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“You’re unusually quiet.”
The flare of a match briefly illuminates the room, which is otherwise dimly lit by the sunlight shooting in through a (very, very slightly) parted curtain and not much else. The flame is guided to a cigarette and the cigarette to Mycroft’s lips, who takes a deep breath from it and angles his head towards Albert. The two sit next to each other with their backs to the headboard, covered only by a thin sheet winding around their limbs. Mycroft breathes out a puff of smoke in the space between them. Albert waves it from his face as inconspicuously as he can.
“Usually around this time you would be imparting upon me some morbid witticism,” Mycroft says, resting his knuckles beside the ashtray atop the nightstand. Albert turns to face him and his lips quirk upwards.
“Are you requesting one?”
“If that is what was going through your head just now, then sure— Though I doubt that to be the case.”
Albert looks away. “You’re correct in that doubt.”
Mycroft raises a brow. “I know you are the self-punishing sort, but it is unlike you to keep things bottled up.”
“Just with you, perhaps.”
His gaze floats back to Mycroft and he can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips. He loves seeing Mycroft in the mornings, perhaps because he appreciates seeing him in a way few others have — when he’s undone, before he buttons everything up. Here, in bed with Albert, he lets his shoulders relax, lets his posture be anything less than perfect. He lets his hair stay unruly for likely longer than he would by himself, because he knows Albert loves the curls. His eyes shine like sapphires in the soft glow of his cigarette, but when he meets Albert’s gaze, they don’t quite keep the metaphor, because all of the sharpness of them drains in favor of warm adoration.
Smiling, Mycroft says, “Well, go on, then.”
“I cannot help but feel as though I am not measuring up,” Albert says with a sigh.
Mycroft blinks. “I find your performance to be just fine.”
A laugh squeezes its way from Albert’s throat, and he swats Mycroft’s shoulder gently. “Not in that regard,” he says. “But..that is good to know.” He continues: “I mean now that William is back. I always felt as though I was not doing enough for him, before, and then he was gone and I wasn’t thinking about anything more than how I wanted him to return. And now he has returned and I am back to feeling this way. I should feel grateful, and not much more than that. It is just that..William is a little bit perfect,” Albert says, “in a way that I am not.”
Mycroft’s chuckle is thick with smoke. “Oh, dear Albert. Don’t hurt me for saying this, but that boy is far from perfect.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Most of his worries he simply keeps to himself. You are all loyal enough to him, he figures — he needn’t bother you with trivial issues. It does not mean those issues do not exist.”
Albert frowns. “But they are not trivial, if they worry him. And I should like to be bothered.” He pulls at his bottom lip in thought, then turns to Mycroft abruptly. “How is it that you know all of this?”
“Perhaps it is a system of thought similar to mine,” Mycroft says. “Sherly has always been the emotional one between the two of us.”
“Would that make me the emotional one between Will and me?”
“Well, clearly, Al. Try to keep up.”
Albert barks out a laugh— then sighs, scraping a hand over his face. “I don’t even want to consider the possibility that he might have all these worries you’re discussing. I do my very best to throw myself between William and any worry in his path— but to no avail, it seems.”
“Do not be upset with him, Albert.”
“I’m not. Upset with myself, perhaps.”
“That is even more foolish. Trust me, while I understand William’s reluctance to share, I also understand your protectiveness. William is an adult — he does not need you, and that should be of relief to you. But know that he values you, in his own way, even if he does not say so.”
Albert gazes at him with so much warmth. Despite the warring emotions that Mycroft’s words about William have inspired in him, he can’t help but feel weak at the empathy, and most of all, the gentle reassurance.
Mycroft smiles. For all the foreign softness his eyes have been holding, his jaw and cheekbones make up for it, cutting like knives — albeit very handsome knives. The shadows dancing across his face as he brings the cigarette to his lips only serve to sharpen the blades. This time, he turns his head away to exhale the puff of smoke.
