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It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. Mycroft gets off the carriage and walks towards his house. Before he reaches the doorstep, the door opens from the inside.
“Welcome home, Mycroft.” Albert greets with a beam.
Mycroft’s eyes go wide for a second and he quickly understands that MI6 must have finished their mission early. At least two hours early, enough time for Albert to report to Louis at Universal Exports, refresh himself, then come here and change his attire into a nightgown.
A warmth simmers inside Mycroft. He is so used to being welcomed by a dark hallway.
“Welcome back, Al.” Mycroft smiles and hurries inside.
Albert closes the door. The moment Mycroft takes off his hat and overcoat, Albert wraps his hands around Mycroft’s shoulders and enhances their welcome with a kiss. It is a filthy and unhurried exploration. When Mycroft’s back hits the wall, he pulls Albert closer to seek the heat. The cold of a London night melts away.
“’74 Perrier-Jouët and ‘70 Lafite.” Albert licks his lips. He still has a few bottles of these wines in his cellar. “Heated night with my old friends?”
Albert knows the nature of Parliamentary gatherings: endless cycles of debate and networking. Still, there are marked differences between the two Houses. The Lords are languid noblemen who favor vintage drinks and sessions that conclude by dusk, while the Commons are restless new blood who prefer robust flavors and sessions that stretch into the morning. So, for Mycroft to taste like exquisite wine at an ungodly hour means the aristocrats have declared war in the debating room.
“Yes, there has been some inconvenience.” Mycroft is both amazed and concerned when Albert can specify the alcohol he drank just from a kiss. Maybe he should change the lock of his wine cabinet. “Rank, it seems, does not confer judgment.”
“Well, I know what will give you relief. Allow me to serve you personally.” Albert breathes against Mycroft’s ear.
Mycroft’s jaw tightens to hold back the shiver running down his spine. Without further ado, he follows Albert upstairs. When they enter the bedchamber, Mycroft immediately notices heat radiating from a steaming porcelain jug. All the necessary items for a proper wash have been arranged on the washstand.
Albert rolls up his sleeves while Mycroft takes off the waistcoat. He reaches for Mycroft’s collar, his eyes fluttering. “May I?”
Mycroft answers by tilting his head a little upwards.
Albert’s eyes darken. He presses his lips together, suppressing the involuntary gathering of saliva. Of all Mycroft’s garments, Albert likes removing the bow most. He loves hovering his hands over Mycroft’s neck, feeling the soft skin and the steady thrum of Mycroft’s carotid artery beneath his fingers. It stirs something within him: a sense of power, a sense of control; as if the man embodies The Government is at his mercy. However, the true intoxication is that Mycroft allows it. Mycroft trusts Albert with his throat, and that alone is more addictive than any of his finest wine.
Mycroft Holmes has no idea the effect he has on Albert. On any other night, Albert would be delighted to leave his ownership on Mycroft’s neck. But tonight, he has a different design. Albert undresses Mycroft with care, shirt first, then trousers, until what is left of the man is naked authority.
Albert dips a cloth into the basin, wrings it dry and draws it across Mycroft’s face, whispering as he works. “Was it Lord Harrington?”
Mycroft’s eyebrows twitch.
“Come now, relieve yourself,” Albert murmurs, pressing the cloth gently against Mycroft’s cheek.
Mycroft closes his eyes.
“I know you are aching.” Albert moves to Mycroft’s jaw, trying to loosen the tense muscles by massaging the pressure points.
Mycroft inhales deeply.
Albert is undeterred by the silence. He continues to nudge. “You will feel better once you have your release.”
Albert cradles Mycroft’s face, watching the mental battle play out on Mycroft’s features, his thumbs brushing the weary shadows under the man’s eyes. When Mycroft swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with an audible sound, Albert knows he has won.
“Yes, it was him. A gentleman with a great deal of unused intelligence, remarkably unburdened by the weight of thought.”
Albert grits his teeth to prevent himself from laughing. Turns out, the rigid and stoic Mycroft Holmes can make very sly remarks when he is too tired of, to quote him, ‘people with impressive resistance to reason’.
