The Things We Do For Love

by kaecia

Summary:

That was the first crack in the surface.

The first moment Mycroft Holmes let someone under his skin.

And Albert? He lived for pressure points.

Albert’s pen scratched across the first form with infuriating slowness. His handwriting was disgustingly neat, cocky even in its curves. He filled in his credentials like a man very aware of the power they carried.

Mycroft watched him from behind laced fingers.

“Middle name,” Mycroft prompted, voice dry.

Albert tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “What, planning to use it when you yell at me?”

Mycroft didn’t blink. “When I write you up.”

“Mm. Kinky.”

There was silence. Thick, poised.

Mycroft clicked his pen once. Deliberate. Final.

“I don’t tolerate games, Doctor Moriarty.”

Albert looked up, fully, green eyes bright and unreadable. “No, I bet you don’t. But you do play them.”

Notes:

New chapters will be posted often <3 commenting means the world to me so don't be shy!!

Chapter 1: First Impressions Mean Nothing

The call had already started.

A row of stiffly lit faces lined Mycroft's screen. Department heads, directors, trustees. International connections. HR legal. Half of them sat in suits, half in scrubs. The kind of emergency compliance meeting that meant someone, somewhere, had threatened to sue the hospital again.

Mycroft's camera was on. So was his mic.

He was dressed to the nines as always, black three-piece suit, dark red tie, Windsor knot, gold pin. Neatly composed despite the late hour. Perfect posture. Calm tone.

"Yes, Director Haynes," he said. "I've personally reviewed the incident. The ER report has been amended to reflect the revised timeline, and the updated documentation has been forwarded to Legal."

He didn't blink when the door creaked.

Albert slipped in like a shadow, bloody and breathless.

He wore his scrubs still , blue with the sleeves pushed up, shoulder soaked through with drying red. Not his blood. His surgical mask hung around his neck, and his hair was mussed, chaotic, curls damp with sweat.

Mycroft didn’t look at him.

Albert locked the door behind him. Slowly. Then turned, eyes dark with something far more dangerous than exhaustion.

Need.

Mycroft cleared his throat softly. "Pardon me, Director, there’s some background activity in my office."

Albert mouthed something obscene.

Mycroft didn’t respond, couldn’t. But his grip on the desk tightened.

Albert smiled. Dark, slow, filthy. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He disappeared under the desk without another sound.

Mycroft kept talking.

"The staff involved have received preliminary warnings. A disciplinary hearing will be set pending legal recommendation."

A single hot breath hit his inner thigh.

Mycroft almost faltered.

Albert's bloodied fingers ghosted up his trouser leg. He moved with surgical precision, pulling down the zipper silently, and Mycroft fought the urge to twitch.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“Doctor Holmes?” came a voice from the screen. “Did you catch that last note?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, voice silk-smooth, though slightly clipped. “You were referring to the clause in Section 12B. The one involving external patient processing delays. I have the figures on-
hand.”

He clicked a tab open with one hand.

Albert pulled him out with the other.

Mycroft's breath hitched. Only barely.

Then Albert’s mouth was on him, hot, wet, reverent.

The suction was obscene.

Mycroft's hand shook slightly as he scrolled through a spreadsheet. "The increase in wait times from the surgical wing was due to a miscommunication about consult scheduling. I’ve personally corrected the protocol."

Albert moaned quietly around him.

Someone on the call adjusted their mic.

“Doctor Holmes, are you feeling alright? You look slightly flushed.”

“I assure you,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth, “I’m in peak condition.”

Albert hummed like the smug little brat he was, and Mycroft barely stopped his hips from jerking.

He looked down.

Albert looked up.

That was the game, wasn’t it? Always was.

How much can you take, Mycroft?

Albert's fingers dug into his thighs for leverage. His mouth moved with slow, agonizing grace. His cheeks hollowed. His lips dragged. His tongue traced cruel, deliberate circles.

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

Then snapped open.

“I’ve uploaded a revised summary to the folder,” he said, voice only a touch deeper. “Please refer to slide 4A.”

Albert pulled off slowly, spit trailing from his lips. “You’re shaking,” he whispered. “You gonna come while talking about funding, love?”

“Albert,” Mycroft hissed under his breath.

Albert grinned. "Still hard. Still ignoring me. You’re incredible."

He stood. Casually. Calmly. Let his pants fall halfway off his hips as he climbed into Mycroft’s lap.

The camera only showed Mycroft’s torso.

No one could see Albert’s knees straddling the sides of the chair. Or the bloody fingerprints he left on Mycroft’s shirt collar as he reached around to guide him in, slowly, deeply, until he was filled to the hilt.

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek.

Albert moaned. Low and ragged.

A voice on the call said something muffled, then, “Doctor Holmes? Are you all right? You’ve gone very quiet.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, staring straight into the lens. “Yes. I’m simply… reviewing the data.”

Albert started moving.

Small, measured rocks of his hips. Barely perceptible. Just enough to drive Mycroft mad.

He clenched around him, leaned forward slightly to whisper in his ear. “Come inside me on camera. Come while I’m still bloody. Come for everyone to see in that perfect little suit.”

Mycroft’s hand twitched violently.

“Doctor Holmes, if you’re unwell we can reschedule-”

“No need,” he rasped. “Let’s proceed to agenda item five.”

Albert’s fingers curled around Mycroft’s tie, yanking it loose.

“I’m going to ride you until you break protocol,” he whispered. “I’m going to milk you dry and make you thank me for it.”

Mycroft grabbed the edge of the desk.

He came two minutes later.

Silent. Eyes open. Breath caught.

Albert bit his shoulder to keep from moaning, thighs shaking as he came on his husband’s cock, still buried in his lap, panting like an animal.

The call went on for another twelve minutes.

When it ended, Mycroft didn’t move.

Albert slumped against his chest, sticky, warm, trembling.

“…You’re lucky,” Mycroft whispered darkly, “that I’m going to fuck you again the moment we get home.”

Albert just smiled into his neck.

“Promise?”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The HR orientation room smelled like sterile regret and fluorescent lighting.

Mycroft Holmes sat behind the long glass table, pristine as ever, dark suit, darker stare, tie knotted like a noose. A clipboard rested in front of him, untouched. The rest of the new hires were still filing out of the conference room, muttering about ID badges and cafeteria maps.

Then the door opened one last time.

And in walked him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Scrubs a little wrinkled. Curly hair falling just slightly over one eye. Lanyard swinging off one finger. And a smug, smug smirk that could’ve sterilized a scalpel from across the room.

“Dr. Albert Moriarty,” he said, with zero introduction protocol, zero fear, and a whole hell of a lot of audacity. “Pediatrics.”

Mycroft didn’t look up immediately.

Albert waited exactly three seconds before sauntering forward, not walking. Sauntering. Like a man who’d already decided the game was won.

“I heard you were the scary one,” Albert said conversationally, planting both hands on the edge of the desk. “They said I’d be filling out paperwork with a ghost in a Gucci suit.”

Mycroft looked up, one brow arching with practiced disapproval. “I don’t wear Gucci.”

Albert grinned. “So you’re not denying the ghost part.”

Mycroft didn’t dignify it with a response.

He simply held out the clipboard.

Albert didn’t take it. Instead, he leaned down, just slightly, violating every rule of HR decorum, and personal space.

“I was expecting someone older. Less… sharp.” His gaze dropped very intentionally to Mycroft’s mouth. “You ever get tired of being the prettiest man in the building?”

Mycroft blinked. Slowly.

“Do all pediatricians have this little impulse control,” he asked coldly, “or is it just the ones who can’t keep their blood off their name badges?”

Albert looked down, right, still had a streak of dried red on his chest. Oops.

“The patient lived,” he said brightly. “And I washed my hands. Mostly.”

Mycroft inhaled through his nose. “Dr. Moriarty. I suggest you sit, sign the forms, and keep your voice respectful. Or I’ll be forced to flag your file before you’ve even touched a chart.”

Albert sat.

Didn’t stop smiling.

He grabbed a pen and started signing, but not before glancing up one more time, lips quirking at the edges.

“You’ve got a beautiful voice, y’know. Bet it sounds even better when you’re begging.”