“What a gentleman,” Albert says softly. “Thank you.”
His thank you is for more than breathing the smoke the other direction. But for noticing all the little details and filing them away, for seeing him as no one else quite has.
“Of course. I know you have your eccentricities, and it is never a task for me to attend to them.”
Albert’s whole face softens. “As endearing as that is, I don’t know if I would count that among my ‘eccentricities.’” He adopts a high-pitched voice, presumably to mimic a lady of the ton. “He makes odd breaks to the lavatory sink after touching something wrong, repeats the strangest tasks until they feel perfect, and— yes, and he dislikes when cigarette smoke is breathed into his face,” Albert goes on sarcastically. “What a peculiar man, but really, that last detail, I’ve just never heard anything like that. Personally, I just love inhaling clouds of smoke.”
“As do I,” Mycroft quips, and takes a long drag of his cigarette. Albert barely resists rolling his eyes, barely fights back the smile tugging at his lips. “And anyways— you like the taste of it.” Mycroft leans in and hooks his teeth around Albert’s bottom lip. Smoke spills from his nostrils and parted lips like he’s some great big machine and Albert wants nothing more than to run his fingers along every cog and gear and memorize them by touch. He resists a cough so he can lean in and chase after a kiss that evades him.
“Because it’s what you taste like.”
Mycroft meets his lips finally. They hold each other like precious artifacts, fingers tenderly cradling jaws and necks.
“Anyways, Albert,” Mycroft says softly, “do not imply that you are somehow less perfect than him. It is not his bed I am lying vulnerable in, is it?”
Albert levels an amused, skeptical gaze at him. “Mycroft, in that one sentence you have managed to imply that I should be honored that you are in my bed and not the bed of your brother’s beau, who also happens to be my brother— because you are of some authority, apparently? The specificities of which I know not. Nonetheless, the next time I doubt myself, I will remember your taste for my body.”
“Taste indeed,” Mycroft murmurs, drawing close and pressing his teeth to that expanse of skin stretching from Albert’s neck to shoulder, and Albert laughs. “But you know that is not what I mean. There is much more to you than your body, and that is truly why I am here. The next time you doubt yourself, use that brain of yours, and then quit doubting.”
Albert cannot even begin to articulate how much those words mean to him, so he moves closer and closer instead, kissing Mycroft’s cheek, then moving his hand to the back of Mycroft’s neck to urge him even closer, saying:
“Taste, hm? Why don’t you take another bite?”
“Was that all you heard?”
With his free hand, Mycroft catches Albert by the wrist. Albert bites his lip to obscure his smile, excitement fluttering in his chest — both as a reaction to Mycroft’s show of strength (like a giggling schoolgirl, honestly) and as that Pavlovian response of his to things like danger and restraint (he had for a long time thrived when surrounding himself by those things. Now he likes them in moderation).
“Albert James Moriarty, do not compel me to roughhouse with you. There is a lit cigarette between my fingers. Do you wish to start a fire?”
“I seem to have a penchant for arson. Why don’t we make it three houses I’ve burnt down?” There is a grin pulling at his lips and a gleam in his emerald eyes. His chest warms when Mycroft matches his smile.
“Do not say those things to me,” Mycroft says lightheartedly. Still holding Albert’s wrist, he lowers their hands to rest on the bed and gently intertwines their fingers. “You know I have always enabled you, and I have a very hard time saying no to you.”
“I will make you my accomplice-in-arson yet, Mycroft Holmes.”
“I am sure you will. It is simply a question of how long.”
“The sooner, the better.”
As Mycroft goes to ash his cigarette, he pretends to slip and almost touch the burning end to the wooden nightstand, and it tears a laugh from Albert’s chest.
“Look how you corrupt me,” Mycroft says. “I almost succumbed to your whims just like that.”
“That is how this relationship works,” Albert says. “You impart upon my troubled mind your words of wisdom, and I impart upon your wise mind my words of trouble.”
