 
 
***
 
 
“Already back from work, love? You usually…“ Sherlock trailed off mid-sentence as he caught sight of the figure standing in the kitchen doorway. “…oh. Good morning, Albert. I didn’t know you had a spare key of your own.”
 
“My brother gave it to me. For emergencies,” Albert replied with a placid smile. “Thought I’d stop by and say hello. I took the day off - had to handle something for Mycroft, you know, and found myself with time to kill. Mind if I wait for Louis here?”
 
“Of course not; please have a seat. Hope you don’t mind if I finish cooking this, though? I’m preparing some stew for lunch. And the cake’s almost baked.” He asked, pointing toward the pot on the stove.
 
“Not at all. Please do; I’m the intruder here, after all,” Albert said, lowering himself onto the sofa while keeping one eye on the other man. “Smells good. Domestic life suits you.”
 
That earned him a bright smile from Sherlock. “Do you really think so? I like being useful for Lou. Taking care of him. Cooking, errands, paperwork, I don’t mind. He’s worth it all.”
 
Stalking. Mutilation. Murder, Albert added mentally to the list.
“My brother’s been lucky to find you. I cannot thank Mycroft enough.”
 
“I have been lucky. Louis makes me happy. It’s only right that I make him happy, as well. And it’s a relief for me to know that you approve of us. Thank you for trusting me with his own safety – and his heart. I feel we’ll be going along famously!”
 
They drifted into small talk easily - Sherlock telling him about a new bakery that had opened down the street, Albert politely answering, all while his eyes roamed the room, looking for anything that might’ve confirmed his own theories – and finding nothing overtly strange, or sinister, or screaming abuse.
 
As for Sherlock… he still looked every inch the attentive, well-behaved househusband.
Acting a bit too much demurely, perhaps, for Albert’s tastes – but other than that, perfectly normal.
Which, given his supposed background, wasn’t normal at all.
 
Albert rose to his feet. “Mind if I use the toilet?”
 
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, momentarily surprised.
“Of course not. Down the corridor on the left – though I imagine you already know that.”
 
“Oh, I do.”
 
He moved down the corridor at a leisurely pace, as though nothing was off; then opened the bathroom door and closed it, making sure the noise could be heard well – but he didn’t step inside.
 
Let Sherlock believe he was really relieving himself.
It would buy him the time he needed to look around.
 
Silently, he turned and reached for the main bedroom door, just on the right.
To his utmost surprise, it was locked.
 
His brother had never locked his bedroom door, not even during adolescence.
 
Albert glanced once more down the corridor, listening to the gentle clink of a spoon stirring food inside the pot. That was good – it meant Sherlock was still occupied with his culinary tasks, and probably wouldn’t care about him that much.
 
He crouched silently, pulled a thin lockpick from the inner lining of his jacket – a cop’s habits died hard - and made quick work of the bedroom door, easing it open just enough to slip through.
 
When he was fully inside, it took him a moment to register what he was looking at.
 
This couldn’t be his brother’s bedroom. Albert was certain of that; Louis must’ve been sleeping in his own guest room after leaving his room to Sherlock. This must’ve been nothing less than the monster’s lair, for everything in it screamed obsession to the high heavens.
 
On the wall facing the left side of the bed, an entire stretch of wall was covered in photographs. The first thing he noticed, as soon as he got nearer to have a better look at it, was that half of it looked like a shrine to Louis: his brother was everywhere, in every setting imaginable, and many of the older photos were surveillance-style shots taken from across the street.
 
God above. Why had he ever trusted a crime lord’s brother with his own brother’s safety? What had he done?
 
Albert took a horrified step back, and his heel caught on something that almost made him stumble, and produced a metallic sound.
 
Startled and in growing panic, he looked down and saw - a chain. A long chain, bolted securely to one angle of the base of the bed frame, and with a leather manacle, open and empty, at the end of it.
 