Mycroft’s hand twitched. Just barely. But Albert caught it.

That little spark?

That was the first crack in the surface.

The first moment Mycroft Holmes let someone under his skin.

And Albert? He lived for pressure points.

Albert’s pen scratched across the first form with infuriating slowness. His handwriting was disgustingly neat, cocky even in its curves. He filled in his credentials like a man very aware of the power they carried.

Mycroft watched him from behind laced fingers.

“Middle name,” Mycroft prompted, voice dry.

Albert tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “What, planning to use it when you yell at me?”

Mycroft didn’t blink. “When I write you up.”

“Mm. Kinky.”

There was silence. Thick, poised.

Mycroft clicked his pen once. Deliberate. Final.

“I don’t tolerate games, Doctor Moriarty.”

Albert looked up, fully, green eyes bright and unreadable. “No, I bet you don’t. But you do play them.”

Mycroft’s gaze sharpened. “Excuse me?”

Albert leaned back in the chair, lazy and comfortable like he owned the office.

“You dress like a man with something to prove. You speak like a man who always wins. And you haven’t told me to leave yet.” He smiled, slow and wicked. “Which tells me you’re curious how far I’ll go.”

Mycroft opened his mouth. Then closed it.

The silence stretched.

Albert’s smile widened not boyish, but feral.

He went back to filling out the forms, but not before letting one hand accidentally brush the edge of Mycroft’s desk again. Possessive, almost. Or challenging.

“You’re going to remember me,” Albert said casually. “That’s the thing about me. I don’t fade.”

Mycroft didn’t respond. But his jaw flexed once. Twice.

Then, after a long pause: “You’re the new pediatric co-chief it seems, you’ll be in the third wing. Mondays through Fridays. Start time, 6:00 AM sharp.”

Albert nodded, not looking up. “Early mornings. I can work with that.”

“And no more remarks like that,” Mycroft added crisply.

Albert grinned again, teeth showing this time.

“I didn’t say anything explicit.”

“You implied.”

“I flirted.”

“You overstepped.”

Albert signed the last form with a flourish and stood, hands sliding back into his pockets like a delinquent schoolboy who just got away with something.

He stepped toward the door.

Then paused.

Glanced back over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he added, eyes glittering, “and just for the record, I do look good on my knees. In case you were curious.”

And then he left.

Just like that.

Leaving Mycroft alone in his office, still as stone hands tight on the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and breath just barely caught in his throat.

The door clicked shut.

Silence fell like a gavel.

Mycroft sat absolutely still, the picture of composure, back straight, expression unreadable. Only his fingers betrayed him, curling just slightly against the polished edge of the desk. One twitch. Then another.

He let out a slow, measured breath.

Then immediately turned to his monitor.

With a few sharp keystrokes, the HR system lit up in front of him. Employee database. Restricted access. Mycroft had keys to all of it.

He told himself it was routine. Protocol. A simple review of a new hire’s file.

He clicked Albert’s profile.

His photo was smug even in JPEG form. Hair messy, collar crooked, smile like a secret. Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

Full name: Albert Moriarty

Specialty: Pediatric Trauma Surgery

Alma Mater: Cambridge. Double honors.

Fellowship: Pediatric Intensive Care, Strasbourg.

Previous posts: Geneva Children’s Hospital. Temporary field rotation in Syria, Ridgemount Hospital (Most Recent).

Languages: English, French, Arabic, Russian.

Disciplinary incidents: None recorded.

Personal notes: Classified: HR Executive Access Only

Mycroft’s brow twitched. Classified?

 

He leaned closer.

Opened the file.

What he found made his jaw clench slightly.

Albert’s file was partially redacted. Not the medical credentials those were flawless. But the HR remarks had entire paragraphs hidden behind black bars. Incident codes. Clearance designations.
One note remained intact, buried deep in the background report: "Candidate exhibits unorthodox bedside manner. Exceptionally intelligent, occasionally volatile. Charismatic to a fault. Multiple superiors note that he is 'impossible to ignore.'"

Mycroft scoffed. “Understatement.”

Another line caught his eye, a quote from an anonymous supervisor: “Moriarty is a brilliant surgeon, but he plays with people the same way he plays with puzzles. If you’re not careful, you’ll become one.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair, fingers steepling.

He should’ve been concerned.

Should’ve flagged him immediately. Should’ve contacted Legal. Should’ve reminded himself that men like Albert were dangerous, erratic, inappropriate, openly defiant.
But instead…

He read the file again.

Twice.

And when he finally stood to leave, he realized with some distaste that he was half-hard under his suit.

He adjusted his tie, face stony.

“Impossible to ignore,” he muttered.

Then, almost to himself low and sharp: “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Three days passed.

Three days of silence.

Three days of Mycroft telling himself it was routine oversight not obsession, that had him rerouting his own inspection schedule to include the pediatric wing.

He kept it clinical. Clipped. Efficient.

Until Albert caught him in the act.

“Dr. Holmes,” Albert called out, far too loud for a hallway that echoey.

Mycroft turned, impassive.

Albert was leaning against a wall near Pediatrics, stethoscope around his neck, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the forearms like a damn Calvin Klein ad. One hand tucked into his scrubs pocket. The other casually holding a fruit cup he wasn’t eating.

“Surprised to see you here,” he said, voice syrupy. “Are we expecting a scandal in Peds?”

“Random compliance sweep,” Mycroft replied coolly.

Albert raised a brow. “Mm. You always look this interested in our diaper charts?”

Mycroft gave a thin, polite smile. “I look interested in everything I’m responsible for.”

Albert took a step forward.

Mycroft did not retreat.

Albert’s eyes flicked down his body once slowly. Like he had a right to. “You know… in another life, I’d say you were stalking me.”

Mycroft blinked. “In this life, I write your paychecks.”

Albert whistled. “That almost sounded like power-play dirty talk.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “It was a warning.”

“Mm. Still hot.”

And then he walked past him. Brushed shoulders. Didn’t look back.

Mycroft stood still for a full ten seconds before dragging in a breath through his nose and resuming the inspection.

He told himself he wasn’t rattled.

He told himself again the next day when he caught Albert eating a sandwich at his favorite table in the executive lounge.

“Coincidence,” Albert shrugged, biting into rye. “You don’t own salami, do you?”

And again, two days later, when Albert walked by his office with a clipboard and winked right into the glass like he knew Mycroft was watching. And again, and again.

The final straw was the elevator.

Mycroft had pressed the button for Floor 5. Alone. Peace. A moment of blessed stillness.

The doors began to close.

And a hand slid in at the last second.

Albert stepped inside.

They stood in silence as the doors sealed.

Mycroft didn’t look at him. Albert didn’t speak.

Until the floor lights ticked past 2.

And Albert leaned a fraction closer and murmured:

“You know you smell like cedar and expensive sin, right?”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

Albert chuckled low in his throat, not a laugh. A threat.

“I like it.”

The elevator dinged open.

Albert walked out first, smiling to himself.

Mycroft remained behind, stone-still, blood boiling.

He was going to snap.

Or worse.

He was going to kiss him.

Chapter 2: Testing Neuros Patience

Summary:

“You want me to give you another reason?”

“Albert.”

This time it was sharper. Firmer.

Still, Albert didn’t pull away.

Instead, he reached up boldly and tugged Mycroft’s tie just slightly to the side, exposing the pale skin of his neck.

“You keep letting me get this close,” Albert whispered, “and one day, I’m not going to behave.”

“I didn’t ask you to behave.”

Albert’s eyes flared.

Then fast, rough, reckless he leaned in and kissed him.

Not on the mouth.

Lower.

The moment the incident report hit his desk, Mycroft didn’t hesitate.

"Unauthorized access to restricted executive lounge," it read. "Multiple infractions of staff dress code. Three documented instances of ‘inappropriate comments.’ One HR violation: suggestive language directed at a supervisor."

He clicked submit.

Then added an internal memo.

Subject: Dr. Albert Moriarty

Action: Verbal warning, with formal documentation on file.

Meeting requested: Immediate.

Albert arrived ten minutes late.

Naturally.