“Tempting all my desires,” Mycroft says, catching him by the chin, and Albert leans up into a kiss.
“Speaking of your words of wisdom,” Albert says, “I wanted to say thank you. For this conversation and the knowledge you have provided me.” Then: “I feel as though discussions of our family have become frequent for us.”
A wide smile spreads across Mycroft’s face. Perhaps at the implication that Albert’s and his families are one and the same. “Perhaps your ability to be in touch with your emotions is influencing me.”
Albert smiles at him, then scoots closer and leans his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Well, regardless, thank you.” He feels Mycroft’s fingers stroke through his hair. “You may be the only one who knows how to disarm my thoughts.”
“You know how to disarm them just as well, pigeon. It is just that you do not trust your own judgment enough to do so. Have confidence. And I am always happy to reassure.”
When Albert walks into the kitchen, he finds Sherlock standing in front of the stove with his back to the doorway. His hair is down and mussed and only mussing further as he scratches his head, and he’s dressed in a familiar red robe.
“How long am I s’posed to…Can you even burn coffee…?” Albert hears him mumbling.
“Just a few minutes,” Albert says, and Sherlock startles, turning to face him. Albert can see now the pot he has on the stove. “When did you put it on?”
“Like..ten seconds ago,” Sherlock says. Albert smiles and moves in nearer, leaning against the counter.
“Give it a few moments, then. Good morning, Sherlock.”
“Morning,” Sherlock says, gently placing the word as though it were a toe in a minefield.
“Just a morning, then? Not a good one?”
Sherlock stiffens. “No— I mean—”
“I’m teasing. You needn’t be so on edge — I’m not Louis.”
“Well..exactly,” Sherlock says softly. “That’s why I feel nervous..with you. Want at least one of Liam’s brothers to like me.”
Albert laughs. “You needn’t worry about that. It has already been accomplished. Besides, I think Louis has warmed to you, in his own way.”
The tension eases from Sherlock’s shoulders. “That’s a relief,” he breathes.
“We both know you care for him,” Albert says. “How is William, by the way?”
“Um…” Sherlock’s brows knit together. It’s an understandable reaction, Albert realizes — he had just spoken to William yesterday, so why would he be asking Sherlock this?
(Because Albert speaking to William wasn’t enough. Because he can’t keep from doubting himself.)
“He’s well,” Sherlock says. “‘S far as I know. Why? Did something happen?”
“No, no,” Albert says quickly. “Just…This line of questioning is strange, I realize. Apologies.”
“I don’t mind strange,” Sherlock says with a shrug. He sits at a stool next to the counter and Albert sits next to him.
“I was just curious if you’ve noticed any..worries that he may have.”
“Worries?” Sherlock leans his head on his hand, thinking.
A gentle hiss of steam comes from the pot on the stove and Mycroft materializes in Albert's mind, smoke streaming from lips as he smiles, and what has felt like a hand clutching Albert’s heart gently eases its grip.
“Think he worries about me a lot,” Sherlock says sheepishly. “My bad habits. My sleep schedule and my smoking. We both had poor sleep schedules in the beginning, but it was the first time he didn’t have plans keeping him up all day ‘n night, so he mended his, slowly but surely. And then slowly but surely mended mine, but ‘m not a morning person. Got to wake to that perfect angel of a man bringing me coffee in bed every morning, and all he would get back for hours ‘til I finally fully woke was some bleary-eyed grump. He’s a saint, I think, for putting up with me and all my..things. My things must worry him, but he acts as if they don’t.”
“And here you are, in the kitchen this early in the morning,” Albert says with a smile.
“Christ, yeah, don’t remind me.” Sherlock rubs his eyes. He lights a cigarette and Albert barely resists a sigh. Like brother, like brother. “Wanted to make him coffee this morning. He’s still sleeping. ‘S far as I know, anyway. ‘M gonna fight him if he’s ruining my gesture and lurking about already.” He looks at Albert warily. “Kidding. I’m kidding. I wouldn’t…I would never fight him.”