It took him less than a second to realize that there was not just one chain.
There were actually four, all of them looking exactly the same.
 
His stomach dropped.
 
Oh God.
No, no, no.
The bastard had already prepared Louis’ torture bed –
 
“Snooping around is a really bad habit, you know.”
 
The elder Moriarty spun around, heart thundering, only to find Sherlock leaning in the doorway, with a gun aimed squarely at Albert’s chest. His face wore a flat expression, probably waiting for Albert to do, or say, anything that might be an indication on whether that gun should be put at use.
 
And much to Albert’s dismay… the loss of any element of surprise on his part made him incapable of pulling out his own gun. 
 
“Stay away from me,” He warned, taking a step backwards, and then another, until his back hit the wall. “I know who you are. A fucking monster, that’s what you are! You’re sick. Completely insane. A delusional maniac!”
 
Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t look particularly bothered by the insults. If anything, he almost looked amused; to the point that his mouth curved into a light smile.
“Oh,” He said, almost gently. “Is this what you think of me? And here I thought we were going along so well.”
 
“Do you deny it?” Albert snapped, gaze darting left and right to look for a possible way out, without finding one. “You are my brother’s stalker. You’re the one who’s been threatening him with those horrible things you sent to his workplace, and with all those corpses posing like him!”
 
“Go on,” Sherlock said, staring at him with a grin that was somewhere between amused and intrigued. “Tell me everything about my own supposed plan about him. I’m curious.”
 
“You are toying with him like a cat with a mouse. You’re planning to hurt him when he’ll realize there’s something deeply wrong with you.” His voice cracked in anguish and fear. “Which will be soon. You’re already preparing to chain him to this bed and torture him to death, before setting him up in one of your macabre scenes, like a trophy…“
 
To Albert’s confusion and rising dread, Sherlock burst out laughing – with the unrestrained, ringing laugh of someone who’d just heard the funniest joke in the whole world.
 
“Amazing,” He said at last, exhaling hard, still grinning like a wolf. “Absolutely amazing. All you’ve said… is just plainly wrong. Every single suspicion about me – you got it completely backward.”
 
“Don’t even try to lie to me!” The older man hissed. “I will never let you harm him. I’ll die before you touch a single hair on his head!”
 
At those words, Sherlock’s grin only widened in mischief.
“Oh, Albert,” He drawled softly. “I’ve already touched far more than a single hair.”
 
Albert’s jaw clenched in fury, and he took an instinctive step forward – before the sight of Sherlock’s finger getting ready on the trigger made him stop.
 
“But since you insist playing the white knight of London… you deserve at least some truth, don’t you? And then we’ll see what to do with you. First of all - I deny none of the love I’ve given him.”
 
“There is no love in what you’re doing!”
 
“There is. All the things I sent? They were courting gifts, not threats. Tokens of admiration and devotion.” Sherlock murmured lovingly. “I do not deny being Louis’ most fervent suitor. I do not deny courting him as relentlessly and passionately as he deserves.”
 
“Then you are even more delusional than even I thought,” The other man spat out.  “My brother would never approve of what you do! He wouldn’t want anything to do with you, if he knew…!”
 
“Are you sure about that?” Sherlock asked, his eyes glinting with something that made Albert’s skin crawl. “Let me show you something, then. You’ll need to be a good boy and come with me without making much fuss, though.”
 
“There is nothing you could show me that would make me change my mind!“
 
“Then you’d be a fool. And that would surprise me, frankly…considering my brother likes you. You don’t strike me as the type who enjoys disappointing him. So,” Sherlock continued, gesturing toward the corridor, “will you walk, or do I have to escort you?”
 
“I’ll come,” Albert said after a short pause, and cautiously stepped forward. When Sherlock didn’t react, he took another step forward, and then another, coming nearer and nearer –
 
And then his hand darted into the inner lining of his coat.
He gripped the gun hidden there, ready to draw and turn the tables –
 
There was a blur of motion at the edge of Albert’s vision, and then a sudden, stunning impact across the side of his head. His vision exploded into white, and the gun slipped from his grasp before he could even fire.
 