He knocked once, performative then let himself in with a slow grin. “Heard I’m in trouble.”

“You are,” Mycroft said icily. “Sit.”

Albert sat like a prince being coronated. Legs spread, hands in his coat pockets, gaze fixed shamelessly on Mycroft’s mouth.

Mycroft didn’t rise to it. He pulled the form toward him.

“You’ve violated at least five standing HR guidelines,” he said bluntly. “Normally I’d give a verbal warning. But given your pattern, I’m escalating.”

Albert just raised a brow. “Kinky.”

Mycroft ignored him and clicked open the formal infraction form.

“Legal requires your full name on record for disciplinary filings,” he said stiffly. “Spell it.”

Albert leaned forward.

“Albert,” he said slowly, “Moriarty…”

He paused.

Mycroft glanced up. “Middle name.”

Albert’s lips curved, lazy and wicked.

“You’ll have to fuck that info out of me.”

Silence.

Mycroft didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Albert tilted his head. “What’s wrong, Dr. Holmes? Your pen stop working?”

Mycroft’s jaw worked, tight.

He reached, calmly for a new form.

Albert watched every movement like a hawk watches prey. Leaned back in his chair. Legs still wide. Hands now behind his head.

“So formal,” he murmured. “You ever bend someone over that desk before, or am I gonna be your first?”

“Keep talking,” Mycroft said icily, “and this becomes a suspension.”

Albert licked his bottom lip, eyes gleaming. “Ooh. Daddy’s mad.”

Mycroft snapped the pen in half.

Albert blinked.

Then grinning, slowly stood.

He walked to the desk. Not around it. To it. Placed both hands on the polished surface.

Leaning forward, voice low: “Tell you what. I’ll give you my middle name…”

He leaned closer still eyes locked on Mycroft’s.

“…if you let me whisper it in your ear while I’m on my knees.”

Mycroft stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.

Albert didn’t flinch.

They were nose to nose. Breath mingling. Heat radiating between them like something magnetic and dangerous.

Then calmly, impossibly composed Mycroft said: “Leave.”

Albert’s smile didn’t falter.

He straightened, stepped back, and walked toward the door.

But before he left, he looked over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he added casually, “It’s Julian. Albert Julian Moriarty. You can moan it later.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Mycroft stared at the shattered pen in his hand.

Then picked up the form.

And wrote: Albert Julian Moriarty.

Under comments, he added: “Reckless. Insubordinate. Dangerous.”

“Utterly impossible.”

Then, almost too softly to be legible: “Unreasonably attractive.”

It was nearly two in the morning.

The corridors were quiet fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting long, sterile shadows across the polished floor. Most of the administrative staff had gone home. HR was empty. Even the residents were scattered, tucked in dark corners or huddled over cold coffee in the staff lounge.

Mycroft had stayed late to finalize quarterly audits. Alone. Unbothered. Or at least, trying to be.

He stepped out of his office, documents in hand, suit coat draped neatly over one arm. His tie was loosened slightly. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Still composed. Still sharp.
He didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

Albert emerged from a cross-corridor like a ghost scrubs rumpled, curls messier than usual, ID badge half twisted on his chest. There was a smear of dried something on his wrist. Blood? Ink? Coffee? All of the above?

“Mycroft,” he greeted, voice low and amused.

Mycroft didn’t stop walking.

“Doctor Moriarty.”

Albert fell into step beside him, hands in his pockets. “Working late? Or hiding from me?”

“Neither.”

“Liar.”

Mycroft sighed through his nose.

Albert leaned in, walking just close enough for their arms to almost touch.

“You ever sleep?” he asked.

“I rest sufficiently.”

Albert smiled. “Liar again. You look exhausted.”

“I look fine.”

“Yeah,” Albert said, letting the word drag out. “Too fine.”

Mycroft stopped walking.

Albert did too.

The hallway was dead quiet. A faint monitor beeped down the hall. Somewhere a door clicked shut.

Albert took a step forward.

Mycroft didn’t move.

Another step slower.

“Albert,” Mycroft warned, “Don’t.”

Albert ignored him.

He reached out not to touch, not yet just hovering fingers near Mycroft’s wrist. “You’ve got ink on your hand,” he murmured. “Been writing me up again?”

“I considered it.”

“You want me to give you another reason?”

“Albert.”

This time it was sharper. Firmer.

Still, Albert didn’t pull away.

Instead, he reached up boldly and tugged Mycroft’s tie just slightly to the side, exposing the pale skin of his neck.

“You keep letting me get this close,” Albert whispered, “and one day, I’m not going to behave.”

“I didn’t ask you to behave.”

Albert’s eyes flared.

Then fast, rough, reckless he leaned in and kissed him.

Not on the mouth.

Lower.

Neck. Right beneath the jaw. Where the skin is thin. Vulnerable. Tender.

Mycroft’s breath hitched.

And Albert didn’t stop. His lips dragged, sucked, bit.

A quiet sound escaped Mycroft’s throat. Too quiet. But it was there.

Then Albert pulled back.

Slow. Like he’d just tasted something sinful.

“Oops,” he said, mock-innocent. “Might’ve left a mark.”

Mycroft’s hand flew up to his neck.

Sure enough warmth. A flush. And the faint sting of bruising skin.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I know.”

Albert stepped away, satisfied. Already turning down the corridor.

But before he disappeared, he called over his shoulder: “You might want to cover that before the board sees it. Or don’t. I kinda like the idea of them knowing.”

And then he was gone.

Mycroft didn’t move for a full minute.

Just stood there.

One hand on his neck.

Trying and failing to will his pulse to slow down.

Mycroft was now seated in his usual chair during one the many utterly slow and long boardroom meetings he was forced to endure due to his title of chief of neurosurgery.

The HR boardroom was silent until someone cleared their throat.

Mycroft didn’t flinch.

He sat at the head of the long polished table, posture perfect, every paper aligned. He wore a navy three-piece suit. Burgundy tie. Not a hair out of place. But that didn’t stop the sharp-eyed silence from hanging over him like a scalpel.

“Doctor Holmes,” said Ms. Ackerman, one of the senior trustees, “You… may want to check your collar.”

He blinked once.

Then lifted a hand slow, precise and adjusted the crisp edge of his collar back into place.

Too late.

The edge of the faint, dark bruise on the side of his neck had already been seen.

He knew it the moment her brow arched.

“I didn’t realize our new staff were quite so… enthusiastic,” someone murmured at the end of the table, not entirely under their breath.

The tension crackled.

“I trust,” Mycroft said coolly, “that hospital policy remains focused on professional conduct.”

“Of course,” said Ackerman, lips twitching. “Though if you’d like to formally report a… boundary violation, we can certainly open a file.”

“I don’t,” Mycroft replied flatly.

Another voice from the surgical department coughed into their coffee. “No judgment, Doctor. Frankly, if I had someone like that hovering around me every shift, I’d lose a button or two myself.”
Mycroft leveled them with a glare.

The room moved on reluctantly but the damage was done.

Mycroft barely heard the next item on the agenda.

He excused himself ten minutes early, under the guise of scheduling conflicts.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached the surgical wing.

Albert was leaning over the counter outside Pediatrics, lazily flipping through a chart. His scrubs were clean this time, jaw smooth, curls damp from a recent shower, like he was deliberately trying to look harmless.

Mycroft didn’t knock.

“Doctor Moriarty.”

Albert turned. “Oh. Doctor Holmes.” His voice was bright, mock-pleasant. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Did someone finally report me for excessive charm?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

He held out a clipboard. Neatly filled.

Albert glanced down. Then smirked.

“Oh, another write-up? I’m honored. What’s the charge this time? Breaching neck protocol?”

Mycroft’s tone was glacial. “You crossed a line.”

Albert stepped closer too close.

“Which one?”

“You left a mark visible enough to draw boardroom commentary.”

Albert tilted his head, pretending to think. “That’s strange. I don’t remember it being that visible. I thought I was gentle.”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched.

Albert’s voice dropped just slightly. “You didn’t tell me to stop.”

“You never gave me time to start.”

Albert laughed low, wicked, and quiet enough that only Mycroft could hear. “You're still mad I got there first.”