Albert chuckles. “I am sure he will be very appreciative either way. Anyways, while I do enjoy hearing about the life you two have created together, those are not the sort of worries I refer to.”
Sherlock hesitates. “You mean..a graver kinda worry. A jumping-off-a-bridge-kinda worry.” His expression sobers. “On the bridge that night, when he cut my arm with his blade, for a moment there I thought I was losing him, and I had never been so afraid. And then when I woke up and saw him still out with all that blood on his eye, and all the days that followed ‘til he woke up, I had never been so afraid, ‘cept for on the bridge. You know? Of course you know. You’re his older brother, you were scared too…I just mean— Trust me when I say I’ve thought about that kinda worry of his every day. And every day I do everything I can to show him this world is a place worth livin’ in.” Sherlock looks away, realizing himself, cheeks flushing. “Um..if that..provides any comfort.”
Albert’s chest floods with warmth. “More than you know. You should know your efforts have not been in vain. There was a shift in Will after the two of you met, and another, greater one after you saved him. He doesn’t tell me everything — an understatement, God, that is what we’re speaking of, after all — but I think he can’t quite keep himself from telling me about you.”
Sherlock stares for a moment, then glances away, chuckling, cheeks rosy. Albert can’t help but smile at the sight of all the love in Sherlock’s eyes. “What does..um, what does he say?”
“You believe I would betray our brotherly bond like that, Sherlock?”
Sherlock straightens. “Oh— of course not—”
“Because I will. He never asked me not to share. Besides, I have loyalty to you too, now, brother-in-law.”
The corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “Am I your brother-in-law ‘cause of Liam and me, or ‘cause of you and Mycroft?”
A nervous chuckle spills from Albert’s throat. “I would hardly consider Mycroft and myself married.”
“Oh, don’t tell him that.” Before Albert can question what that means, Sherlock urges, “So you really will blow the gaff?”
“Briefly,” Albert says. “I do not desire to replace communication between the two of you.”
Sherlock blinks. “‘Course not.”
“Then why, may I ask, have you not told him these things?”
Sherlock looks away, frowning, eyebrows furrowing. “…’M worried I’ll spook him. And there’s not much for me to base confidence on. Not like I’ve ever done this before. I mean..I’ve had relationships with guys, I suppose, but never like this. Just don’t wanna cock it up. I mean— I don’t wanna make a mess of it.”
Albert smiles. “If it is any reassurance, I think it would be a particularly difficult endeavor for you to find something you could do that would disappoint William.” Sherlock’s eyes light up, a small smile replacing his frown. “But nonetheless. All those things you resent about yourself, it seems that William loves. It sounds that you two attempt to go to bed at a reasonable hour now, but William told me of your time together at the beginning. He said that the two of you fit so perfectly, taking naps at odd hours together because your minds would not quiet enough at night. He said you were very caring, also. That he could tell you struggled simply caring for yourself, but you put so much into caring for him. He knew that you worried for him.”
“Of course I worried for him,” Sherlock says, distracting himself by toying with the string of William’s robe, but it was not enough to soothe the heat of his cheeks.
“Mycroft did say you were the emotional one,” Albert teases. Sherlock scowls. “We are alike in that regard, apparently.”
On the stove, the pot trembles. Albert nods to it, and Sherlock quickly stands, removing it and turning the stove off.
“Now you strain it,” Albert instructs, his gaze lingering on the stove. Sherlock obeys, straining the coffee carefully into two mugs.
“I didn’t make enough for more than two,” Sherlock says regretfully. Albert smiles.
“Do not worry. I can make my own, and I’m sure that brother of yours has already had something far stronger than coffee to wake himself up.”
Sherlock scoffs a laugh. Then he sets the pot aside and puts his hands on his hips, gazing down at the coffee. “It doesn’t smell hazardous,” he notes. Albert laughs.