He fell to his knees, with Sherlock’s voice floating somewhere above him.
“Well, that was very unwise.”
 
And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

When Albert regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was the smell; the air was laced with the sweet, sickly scent of dried roses – as if a dozen bouquets had been left to die in a sealed room. And then, the darkness; Louis’ flat had never had a light so dimmed.
 
But this wasn’t Louis’ flat, was it?
 
“Oh good, still alive.” A voice drawled nearby. “Always nice when that works out.”
 
Despite the throbbing pain on the side of his head, Albert opened his eyes – only to see Sherlock seated in a chair across from him. The room around them seemed to be someone’s living room? Or something like that. It didn’t look truly inhabited, judging from the light dust on the furniture.
 
“How many fingers am I holding up?” The younger man asked, raising a single one - the middle.
 
If only glances could kill, Albert thought, realizing he couldn’t strangle the man in front of him, tied up as he was. “Fuck you.”
 
“Close enough,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “Though I might’ve been a little more courteous had you come here voluntarily. Anyway – welcome to my home. Or, well, the place that’s supposed to be my home. I am already living all the time with Louis, so...”
 
“Fuck you.” Albert repeated, pulling uselessly at the rope binding his arms.
 
“I’d rather fuck your brother, thank you very much. Now, let’s make one point clear; I do not want to kill you, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Any harm in which you may incur would make Louis suffer, and despite your own beliefs about me, I do not want that.”
 
Albert gritted his teeth.
 
“Humour me for a moment,” Sherlock said. “Let’s play a game. What would you do… if I showed you undeniable proof that Louis knows exactly who I am?”
 
“I’ll believe that when he hands me your full incarceration dossier with a ribbon tied around it.”
 
The other man sighed. “Let me rephrase. What would you do, if I showed you undeniable proof that Louis knows exactly who I am… and loves me for it?”
 
Albert’s eyes narrowed again, and didn’t answer.
 
“Would you change your mind about me, then?” Sherlock insisted. “If I showed you proof?”
 
“Such proof doesn’t exist,” Albert shot back.
 
“But what if it does?”
 
Again, no answer.
 
“Fine,” The murderer sighed as he stood. “You might want to brace yourself. Since you’re so stubborn, you’re in for a little shock therapy.”
 
With that, he bent slightly to grip his prisoner’s arm - and pulled him upright. Albert swayed, and Sherlock steadied him with one hand on his back, the other briefly at his elbow. He didn’t move immediately, just waited, gaze flicking over the other man’s face as if assessing whether he’d fall again.
 
“Can you walk?” Sherlock finally asked. “Not that you have any other choice, you know. Either you walk, or I carry you in the other room. Please try not to make things difficult again.”
 
Albert grunted, then took a single, uncertain step. Then another. Sherlock waited patiently, then - with a gentle press of his hand to the other man’s shoulder - he guided him forward.
 
When they reached the door on the other side of the living room, Sherlock opened it slowly, then stepped aside, gesturing for Albert to go in first. Only once he had crossed the threshold did Sherlock reach for the switch and flick the lights on.
 
Albert blinked, pupils constricting against the sudden brightness. It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust.
 
It was another bedroom, and there were so many photos hanging on the wall in front of him. Dozens of them. So many they actually covered the whole wall… and they weren’t like the pictures he’d seen in his brother’s flat. Albert’s first, desperate thought was that Sherlock had somehow posed as a district photographer - got access to the scenes after discovery. Maybe he’d forged credentials, slipped into places he shouldn’t have been.
 
But that illusion fractured the moment his eyes drifted to the lower rows.
 
A handful of them were taken in what seemed to be a greenhouse – and Louis was there. Laying naked on the floor, hands covered in blood, his sex-blissed face half-turned to look behind him, and next to him was…
 
“Is that… Is that my brother laying next to a corpse?”
 