“Sign the write-up, Albert.”

Albert took the clipboard.

Read it.

Then, with his pen hovering over the signature line, he looked up with that gleam again.

“Oops,” he said. “Looks like my hand slipped.”

And then he was gone again disappearing down the hallway with the exact amount of swagger to suggest he'd already won.

Mycroft stared after him.

Still furious.

But somewhere deep beneath it…

…not nearly as furious as he should’ve been.

“...And here is our pediatric expansion corridor,” Mycroft said crisply, gesturing toward the sunlit atrium filled with bright wallpaper and sanitized toys. A dozen board members trailed him in heels and loafers, murmuring politely, jotting notes. “We’ve nearly tripled capacity since last year, and the new trauma wing should be completed by Q4.”

He was impeccable as always suit perfect, voice measured, hair slicked immaculately. A walking model of executive discipline.

That is, until the intercom crackled.

A burst of static.

Then.

“Mmm… you like that, don’t you? Bet you’re listening right now, Mycroft.”

Dead silence.

Mycroft froze.

Every head turned slowly toward the ceiling speaker.

The voice continued, lower now, velvet-wrapped sin:

“Bet you're walking all stiff in that tight little three-piece. Talking to those boring donors. All buttoned-up and nowhere to come.”

Someone dropped their pen.

Mycroft’s spine visibly stiffened. “E-excuse me,” he said tightly, forcing a smile. “There seems to be… a misfire on the intercom system.”

Too late.

“Just imagine it, sweetheart me, bent over your desk again. Moaning into your tie while you-”

BZZZT!! the sound cut off violently.

The board stared.

Mycroft cleared his throat, neck flushing from his collar to his ears.

“We, ah. Apologies. Must be a prank.” He didn’t even glance at the security camera above him. “If you’ll follow me to the surgical simulation lab.”

Behind the glass wall of Pediatrics, several nurses had stopped walking.

One of them mouthed, was that Dr. Moriarty??

The chair was cold. The kind of deliberately uncomfortable plastic designed to break even the most seasoned surgeon. Mycroft didn’t flinch. He never did.

A CCTV monitor flickered overhead. On the screen: the nurses’ station, the surgical wing, the staff break room all looping on a twelve-second delay.

Across the table, Head of Security Marcus Denton adjusted his reading glasses with all the grace of a man who hated his job and his overtime.

“So, Doctor Holmes,” Denton said, tapping his tablet, “care to explain the... incident?”

Mycroft folded his hands. “Which incident, exactly?”

Denton didn’t blink. “The one where someone hijacked the hospital intercom and played a pre-recorded voice message that, and I quote” he glanced at the transcript, “referred to ‘tight black ties, thighs wide open, and bending protocol in half.’”

Silence.

A monitor behind them beeped quietly.

Denton raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible?”

Mycroft took a breath. He could say Albert. Hell, the entire East Wing knew it was Albert. The voice on the recording was unmistakably his: velvet-smooth, cocky, with that infuriating dip into something French halfway through.

But Mycroft didn’t say it.

Instead, he slid a folder across the table. “Doctor David Langston.”

Denton frowned. “Langston? From Radiology?”

Mycroft nodded, smooth as silk. “Access logs show he was in the admin server room during the time of upload. He’s also had multiple warnings on file for pranks, misconduct, and security violations. It wouldn’t be out of character.”

He lied like he wrote policy manuals flawlessly.

Denton scribbled something. “Well, if you say so. I’ll question Langston this evening.”

“Do.”

The conversation ended. The decision was made.

And Mycroft Holmes, HR director and patron saint of regulation, walked out of the Security Office with zero regret.

Chapter 3: Seminar

Summary:

“You can’t be serious,” Mycroft snapped, staring down at the HR compliance folder.

“You’re both going,” said the Director crisply. “It’s mandatory. You’ll attend the Sexual Harassment Awareness Seminar as representatives of Royal Northridge. Flight’s in two hours.”

Albert, who had been sitting far too casually in the corner of the conference room, raised his hand slowly. “Will there be a group exercise where we roleplay appropriate and inappropriate workplace behavior?”

“Sit. Down,” Mycroft growled.

“I am sitting,” Albert said, crossing one leg over the other. “But now I’m imagining how you’d roleplay inappropriate behavior. It’s very, motivational.”

Notes:

I MADE IT LONGER SO ENJOY!!

Albert was leaning against the wall, sipping iced coffee like he hadn’t caused a full institutional meltdown forty minutes earlier.

“Oh?” he said, eyeing Mycroft. “Still employed, I see.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft muttered.

Albert blinked, slow. Then he smirked. “Ohhh. You didn’t rat me out, did you?”

Silence.

“That’s cute.”

“It was strategy.”

“You’re blushing.”

“You’re projecting.”

Albert leaned close, breath warm against Mycroft’s cheek. “You like me.”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

He just reached over… and hit the emergency stop on the elevator.

Albert’s eyes widened.

Mycroft pulled him in by the front of his scrubs.

“I didn’t rat you out,” he growled, “because if anyone is going to punish you, Albert, it’s going to be me.”

Albert’s mouth fell open. “Promise?”

Albert’s back hit the wall with a soft thump.

He wasn’t smiling anymore not in the arrogant way. This one was softer. Hungrier. Like he’d just won something and didn’t know what to do with it yet.

“Say it,” he murmured.

Mycroft stood close. Too close. One hand still on Albert’s scrubs, the other braced by his head. “Say what?”

“That you didn’t turn me in because you wanted to protect me.”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched. “I did it to protect the hospital.”

Albert’s lips twitched. “Mhm.”

Silence. Thick, charged, breathing in sync.

The elevator hummed faintly beneath their feet. The air conditioning kicked off.

Albert’s hand slid slowly up Mycroft’s chest. “You’re shaking.”

“Your caffeine breath is offensive.”

Albert laughed softly. “That’s not what you were about to say.”

Mycroft didn’t move. His eyes flicked down to Albert’s mouth. Paused. Then lower to the freckle just under his jaw. Target acquired.

He leaned in. Barely an inch away. Their noses almost brushed.

Albert held his breath.

And then-

Ding.

The elevator jerked. Doors opened.

A nurse stood waiting outside, blinking at the scene. HR Director Holmes bracing a pediatrician against the wall like a man ready to do unspeakable things.

Mycroft shoved Albert back so hard it looked like assault.

“Doctor Moriarty was experiencing lightheadedness,” he said flatly, brushing down his vest. “I was stabilizing him.”

Albert slid out with a lazy stretch. “Mmm. Very stable now, thank you, Doctor Holmes.”

David Langston looked like a man cornered by wolves.

Sweating. Pale. Clutching a coffee cup he hadn’t sipped once. A security officer sat beside him, and a full panel of HR members lined the opposite side of the table.

In the back of the room was Albert. Uninvited. Sitting in on a disciplinary hearing he absolutely orchestrated. Legs crossed. Pen between his teeth. Not taking notes just smiling.

Langston cleared his throat. “Look, I-I didn’t upload anything to the intercom server. I don’t even know the root password!”

Mycroft didn’t blink. “Then perhaps you should consider how your keycard ended up logged on the access terminal at 2:47 p.m.”

Langston opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked around helplessly.

Albert bit the pen.

Mycroft’s gaze flicked to him briefly. Almost invisible. But Albert saw it. And winked.

“Until you can provide evidence to the contrary,” Mycroft continued smoothly, “you’ll be placed on administrative review for digital misconduct. This meeting is concluded.”

Langston looked like he might cry.

Albert looked like he might purr.

“You’re insane,” Mycroft hissed, dragging Albert into the stairwell by his sleeve.

“Wasn’t me,” Albert said innocently. “Could’ve been anyone with my voice and access to an audio mixer.”

“You compromised a major hospital channel to whisper about my thighs.”

“Are you denying the accuracy?”

Mycroft shoved him against the wall, again. This time with more desperation than fury.

Albert smiled. “You were going to kiss me, weren’t you?”

Mycroft’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If I was, that moment is long gone.”

Albert’s hand found his tie. Tugged it loose.