“Give yourself some more credit than that. It smells good.”
“Here’s hoping it tastes good.” He faces Albert. “I should go bring this coffee to the brainiac before it gets cold.” He pauses and watches him for a moment. “I’m glad we could have a chat, Albert.”
“As am I,” Albert says with a smile. “We will have to continue it some other time.”
“‘Course.” Sherlock takes a mug in each hand and nods to Albert before carefully leaving the room.
Albert allows himself stillness until he can no longer hear Sherlock’s footsteps. Then his eyes go to the stove.
He can see that the stove is off. He watched Sherlock turn it off, after all.
But the longer he stares, the more he doubts. He needs some frame of reference, some way to confirm, because what if? What if it was left on and then the house caught fire? (Despite his joking with Mycroft, he only enjoys controlled house fires.) What if everyone expected him to have things in order and he let them down? What if he finally convinced himself it was off, but it wasn’t? What if he ignored the warning signs? What if he could finally look away, but when he looked back, all he could see was flames?
What if William stood within them?
Albert forces himself to stand, teeth and fists clenched, throat tight.
If he cannot trust himself, he can at least trust the others.
He saw Sherlock turn off the stove. It is off.
With every step he takes as he leaves the room, his feet feel like lead.
Albert finds William standing on a balcony, gazing out at the city, holding Sherlock’s cup of coffee between his hands.
“Good morning, Albert,” he says as Albert opens the door to the balcony and closes it behind him.
The sky is suspended in some perpetual sunset, bleeding pinks and oranges and almost-reds, all of which reflect on William’s face. From the balcony, the two of them can see early birds milling around the city, some steadfast on their way to work, some shopping or chatting pleasantly with others. Albert wonders if it is a relief to William to be up here, where all he can allow himself to do is observe, where he has no obligation to start assembling his puppets or to reach in and begin orchestrating.
“Good morning, Will. Where has your detective run off to?”
William turns his head so Albert can see his smile. “He and I aren’t always together, you know. But he went off to find his brother shortly after giving me this coffee. Something about Mycroft ruining your impression of Sherly?”
Albert chuckles. “Oh, dear. That was not at all what I meant for him to take away from that.” He moves to William’s side.
“So you two spoke?”
“Yes. As he was making that coffee, actually.”
William brings the cup to his lips and takes a gentle sip. “It’s so strong,” he says, “but he did a good job. With no help from you, I’m sure.”
“Oh, absolutely not. He had it all under control.”
William smiles. “What did the two of you discuss?”
“The thing we have in common.”
“A penchant for tying yourselves in knots?”
Albert clasps a hand over his chest. “I did not anticipate an attack on my character this early in the morning.”
William laughs. “I like that about you two. It shows that you care.”
“While I appreciate that, I mean that we spoke of you, Will. I…Well, I asked if you have been having any worries that he was aware of. Sometimes..I feel as though you feel you cannot tell me things.”
“There have been things I felt that I could tell no one,” William says. “I promise it is not personal, brother.”
Albert recognizes it first as confirmation that sometimes William feels that he cannot confide in him, and it hits him like a fist to the gut. He recognizes it second as something that must have made William feel very lonely, and it is a knife, replacing the fist.
“Not even Sherlock?” Albert asks after a moment.
“Since we have started living together, I have told Sherlock most things. If I have not told him them they are likely unimportant.” He pauses, then says shyly, “Or they are about him.”
“Oh, speaking of which— I hope you don’t mind that I told him some of the things you told me about him.”
William’s face goes stark white. “You what…?” His expression hardens. “And you wonder why I don’t tell you things, brother.”
“You wound me,” Albert says through laughter. “It is just that he was saying very cute things about you, so I figured I should repay him in kind.”
“Well, now you have to tell me the cute things!” William says, his voice almost an octave high. Albert laughs again.