“Yes. I had just taught him how to stab someone to death, and then we had some celebrative sex. It was our first joint murder... It deserved to be immortalized. I know it’s a bit reckless, but then again, this flat is not in my name, so I don’t see why you pigs would want to come snooping around. And I have taken certain precautions, obviously. If you try to open the door by force, you would be electrocuted… and the whole flat would be instantly set on fire. No proof left for anyone else’s eyes.”
 
Albert slowly turned and stared at him in aghast.
Sherlock stared back, eyes shining with something wild.
 
“You assume I’ve hidden my real nature. That he’s unaware of who I am… but that’s not true. I haven’t hidden anything from him. He understood me and my intentions the first time I showed him who I really was, and he didn’t run. He looked at me… and stayed. More than that; he showed me that he’s just like me”
He took a step forward.
“You don’t understand him as much as I do. You love your brother like he’s fragile. But he doesn’t need someone to shield him from monsters...or from his own dark desires.”
Another step.
“He wants a monster. He wants someone whose darkness can match his own. And he loves me precisely because of that.”
 
“No. No, he would never do something like that. He…” Albert swayed where he stood, visibly pale. “You forced him to do these unspeakable things. You must have.”
 
“No, I didn’t. Does he look afraid of me, in those photos? I can assure you, all he did… he did it quite willingly.” Sherlock said, before reaching forward and taking hold of his elbow. “Sit down before you pass out. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
 
For once, Albert did not complain and let himself be guided to the bed, where he sat heavily, as if his knees had given out. Sherlock sat beside him.
 
“You do now know that I didn’t approach your brother to kill him. On the contrary! I want him to live a long, long life – with me at his side, always. I love Louis with all my heart, and he loves me back. He’s the other half of my black soul; when he goes, I’ll go too.”
 
“What about me?”
 
“You tell me. I’ll let no one come between me and Louis, just so you know. If you ever try, I promise you a nice spot in my brother’s garden. But it doesn’t have to be like that.” The murderer told him, before taking Albert’s tied hands between his own. “We don’t have to like each other, you know; but since we both love Louis and want him to be happy, we should get along well. And since Mycky has taken an interest in you, we could support each other, like nice brothers-in-law should do.”
 
Albert blinked slowly in shock, not answering.
 
“How did you even come to suspect me?” Sherlock asked after a moment, almost cheerfully. “Do tell me, I’m curious.”
 
“…Mycroft’s story.” Albert said mechanically. Maybe this was a nightmare, and he would wake up in the morning in his own bed knowing this was all some perverse fruit of his own imagination. Maybe -
 
“Ah! Yes, well. The sanitized version of it, you mean.”
 
A moment of silence, and then: “Sanitized?”
 
Sherlock snorted. “Oh, come on. You didn’t really believe our father died in an accident, did you?”
 
Albert’s silence stretched too long, and Sherlock’s grin widened.
“Oh my god,” He drawled, delighted. “You did. Your naïvety is quite endearing, I must admit – although I usually do not expect much from pigs anyway. Do you want me to tell you more about it? We can go upstairs and I can tell you more of it while you drink something.”
 
“Upstairs? You…”
 
“You had Louis under surveillance for a while,” Sherlock said. “The only way to gain uninterrupted access to him was to move in close. So I rented a flat in the building under a false name. This way, I could come and go whenever I pleased. Or more accurately, whenever he wanted me.” He gave Albert a proud, unapologetic grin. “Most of the… sensitive things, I kept here. Out of sight. The less compromising photos - let’s call them ‘artistic’ - those hang in our shared bedroom.”
 
Albert swallowed, his gaze flicking again to the wall of images. And then to the bed.
 