“Then let’s make a new one.”

Mycroft shoved Albert off of him with a brutal thrust. "I'm going to my office I have emails to catch up on."

Just as Mycroft started off down the hall towards his office Albert was already putting one foot in front of the other following him.

"Don't follow me you prick!" Mycroft hissed.

After finally managing to loose Albert, Mycroft sat at his computer desk and opened his emails. As he scrolled down one caught his eye.

Subject: RE: Concerns Regarding Director Holmes' Conduct “It’s probably not my place, but several staff members have expressed concern about Dr. Mycroft Holmes showing favoritism toward Dr. Albert Moriarty. Specifically, in light of recent events surrounding the PA system breach and the delayed disciplinary hearings. There was also… an incident in the elevator. Security footage may be worth reviewing.”

Mycroft stared at the email for exactly 3.4 seconds before standing, calmly removing his glasses, and whispering to himself. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

The nurses office was bustling with gossip and chatter like always.

“They were definitely in the elevator together.”

“No, but like, together together.”

“Someone said he pushed Dr. Moriarty away when the doors opened like it was a romance novel.”

“I heard he smells like pine and sex.”

“You’re thinking of Doctor James.”

“No, he smells like regret and tequila.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Mycroft said flatly, facing the Head of Compliance.

“Didn’t ask that,” the woman said, not blinking. “I asked if you’ve demonstrated unfair bias toward Dr. Moriarty.”

“That depends,” Mycroft said. “Does not publicly humiliating him for being an unbearable little shit count as bias?”

The woman sighed. “There’s an investigation starting.”

“Of course there is.”

She stood. “We’ll need your keycard logs and elevator footage from the last thirty days.”

Mycroft forced a smile. “Shall I also submit DNA swabs from my pens in case he’s licked those too?”

“Have any of them been licked?”

“…No comment.”

Albert met him outside the pediatric ward with a cup of coffee and zero shame.

“Soooo,” he said cheerfully, “How’s the fallout from the Great Elevator Eye-Fuck of Thursday?”

Mycroft took the coffee. Did not say thank you.

“You’ve triggered an internal audit.”

“I do love being the catalyst of chaos.”

“There are witnesses, Albert.”

“Witnesses of what?” He leaned in, whispering near Mycroft’s ear. “You never touched me, remember? That’s the real crime.”

Mycroft’s eye twitched.

Albert winked. “You know you’re going to cave eventually.”

“I don’t cave.”

“You cracked when I licked your nameplate.”

“You’re insane.”

Albert took a sip of his own drink. “And you’re into it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mycroft snapped, staring down at the HR compliance folder.

“You’re both going,” said the Director crisply. “It’s mandatory. You’ll attend the Sexual Harassment Awareness Seminar as representatives of Royal Northridge. Flight’s in two hours.”

Albert, who had been sitting far too casually in the corner of the conference room, raised his hand slowly. “Will there be a group exercise where we roleplay appropriate and inappropriate workplace behavior?”

“Sit. Down,” Mycroft growled.

“I am sitting,” Albert said, crossing one leg over the other. “But now I’m imagining how you’d roleplay inappropriate behavior. It’s very, motivational.”

The HR director looked like she aged ten years in real time.

They both arrived to the airport at the same time. Mycroft came In a full three-piece suit and trench coat. Albert however, came In joggers, a hospital-branded hoodie, and sunglasses indoors. The girl at the reception desk was 100% sure they were exes who still bang.

“I upgraded us to business class,” Mycroft muttered as they waited to board.

Albert leaned in. “Is that so we can do it in the air without smudging your reputation too much?”

“If you try anything,” Mycroft said darkly, “I’ll file a restraining order on the plane.”

Albert grinned. “Good luck. I’ll be in 5A. Right next to you.”

Mycroft opened his HR packet and underlined key phrases like: "Inappropriate touching, gazing, or suggestive gestures.” “Repeated flirtation despite objection.” “Power imbalance dynamics.”

Albert leaned over and whispered, “This list reads like your sex diary.”

Mycroft’s pen snapped in half.

“Oops,” Albert said innocently. “Should I ask the flight attendant for another?”

“You’re lucky there are cameras on this plane.”

“You’re lucky I respect aviation law.”

They didn’t speak for ten minutes.

Albert fell asleep with his head tilted slightly toward Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft let him stay there.

Only because turbulence, obviously.

Midlands Regional HR Conference Center Room 4C.

The presenter handed out name tags.

“Please introduce yourselves and share one reason why respecting boundaries is important in the workplace.”

Mycroft started “Dr. Holmes. HR board and neurosurgeon. Boundaries preserve professional integrity and legal safety.”

Albert next. “Dr. Moriarty. Pediatrics. Boundaries are… bendy.”

Everyone looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft didn’t blink.

Albert smiled sweetly. “Just kidding. Mostly.”

They were put in separate breakout groups after that.

The air in Room 4C was crisp and too well-scented that aggressively neutral lavender they used in hospitals to make trauma smell “pleasant.” The conference space was filled with folding chairs, bad coffee, worse pastries, and a projector screen stuck on “WELCOME! We’re All Professionals Here :)”.

Mycroft Holmes sat in the front row. Suit immaculate. Pen poised. Brow tight.

Albert Moriarty, two seats over, had one leg crossed lazily over the other, chewing absently on the end of a pen. Still wearing his damn sunglasses indoors.

They had been separated after introductions. Boundaries, the facilitator had said pointedly. "Some participants may have a history of disruption."

Albert had winked.

Then came the icebreaker activity: “Two Truths and a Boundary”

A social worker from Edinburgh shared that she once dated her coworker and it totally worked out.

The OR nurse from Manchester said she kept a consent form in her purse, just in case.

When it came to Albert:

“I have performed an emergency appendectomy in a parking lot, I’ve been written up twice by HR, and I think Doctor Holmes here looks best when angry.”

Mycroft looked like he was about to levitate from rage.

“I see we’re skipping the third one being a lie part,” the facilitator said with a smile that screamed union paycheck.

Albert shrugged. “Just being honest. It’s a workshop on transparency, isn’t it?”

Next came the roleplay bit, “What Not to Say in the Break Room.”

Each group received flashcards with inappropriate statements. Mycroft’s group was tasked with correcting fictional coworkers' behavior.

“My character’s name is… Derek, and he says: ‘Nice scrubs, Emma. You always look so tight in blue.’”

The entire group winced.

Mycroft deadpanned, “Immediate verbal warning. Referral to HR. Documented incident report.”

Albert, from across the room: “What if she liked the compliment?”

Mycroft: “It doesn’t matter.”

Albert: “But what if-”

Mycroft: “It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“God,” Albert murmured, “the way you say that makes me want to do very bad things under hospital policy.”

Mycroft stabbed his flashcard in half with his pen.

The break room smelled like beige sadness and too much mayonnaise.

Albert leaned across the folding table between them. “You really hate these, don’t you?”

“I enjoy clear rules,” Mycroft said, sipping cold coffee. “They prevent lawsuits. And murder.”

Albert smirked. “You know, these fake harassment scenarios would be more fun if we acted one out.”

“You are not dragging me into roleplay.”

“Oh, but you love control. You’d make an excellent supervisor with a dark secret.”

“I am the supervisor,” Mycroft hissed.

Albert winked. “Exactly.”

The facilitator dimmed the lights.

“I want you all to partner up. One person will play the boundary setter, the other will slowly invade their space. Use your words to establish limits. Speak your truth.”

Mycroft turned to the person next to him, a quiet med student.

Before he could speak, Albert appeared behind him like a horror movie villain. “Swap?” he said sweetly.

The student noped out with a whisper of “good luck” and fled.

Now it was just the two of them. In chairs. Facing each other.

The facilitator rang a little bell. “Go!”

Albert slowly leaned in. Inch by inch. Smiling.

“Albert,” Mycroft warned.

“I’m the Invasive Presence,” Albert whispered. “Let me fulfill my role.”

“You exist as an invasive presence.”

“You haven’t set a boundary yet,” Albert said, now very close.

Mycroft locked eyes with him. “If you don’t back up in three seconds, I will remove your hospital ID and have you escorted out.”