“I am jealous of his mind. It appears to have gone on a long holiday with no intention of returning.”
Oh, the consequences of being over-caffeinated, overworked and underpaid.
“Please, sir. I want some more.” Albert encourages, using a Charles Dickens quote. He wets the cloth again and traces Mycroft’s forearm, focusing on the elbow where grime and sweat usually collect, then smoothing the cloth over the whole hand. Each finger is taken in turn, wiped from base to tip, from the nail bed to the edgy corners often neglected.
“He succeeded in derailing the entire affair, testing the limits of civil restraint.”
Mycroft stands still like a marble statue, permitting Albert to do whatever he pleases. The sensation of being pampered is peculiar but not unwelcome. He finds a strange peace in relinquishing control to another, allowing his mind to take a break.
This is dangerous. His mind warns. He is becoming addicted to this. The mind of The Government should be a flawless instrument, yet it is trembling under the heat of Albert’s fingertips.
“Only simplicity can permit a man such a carefree life.”
“Quite so.” Albert switches to a fresh cloth and works it across Mycroft’s back, taking extra care at the stiff shoulder blades. “But I assume he hardly bears the whole blame. One does not create such disorder without assistance.”
“There’s also Lord Richmond.” What an absurdity. Mycroft would never breathe a word about his work to the Lord of Crimes, but he is spilling every tea to Albert. He is feeding Al the intelligence. Why does this damp cloth feel so comfortable?
“A hard case, indeed. He aimed at me the moment we met. The news of my imprisonment must have emptied his champagne.”
“A hardness that is resistant to sense. Tell me, Al. Is it painful to be so consistently surprised by the obvious? The world must seem so large and mysterious to him.”
Mycroft props his leg on a chair so Albert doesn’t need to kneel to clean the lower part. Three years ago, he would have pushed Albert down on his knees and threaded his fingers into Albert’s hair. Their private meetings had once been carnal only, combinations of sweat and pleasure and silence. Now, Mycroft just makes low and satisfying rumbles as Albert wipes the cloth across his groin, appreciating that their bedroom interaction is no longer purely physical.
Albert dries Mycroft thoroughly with another soft towel. “He cheated on his wife with an actress from Much Ado About Nothing.”
“Oh?”
“Bond knows someone at the theater, and Madame Richmond is a regular at my favorite tailor. You should never anger the ladies. She is filing for divorce. Richmond will be the scandal of the month.”
“And it’ll be a bloodbath in the papers.” Mycroft murmurs, calculating the strings he can pull next week.
When everything is done, Albert closes their distance and inhales, ensuring every trace of ink, cigarettes and alcohol has been erased. Cleaning is what he likes to do and cleaning Mycroft is what he loves to do. There is a quiet swell of pride in dusting the outside world away from the man, leaving him pristine and ready.
“There. All is in order.” Albert smiles sheepishly, but his expression soon sours when he notices Mycroft’s political mind is running again. He pinches Mycroft’s cheeks. “If you’re thinking about those bills again, you don’t get your plum pudding tomorrow.”
Mycroft’s eyes dilate, but he clears his throat to cover the slip. “You’re not bribing me with sweets.”
“Fresh plum pudding, made by my own hand. May be served as breakfast in bed or not, depending on whether you go to sleep right now.” Albert knows where to push. Mycroft Holmes, in private, is hopelessly devoted to sugar and holds a great grudge against legwork. The only reason he is in shape is because mind exercise is also a form of exercise. “And if you behave, you may get an extra apple tart.”
“This is unfair.” Mycroft sighs while putting on his nightgown.
“Quid pro quo.” Albert climbs on the bed and pats the space beside him. “I want to cuddle a warm clean pillow after a mission assigned by that very same pillow.”
Mycroft turns off the light and settles into the sheets. The warm, dry sensation against his skin is so mellow that he dozes off in an instant. In his haziness, he senses Albert shifting beside him, then a familiar arm pulling him close.
“Sweet dreams, Mycroft. And I'll give you two puddings.”