Sherlock followed his line of sight and let out a short laugh. “The chains I set up on our beds?” He said, catching the glance. “They’re for our own private games, not for torture. Louis is quite the enthusiastic participant.” He walked over to the photo wall, brushing his fingers lightly across it before pointing toward a small cluster of images in the corner. “I especially like your brother’s sadistic streak. It doesn’t appear often, but when it does… oh god, it makes me feel things…”
 
There was no doubt that the subject immortalized in those few photos was Sherlock – completely bare, bound by the very same chains affixed to the bed… and with whipping signs all across his back.
 
He turned back to Albert, eyes glittering.
“Still think I’m forcing him?”
 
 
***
 
 
"You already know the first part of the story, so I won’t lose much time on that." Sherlock said as he uncorked another bottle of wine. They had moved upstairs, now seated in the kitchen, where Albert sat nursing a glass in his newly freed hands. “My dear father kept me as the spare heir, just in case something ever happened to Mycroft. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t quite pliant enough - and eventually, he decided I wasn’t worth the effort anymore.”
 
He poured himself a glass, then refilled Albert’s.
 
“He wanted my mother to give him another son, and I was meant to go as soon as my own replacement had been born. When he came down in the basement to have his way with her, as usual… she refused to go through all of that again, and he made sure to let us down there without food for a while. To ‘help her see reason’, you know. If I’d starved to death in the process, all the better,” Sherlock said dryly. “It would have spared him the trouble of ordering his men to dispose of me.”
 
“How old were you when…”
 
“Ten. Maybe eleven. Who cares? Surely not my father. To him, I was just old enough to die. But my mother had managed to pilfer a steak knife. And in the end, she used it. Bled out on the floor, leaving me alone in that basement. Not her fault, of course. But still…” He paused. “I was a child. I was starving. And all I had left down there... was her.”
 
He stared at Albert then, watching as understanding appeared in the man’s eyes, followed swiftly by horror.
 
“I ate her, for a couple of days. But corpses rot fast in summer, you know. When my father finally came back, I was starving again. And I still had my mother’s pilfered knife…” Sherlock murmured, his eyes a little unfocused now. “When they didn’t see him going back upstairs… Mycroft came down to check, and found me there… not hungry anymore.”
 
Albert felt a visceral wave of disgust rising fast in his throat.
 
“Little did I know that my brother had already begun plotting to take our father down. He didn’t know everything, of course - not the worst of what my mother and I had endured. Just enough for him and Jack to quietly decide that the old man had lived long enough.” A humourless smile made its appearance on Sherlock’s mouth. “I just got there first.”
 
“You… you ate your parents. Oh my god. You did.” Albert murmured, hand shaking as it reached for the bottle. He didn’t bother with the glass this time - just tilted it and drank straight from the neck.
 
“I did. There are consequences to being cornered like an animal, you know.” Sherlock’s expression didn’t shift into shame or guilt. If anything, his gaze was disturbingly serene now. “And there are, of course, sanitary problems tied with eating flesh - easily avoided by taking certain precautions. What people usually do not know, though, is that it tastes so fucking good. You taste it once… you end up wanting to taste it again, sooner or later.”
 
Albert’s grip tightened on the bottle.
 
“…That’s why Mycroft checked the meat you had cooked at dinner, wasn’t it?”
 
“Hmmm. He’s so easy to play mind games with, I couldn’t resist,” Sherlock said, swirling the last of his wine. “Consider it a harmless bit of retribution for leaving you hanging so long.”
 
Albert stared at him, and for a moment, he wondered - strangely detached - if Sherlock was waiting for a thank-you. But the other man spoke again before the thought could settle.
 
“Don’t bother. I also did it because watching Mycroft squirm is one of life’s simpler pleasures. Oh, by the way! You really shouldn’t flatter yourself thinking the drop in violent crime in this city is entirely due to your new protocols, either.” Sherlock teased him, with eyes glistening in mirth. “Although I’ve never had much faith in you pigs’ powers of observation anyway. I mean, you didn’t even realize some of your worst repeat offenders simply... stopped showing up. Especially those with histories of domestic violence or sexual abuse. It’s curious what justice overlooks, when no one bothers to look closely.”
 