Albert froze.

Grinned.

Leaned back.

“Effective boundary,” he said softly. “Hot, too.”

Mycroft made a mental note to throttle him after dessert.

“Thank you for your full participation,” the facilitator said, looking at Albert like she needed a drink and a restraining order. “Remember, boundaries aren’t just rules. They’re a sign of respect.”

Albert clapped dramatically. Mycroft refused to respond.

They were handed printed certificates: Successfully Completed HR Workshop: Boundaries & Harassment Prevention.

Albert held his up. “Should we frame them side-by-side in your office?”

“If you enter my office without permission again,” Mycroft muttered, “you will not survive long enough to enjoy unemployment.”

Albert smiled.

“So… dinner to celebrate our personal growth?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

But he didn’t say no, either.

The hotel was… acceptable. Four stars. Polished in the way all conference hotels were sterile, scented, soulless. The kind of place where professionals collapsed, not relaxed. They stood at the check-in counter like adversaries in a Cold War.

“I specifically requested two beds,” Mycroft said crisply, glancing at the desk clerk's monitor.

“I understand,” the clerk replied, chipper. “But unfortunately, due to overbooking, we’re out of doubles for the night. We’ve upgraded you to a deluxe king, no charge!”

Albert, behind Mycroft, was already grinning. “What a shame.”

Mycroft’s jaw ticked. “Is there any other option?”

“I’m afraid not, Doctor Holmes.”

Albert stepped forward, plucking the keycard from the counter. “Don’t worry, darling. I don’t bite.”

“Not without cause,” Mycroft muttered under his breath, following him toward the elevator with barely-contained fury.

The door opened with a soft chime.

The room was dimly lit, cool, and ominously romantic. One large bed sat in the center like a loaded weapon. Plush. White. Excessive.

Mycroft paused at the threshold. Albert tossed his bag onto the mattress and stretched.

“So,” he said, voice casual, “you take the left side or the right?”

“I will be taking the entire couch,” Mycroft replied, locating a stiff little armless seat under the window.

Albert clicked his tongue. “You’ll be folded like a pretzel by morning.”

“That’s preferable to being within range of your limbs.”

Albert just chuckled, stripping off his blazer, then his tie.

Mycroft turned sharply. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed. What, want me to sleep in scrubs like some feral resident?”

“I want you to sleep in a different room,” Mycroft muttered.

Albert ignored him. He walked into the bathroom with a towel over his shoulder, humming something scandalous under his breath.

The door clicked shut.

Mycroft sat at the desk. Pulled out his tablet. Attempted to focus on emails. Failed.

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam.

Albert stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, towel slung around his neck, curls damp, chest bare.

He said, with maddening softness “You’re breathing like I’m a code blue.”

Mycroft’s hands paused over the tablet.

“I’m fine.”

Albert stepped closer. The carpet muted his steps.

“You sure?” he asked. “Your pulse looks… irregular.”

“Stop it.”

Albert tilted his head. “Just performing an assessment.”

“You’re not a cardiologist.”

“I’m very hands-on, though.”

“Albert.”

Mycroft stood.

Too fast.

He regretted it immediately, because Albert was already in his space warm, close, dripping with intent.

They stared at each other for a long second.

Neither moved.

Then Albert leaned in.

Mycroft turned away just in time. His shoulder brushed Albert’s chest. The warmth of his skin lingered.

He stormed to the window, posture rigid.

“You will sleep on the bed,” he said tightly. “I will take the couch.”

Albert’s voice dropped, smug. “That’s generous. Most HR people wouldn’t trust me unsupervised.”

“Believe me,” Mycroft said, without turning, “I’ve read your file.”

“Did it mention I like to cuddle?”

“No,” Mycroft snapped. “But I’m amending the report.”

Albert just laughed.

And somehow, that was the worst part how easy it was for him. How natural. Like getting under Mycroft’s skin was his favorite clinical hobby.

The bed rustled behind him. Mycroft didn’t dare look back.

“You’ll break eventually,” Albert said into the dark.

Mycroft’s voice was low.

“Not before you do.”

The room was silent. But not calm.

The kind of silence that pulled. Like static before a storm. The air-conditioning hummed softly. Somewhere down the hall, a toilet flushed. Mycroft laid on the narrow couch, spine screaming, arms crossed.

He wasn’t asleep.

And neither was Albert.

“Stop brooding,” Albert’s voice came from the bed. Barely above a whisper. “I can hear it from here.”

“I am not brooding,” Mycroft hissed.

Albert snorted. “Then what are you doing?”

“Trying not to murder you in your sleep.”

“That’s hot.”

Mycroft growled under his breath. “Go to bed.”

Albert shifted under the covers. Sheets rustled. “Can’t.”

Pause.

“You’re not comfortable?” Mycroft asked, strained.

“Oh, the bed’s perfect,” Albert said. “You’re the problem.”

Mycroft sat up. “How am I the problem? I’ve been quiet”

“It’s your existence, Holmes. Very distracting.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re thinking about kissing me.”

The room went quiet again.

Deafening.

Then Mycroft stood. Walked to the minibar like it owed him money. Opened it, grabbed a tiny overpriced whiskey bottle, and cracked it open.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

Albert rolled over, voice quieter now. “You’ve got that look. Same one from when I flirted with you in HR for the first time last year. Remember?”

“No.”

“You do.”

Mycroft took a sip. His hands shook slightly. Not enough to see. But enough for him to feel it.

“Come to bed,” Albert said, not teasing anymore. “You’re going to need spinal surgery after a night on that couch.”

“Maybe I’d prefer surgery to sharing a mattress with you.”

Silence.

“Please.”

It wasn’t soft. It was firm. Like Albert meant it.

Mycroft turned.

Albert was propped up on one elbow. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight bled through the curtains just enough to catch the tired honesty on his face. Not cocky. Not smug. Just open. Vulnerable. That was the dangerous part.

Mycroft didn’t speak. He set the bottle down and crossed the room.

Slid into the bed.

Carefully.

They didn’t touch.

For a long time.

Then Mycroft shifted, trying to get comfortable and his foot brushed Albert’s ankle. He flinched.

“Sorry.”

Albert didn’t move. “Don’t be.”

More silence.

Then, so quiet it was barely audible: “You’re warm.”

Mycroft stared at the ceiling. “It’s 74 degrees in here.”

Albert chuckled. “That’s not what I meant.”

Then he rolled over, slowly, and without asking just barely rested his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. Not holding him. Not grabbing. Just resting.

Like gravity brought him there.

Mycroft didn’t stop him.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t push him away.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time since orientation week, he allowed it.

Allowed Albert Moriarty to exist in his space, without resistance.

Even if just for the night.

Notes:

Mycroft needs a vacation away from Albert atp.

Chapter 4: Kiss and Make Up

Summary:

Albert gets jealous and finally cracks Mycrofts perfect image.

The chair scraped loudly as Mycroft pulled it out.

Albert didn’t look up.

He was already sitting at the table, black coffee in one hand, hotel-issued newspaper in the other, reading the funnies of all things like he hadn’t just nearly destroyed Mycroft’s last shred of composure six hours ago.

“Sleep well?” Albert asked, casual. Neutral.

“Like a corpse,” Mycroft muttered, sitting stiffly across from him. “If corpses dream of being clung to by overly familiar pediatricians.”

Albert grinned over the rim of his mug. “You didn’t shove me off.”

Mycroft said nothing.

The waitress arrived with two plates scrambled eggs for Albert, poached for Mycroft. Neither of them thanked her.

She left sensing something charged and wisely chose survival.

They ate in silence.

But not peace.

Because every time Albert’s leg brushed his under the table casually, thoughtlessly Mycroft’s pulse leapt.

And Albert knew it.

“Oh,” Albert said idly between bites. “There’s a second workshop this morning. Ethics in high-pressure care environments. Sounds like your brand of foreplay.”

Mycroft didn’t look up. “I doubt you’re capable of grasping anything remotely ethical.”

“Ethics are subjective.”

“So is whether I’ll strangle you before noon.”

Albert gave him a long, deliberate once-over. “If you’re going to strangle me, at least buy me another coffee first.”