“How about the two of you meet and exchange cute things without my aid?”
“Perish the thought,” William says in almost a whisper. “It would be far too mortifying.”
“Complimenting the man you like is mortifying?” Then, half to himself: “Maybe Mycroft and I really are closest to being married.”
“The man I like..?” William asks softly.
“Oh, dear. I avoided using the other L word so as not to spook you, but it appears you have been spooked nonetheless.” Albert doesn’t think he has ever seen William at a loss for words, but he does now. He attempts to guide him by saying, “Though that other word is, I believe, a better representation of your feelings for Sherlock than just like. Would you disagree?”
The morning sunlight illuminates William’s blush, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “...I would not.”
Albert grins. “There you have it.”
William turns back to face him, his expression deadly serious. “You will tell me the things he said, won’t you, brother?”
Albert’s brows raise in amusement. “This once, yes. Then I will leave these sort of exchanges to the two of you.” Albert leans against the railing. “He spoke of your time together, and the life you two made for yourselves in that time. He spoke very fondly, might I add. I think he feels bad that you put so much effort into waking him up at a healthy hour,” he says. “He told me you’re a perfect angel when you wake him up.” William’s eyes widen, red dusting across his cheeks. “And he said you then have to deal with him slowly rousing, and the irritations that he believes comes with that.”
“But he is so handsome in the mornings,” William says softly.
“Oh, good heavens, Will, please just go communicate with the man you love. If Mycroft is to be believed, I would guess that all you would have to do is go up to Sherlock and just ask, and he’d be happy to give his heart to you.”
“That is what I’m afraid of,” William whispers. The humor disappears from Albert’s expression.
“What?”
“I don’t trust myself with his heart. I don’t trust myself with fragile things. I am much more prone to breaking and burning and stabbing, aren’t I?”
Albert’s expression softens. Albert and Mycroft may be united in their sense of responsibility, and Albert and Sherlock in their emotionality, but Albert and William— they were children raising themselves as adults, and then they were men training themselves to be beasts. They do not know how to let themselves live as they want, as they are meant to.
Albert sighs, steeples his fingers, and finally meets William’s eyes. “Sherlock is a very smart man. I know you know that. Smart men do not give their hearts to those they do not trust. You may not trust yourself, Will, but take comfort in the knowledge that he trusts you.”
“Is that how you manage?” William asks. “Unless you somehow went and learned how to love without me.”
Albert laughs. “Hardly. During my two periods of distance from you I was in the army and then in the Tower — I promise I did not learn to love in either. But yes. I depend on that advice perhaps too much with mine. I hope I give him enough in return; I feel as though he’s always minding me.”
“I do not think that the government himself would spend so much time on one person if he did not adore them.” William smiles. “Mycroft is very sweet to you, brother. I am happy for you.”
“As is Sherlock to you. And you deserve it. If you could only take one thing from all of my words this morning, I would want it to be that. He deserves you, and you deserve him.”
Albert has never seen William smile the way he does then. It’s so tender that Albert half-expects tears to come to William’s eyes, and it triggers a painful tightness in his chest, relieved only when William’s expression relaxes.
“I hope you know, Albert,” William says, “that I may not have had the resolve to do the things I did — the things I had to do, in order for our plan to succeed — had it not been for your faith in me.”
A painful tightness returns, though not quite the same kind. Something bitter.
Albert holds back a dry chuckle. Faith. What a perfectly accurate word to use.
And anyway— the things he had to do? Like throwing himself off a bridge? Albert is so glad he inspired that.
He supposes he should just take the compliment. Should just be grateful that he has helped William and that William sees him in this way.
But it’s never enough. He can always do more.
Of course he does not doubt William. He did not doubt their plan— not until the end. And he is so, so glad that it turned out this way — with William warm and rosy-cheeked across from him, not floating cold and lifeless in the Thames. But he often wishes he had the ability to make William value himself more, so he would not have wanted himself — and only himself — as the martyr in the first place.