When no answer came, Sherlock tilted his head, studying him attentively.
 
“Tell me something,” The younger man said after a moment. “Louis mentioned once that all of you were adopted, didn’t you? That there was a fire, not long after the adoption. The house destroyed, I believe. Your adoptive parents, dead. Odd timing, don’t you think?”
 
Albert stiffened on the seat, but remained obstinately silent.
 
“I’ve always found family histories fascinating,” Sherlock said, sipping his wine without breaking eye contact. “Especially the ones that don’t make it into official records. Would you like to tell me about yours, since I told you mine?”
 
Albert sat perfectly still in his chair. For a long time, he didn’t move, nor speak – keeping his gaze fixed on his own hands, and on the empty bottle they were now nursing.
 
When he finally spoke, it was in a low, dark voice.
“I couldn’t allow what happened to me… to happen to them, too.”
 
Sherlock, still seated opposite him, reached across the table and gently rested it atop Albert’s.
The man’s gaze flicked toward him, startled, but he didn’t pull away.
 
“Your father was the worst kind of monster,” Sherlock said, his voice soft in a way Albert hadn’t expected. “I can guess what he did. And you did well, so well, to protect Louis from him.”
 
Albert’s lips parted, and then closed again. He tried once more. “He adopted children just for…” His voice failed him. The rest of the sentence didn’t come, stuck as it was in his throat. “I was getting older, so I wasn’t enough anymore. I couldn’t allow things to go on with my new brothers…”
 
Sherlock squeezed his hand, just once. “Shhh,” He said gently. “You don’t have to say it… I understand. You did what was necessary. You protected your brothers. You protected our precious Louis. Does he know what really happened? Does he know it was not an accidental fire?”
 
Albert shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the table as if afraid of what might surface if he looked up. “No. I did it all alone. William might… have guessed something. Maybe. I never asked. Louis knows nothing at all.” A pause, then he added: “Neither does Mycroft, I think. Unless he guessed something by himself.”
 
Sherlock let out a soft, low hum.
“I’ll keep it between us, then. We have a lot in common, don’t we? We were both taught to suffer in silence. But then, I had Mycky to lean on… and I learned to embrace who I had become, while you… you had no one. You didn’t want to burden your brothers with the pain you were carrying, so you kept it all inside instead. And now you still feel the weight of that - even though you did it to protect them.”
 
Albert looked away, but didn’t pull his hand back.
 
“You don’t have to carry your burden alone anymore. If I’m being honest…” Sherlock said, giving him a gentle little grin, “…I’ll be glad to have you as family, and call you brother. Whatever happened before – you can let go of it. Now we can have each other’s back – and we can both look after the people we love.” He paused, before extending his little finger, “What do you say? Let’s make it a promise.”
 
“…A what?”
 
“A pinky promise,” The murderer said, entirely unbothered. “You know, to make it official.”
 
Albert gave him a look. “…Pinky promises are for children.”
 
“So what?” Sherlock replied, still holding his hand up. “We both grew up far too quickly. Might as well reclaim a little childishness here and there.”
 
Albert looked at him for a long moment; then, to his own surprise, he gave a little snort and lifted his hand, letting their fingers hook around each other.
 
“I promise I’ll always look after our Lou, ’til death do us part… and even after, if there’s anything waiting beyond it,” Sherlock said solemnly. “I promise to help you knock some sense into Mycroft whenever necessary. And I promise -”
 
The words trailed off as the front door creaked open, followed by the familiar jingle of keys landing in the hallway bowl.
 
“Love, I’m home!” Louis called out cheerfully. A few seconds later, he stepped into the kitchen - only to stop dead in the doorway. His gaze swept from his lover to their unexpected visitor… and to their linked pinkies still resting on the table between them.
 
“…Alright,” Louis said slowly. “What exactly am I missing here?”