Mycroft’s fork paused mid-air.

Albert smirked. “You’re breathing heavy again. Like I’m a code blue.”

That did it.

Mycroft set his fork down. Carefully. Controlled.

“Last night,” he said lowly, voice taut, “was a logistical compromise.”

Albert leaned back. “Mmm. Sure. And the way you let me fall asleep pressed against your chest? Also logistical?”

Mycroft didn’t blink. “You snore.”

“You stroke my hair.”

“That’s slander.”

Albert leaned forward across the table, eyes narrowing. “You like me.”

“You’re a liability.”

“You keep not writing me up.”

“I keep losing my pen.”

“Do you lose your pen every time I look at you like this?”

He held the gaze direct, unflinching.

Mycroft swallowed.

Hard.

Albert sat back again, sipped his coffee, and said nothing more. Because he didn’t have to.

The damage was done.

And worse it lingered.

The conference room buzzed with stale coffee breath and the kind of academic tension only medical professionals could create. The ethics facilitator clapped her hands once.

“Everyone, pair up for the next case discussion.”

Mycroft reached for the handout with surgical precision.

Before he could react, a confident, clearly-too-well-rested woman dropped into the empty seat beside him.

“Dr. Holmes?” she said brightly. “I’m Sophie. PGY-3, neurosurgery. You’ve probably heard of my attending, Dr. Kerwin?”

Mycroft offered a cool nod. “Briefly.”

“I just wanted to say,” she continued, inching closer, “I read your article in the British Medical Review last year the one on ethics and long-term pediatric trauma outcomes. It was… brilliant.”

She lingered on the word. Her fingers lightly brushed his forearm as she passed him her copy of the prompt.

Albert, seated on Mycroft’s other side, leaned back, legs stretched out under the table like he owned the place. His eyes flicked from Sophie to Mycroft then to where Sophie’s arm now rested just a little too comfortably across the shared desk.

“I see you’ve got a fan club,” Albert murmured, just loud enough for Mycroft to hear.

“Dr. Moriarty,” Sophie said with a polite, dismissive nod. “Pediatrics, right?”

Albert flashed a sharp smile. “Among other things.”

Sophie turned back to Mycroft. “I was hoping we could be partners for this round. I’d love to hear how you’d approach this kind of scenario in real time.”

Mycroft adjusted his cuffs. “Very well.”

Albert let out a quiet breath of a laugh.

“So,” Sophie said, skimming the sheet. “A hypothetical case. Your colleague tampers with patient records to secure insurance coverage. Do you report them?”

Mycroft opened his mouth.

But Albert cut in smoothly. “Depends. Are they trying to help the kid, or just covering their own ass?”

“I’d say both,” Sophie offered, “but the kid benefits either way. So do you report?”

Mycroft leveled a look at Albert. “Yes.”

“That’s cold,” Albert replied, voice soft.

“It’s protocol.”

“Protocol’s a shield for people scared to make decisions that matter.”

“It’s also a way to protect everyone involved.”

Albert’s lips curled. “Sure. Everyone but the patient.”

Mycroft turned back to Sophie. “I’d submit an incident report with recommended steps for review. Quietly. No grandstanding.”

Sophie gave a small, admiring smile. “Measured. Tactical. I like that.”

Her leg brushed his.

Albert’s expression didn’t shift not outwardly.

But his hand did move under the table. He "accidentally" knocked into Mycroft’s chair.

Hard enough to be noticed. Soft enough to be deniable.

Sophie continued. “You’re very composed, Dr. Holmes.”

“He practices,” Albert muttered. “In the mirror.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You seem eager to derail the conversation.”

Albert leaned in, voice so low only Mycroft could hear. “You’re letting her flirt with you.”

“I’m letting her talk to me.”

“She wants to be your good little intern.”

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. “She’s a resident. And at least she has manners.”

Albert's grin sharpened. “You like it when people obey you?”

Sophie cleared her throat. “Sorry is now a bad time?”

Mycroft straightened his spine. “Not at all.”

But Albert was already looking away, jaw clenched.

The workshop wrapped with the polite applause of overworked doctors pretending to care. Mycroft stood, already collecting his things he had plans to return to the hotel, review the day’s materials, and maybe finally get ten uninterrupted minutes to himself.

Naturally, that didn’t happen.

“Dr. Holmes?”

Sophie appeared beside him like a charming storm cloud, holding her tote bag and a confidence that clearly hadn’t been shaken by long rounds or overnight shifts.

“I was going to grab a coffee,” she said with a soft smile. “Would you… want to join me? I know a place nearby that doesn’t taste like vending machine battery acid.”

Mycroft hesitated for one quarter of a second.

Enough to be polite. Not long enough to be encouraging.

“I suppose a quick cup wouldn’t hurt.”

She lit up. “Great! My car’s just out front.”

Albert, who had been at the far end of the room flirting with a barista just to pass time, clocked the moment instantly. His eyes flicked from Sophie’s hopeful grin to Mycroft’s stiff posture. Then to their two silhouettes walking out side-by-side. His jaw set. His bag slung over one shoulder.

He followed.

The café was, admittedly, charming.

Soft lighting. Local art. Quiet enough for low voiced conversations, and somehow still loud enough to offer cover.

Sophie stirred her espresso slowly, chin in hand.

“So,” she said, gaze sliding up to meet Mycroft’s, “you strike me as someone who doesn’t get surprised often.”

“I try not to.”

“But you can be surprised.”

“In theory.”

She smiled. “What would surprise you right now?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “A question with clinical relevance.”

“Ouch.” She sipped. “Okay, fine. Then let me try this again if someone said they were interested in more than your administrative genius, what would your HR approved response be?”

Mycroft set his cup down. “That depends. Are we still in workshop hours?”

“Let’s say no.”

“Then I’d say it’s ill advised to flirt with someone you don’t know very well.”

Sophie’s gaze sharpened. “Then maybe I’d want to fix that.”

Clink.

The bell above the café door rang.

Albert walked in like he owned the block.

Scrubs replaced by a dark button down and fitted slacks. Hair finger combed, but still charmingly tousled. He scanned the room once and beelined for their table.

Sophie blinked. “Dr. Moriarty?”

Albert smiled with pure insolence. “Well this is cozy.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Albert.”'

“I was in the neighborhood.” He slid into the seat beside Mycroft, ignoring Sophie entirely. “Fancy seeing you here, darling. Coffee date?”

“It’s not a date,” Sophie said quickly.

Albert’s eyes stayed on Mycroft. “Sure doesn’t look like work.”

“Would you like to join us?” Mycroft asked, tone flat.

Albert leaned back, arm along the booth behind Mycroft’s back. “Already did.”

Sophie glanced between them. “You two know each other well, then?”

Albert smirked. “Intimately.”

Mycroft froze.

Albert sipped Mycroft’s untouched coffee, slowly. “Kidding. We just work together.”

But the smirk didn’t fade.

Sophie caught the tension immediately. “Right. Well. I should… probably go over my notes before dinner.”

She stood, tone slightly cooler now. “Dr. Holmes. Thanks for the chat. Dr. Moriarty.”

Albert lifted the cup in a mock toast. “Cheers.”

Once she was out of earshot, Mycroft turned.

“What was that.”

Albert’s voice dropped. “Damage control.”

“From what?”

“You were about to get seduced over espresso.”

“I had the situation under control.”

“Right,” Albert said dryly. “That’s why she was imagining her last name on your ID badge.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly. “You’re insufferable.”

Albert tilted his head. “And yet, you let me stay.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Albert reached for another sugar packet and added it without asking.

“I’m not jealous,” he said finally. “She’s cute. You like cute?”

Mycroft’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t know what I like.”

Albert leaned in, eyes sharp. “Then let me show you.”

He didn’t kiss him. Not yet.

But his leg brushed Mycroft’s under the table.

And Mycroft didn’t move away.

The hotel room was colder than it should’ve been.

Or maybe that was just Mycroft.

He stepped inside first, tossing his suit jacket across the only armchair in the room. His tie followed, then his glasses. Each movement precise. Frustrated. Contained.