Perhaps Sherlock really is the only one who can convince William of those things. Sherlock is the one who stole William away from his watery grave, after all.
And Albert does not desire to change that. He does not wish to fill the spaces that Sherlock has filled — he is happy for them and very grateful for Sherlock’s ability to penetrate William’s stubbornness.
It’s just— he should be doing something, shouldn’t he?
He tries to remember Mycroft’s words. William does not need him.
The thought brings him no relief.
Because William needed him at one point, and Albert needed him in turn. Albert’s relationship with William and Louis was a symbiotic one, all of them benefitting from their partnership.
Is that it, then? Debt repaid?
Of course this is simplifying things. Albert knows this. He knows that the three of them have had a partnership lasting much longer than those moments as children, and he knows that they have continued to help each other.
He knows all of these things, logically. But that itch in his brain and that doubt in his gut urge him to ignore that logic. He needs to be better, he needs to give more, he needs to do it again and again and again—
“Albert,” William says. Albert is thrust back into reality, and at the sight of the softness in William’s eyes, he feels his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He blinks rapidly, glancing away. William leans back into his line of sight. “I did not mean to upset you. Rather the opposite.”
Albert forces a half-chuckle. “No…Pay me no mind. I am just in my own head.”
“Well, get out, then. There’s no need for that. You’re only talking to me.”
Albert blinks. It is something like an epiphany for him, realizing he will still be accepted by his own brother if he just says what is on his mind instead of overthinking every word.
He sighs. “I hope I have been a good brother to you, Will.”
William’s brows knit together in confusion. “Whyever would you think you haven’t?”
The clouds are beginning to eclipse the sun, leaving the two of them with an aftertaste of all those vibrant colors. Nothing lasts forever. A cluster of birds materialize and pass above them. They make Albert remember the only good thing about being in the Tower, and his heart calms, for a moment.
It calms for long enough for him to speak his mind. He does not overthink it this time.
“I never feel as though I have given enough. And I am not sure if that is because of my own..perfectionism, or some other affliction of mine, or if it is because I feel as though I never know what’s going on in your head. I know you, it is not that, but rather that I don’t know your concerns until it is too late, until you have told us after you have thought it all up and decided on your own, or until it seeps out of you because you have held it in for so long.” Albert takes a moment to process that he had really just said all that to William, takes a moment to process William’s wide but thoughtful eyes, and then says, “I am not upset with you. Just worried for you. And deeply sorry, if I have not made myself available to you.”
“Oh, Albert.” William presses his hand to Albert’s shoulder gently. “I have never felt as if you were unavailable to me.” He frowns. “I am sorry if I made you feel—”
“No— it was not you.” He blinks. “Truly, never?”
“Never.” William offers him a smile. “Should you ever worry of that again, you need but ask. And I shall work on being more open. With you, and Louis, and the others. There is nothing I have to keep anymore. I have learned from those past mistakes.”
Albert returns the smile. “I am..very, very glad to hear that.” William removes his hand, and they linger for a moment, grateful for the merits of good communication. Who would have thought? Then Albert adds, “Though I am not requesting you tell me everything. There are some things that can be between just you and Sherlock. Some things that should be between just you and Sherlock.”
William flushes. “Albert.”
“I just want you to know that I am here, should you need me, and should you like to share.”
“I know you are,” William says warmly.
The door opens behind them. “God, he’s insufferable, thinks he knows everything about me…Oh. Hi, Albert.”
Albert turns to face Sherlock. “Hello again. I will do you a favor and not tell Mycroft you were speaking of him in that way.”
Sherlock winces. “...Thanks.” He looks back and forth between William and Albert. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Albert says. “I think we were finished.” He smiles at William, who returns it easily. “Have a good morning, you two.”
As Albert goes back inside, he hears William’s gentle voice say to Sherlock,
“Sherly, you really ought to be nicer to your older brother.”