Albert trailed behind, wordless.

They’d walked back from the café in near silence. Not out of awkwardness no, that wasn’t what they did. They walked in silence when one of them was actively trying not to say something that might ruin everything.

And Mycroft had nearly moaned in a public place because of Albert Moriarty.

That was ruining enough.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, undoing his cuffs, deliberately avoiding Albert’s gaze.

Albert didn’t speak, didn’t even drop his bag. He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching Mycroft like a puzzle he’d almost solved. Then. “You really hate being seen, don’t you?”

Mycroft didn’t look up. “Not like that, no.”

Albert clicked his tongue once, quietly. “Too bad. It looked good on you.”

That earned a glare. “Do you ever stop?”

Albert moved before Mycroft could blink.

He closed the distance in two slow steps, knee between Mycroft’s thighs, hands braced on either side of his shoulders, leaning down until they were breath-to-breath.

“Say the word,” Albert whispered, “and I’ll go sleep in the hallway.”

Mycroft’s throat bobbed. “There’s only one bed.”

Albert’s smirk softened. “I’ll take the floor.”

“You’ll ruin your back.”

“You’ll lose your mind.”

And before Mycroft could fire back before he could conjure a single protest or pivot or policy Albert leaned down and kissed the side of his throat.

Not a deep kiss.

Not even a long one.

Just a warm, slow press of lips to skin followed by teeth.

A gentle bite.

Then a suck.

The hickey bloomed hot and fast.

Mycroft’s hand gripped the comforter beside him, breath stuttering as a quiet, involuntary sound broke from his throat “…ah”

Albert froze.

So did Mycroft.

His eyes went wide. His entire posture stiffened like he’d just signed a confession in blood.

Albert pulled back an inch, grin dangerous. “Well now.”

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, voice dark and desperate. “Don’t say anything.”

Albert tilted his head. “You moan like you read poetry at gunpoint. Kinda beautiful.”

Mycroft stood.

Suddenly. Sharply. Like he needed to escape the air between them.

He crossed the room with uncharacteristic clumsiness and disappeared into the bathroom without a word.

The door shut.

Water ran.

Albert blinked, then padded over to knock once.

“Myc?”

Silence.

“Are you… taking a shower?”

Still no answer.

He listened.

Listened hard.

Then groaned when he heard it the subtle echo of porcelain and the unmistakable slosh of someone lowering themself into the tub.

Albert pressed his forehead against the door, half laughing, half in disbelief.

“You dramatic, tortured man.”

Nothing.

He sighed.

“Sleep well, Dr. Holmes.”

Then he flopped onto the bed alone and stared at the ceiling for a very long time.

Mycroft emerged from the bathroom like a man reborn.

Hair brushed, suit pressed, tie straight. Not a wrinkle in sight. He carried himself like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t slept curled in a bathtub with one arm awkwardly wedged against the faucet and his pride in shards.

Albert, half sprawled across the bed, blinked once.

Then twice.

Then sat up slowly, sheet slipping scandalously low around his hips.

“You look radiant,” he said, voice still thick with sleep. “Did the porcelain cradle your self respect back to life?”

Mycroft ignored him.

He reached for the full length mirror and adjusted his collar. Then froze.

Because there it was.

The mark.

Faint, but visible. Dark plum blooming just above the collarbone, right where Albert had latched on like a starved man in the dark.

“No, no, no” Mycroft hissed under his breath.

He yanked his collar up. Buttoned higher. Considered a scarf. Almost committed to faking a medical exemption from morning briefings.

Albert was watching, amused. “That thing’s like a signature. Should’ve left a second one for symmetry.”

“You are not branding me like cattle,” Mycroft snapped, rummaging through his suitcase with increasing desperation.

Albert stood, stretching shirtless, smug, and infuriatingly slow about it. “Could’ve fooled me. You moaned.”

“I did not”

“You did,” Albert grinned. “Soft little ‘ah’ like a prayer. Very un-Holmesian of you.”

Mycroft turned around, tie clenched in his fist like it owed him money. “I have five minutes to appear in front of six board members. If any of them so much as raise an eyebrow at this”

“You’ll what? File a complaint?” Albert stepped forward, toe to toe. “Or just file me under ‘regrettable mistake’?”

Mycroft didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Albert’s gaze dropped to the barely-covered hickey. He reached out slow, bold and slid a finger beneath the collar.

“Should’ve used teeth again,” he whispered. “You bruise pretty.”

“Don’t”

Albert leaned in.

Soft. Lazy. Lethal.

And pressed his mouth just below the first mark.

This time, he kissed.

No teeth. No taunting.

Just warm lips on freshly irritated skin, lingering long enough to promise more.

Mycroft’s breath stuttered.

“You’re evil,” he muttered.

Albert pulled back, smirking. “Correction I’m patient.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Mycroft jumped. His tie ended up half-knotted.

“Dr. Holmes?” came Sophie’s voice, chipper and cruel. “The conference room’s open early. Want me to walk you down?”

Albert bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Mycroft glared daggers at him, yanked on his jacket, and hissed, “If you so much as smirk at me in that meeting”

“I’ll kiss you instead,” Albert whispered. “Right on your other collarbone.”

Mycroft groaned and not in the good way.

He opened the door with all the composure of a man being led to his public execution, nodding stiffly at Sophie.

“Good morning,” she chirped. Then paused. “Sir… are you alright? You look… warm.”

From the bed, Albert coughed once very suspiciously and Mycroft shut the door in his own face.

The boardroom was uncomfortably bright.Modern, floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished glass table. Twelve executives in various stages of caffeine withdrawal. A projector buzzed overhead, casting Mycroft’s meticulous presentation onto the screen.

Slide 1: Patient Outcome Review, Q2. Slide 2: Staff Conduct and Morale Metrics. Slide 3: The Aggressively Visible Hickey That Threatened to Derail His Career.

…Okay, maybe not slide 3, but it felt like it.

Because Mycroft Holmes, fucking chief of neurology and living embodiment of discipline, was currently trying to pretend like there wasn’t a visible bruise peeking out from his collar. A bruise that had deepened overnight. A bruise Albert Moriarty had definitely given him. And was now staring at across the table with the kind of self satisfied grin that made Mycroft fantasize about hurling a chair at him.

“And if we look at these outcomes,” Mycroft said, tapping his clicker a little too hard, “we’ll see a measurable decrease in pre op delays by 17%, which-”

“Doctor Holmes,” interrupted Trustee Geralds, peering over her glasses. “Are you certain you’re alright?”

Mycroft stiffened. “Yes. Why?”

She gestured vaguely toward his neck. “You seem… flushed.”

Albert coughed into his hand. Liar. He was laughing. Silently. Shoulders shaking like a brat.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Mycroft said icily, adjusting his collar only to make the mark more visible. “Can we return to the data?”

“Of course,” said someone politely. But a few glances shifted Albert’s way.

And Albert winked.

Mycroft nearly snapped the remote in half.

He pressed forward.

Slide 4. Slide 5. Outcomes. Satisfaction scores. Reimbursement rates.

He was halfway through a cost optimization breakdown when Trustee Simmons cut in, eyes narrowed.

“Forgive me, Doctor Holmes… but did you receive any… recent injuries?”

Mycroft froze.

Albert bit his knuckle.

Sophie, seated at the edge of the table, clearly noticed and let out a faint “Hmm.”

“Injury?” Mycroft repeated, voice taut. “No.”

“Because it appears you might have some ah skin irritation.”

Albert made a soft choking noise that definitely wasn’t a laugh.

“I had a razor burn,” Mycroft lied, tone flat as stone. “From a new grooming product. It won’t happen again.”

Albert fully wheezed. Covered it with a sip of water. The audacity.

The rest of the meeting was a blur of barely veiled looks, awkward coughs, and Mycroft gritting his teeth so hard his molars nearly fused.

When it finally ended, he stood so fast his chair scraped violently.

Albert lingered.

“Mycroft,” he said softly, catching him by the elbow as the others filtered out. “That color looks so good on you.”

“I will murder you,” Mycroft said, smiling tightly at passing staff. “And make it look like a tragic elevator accident.”

Albert leaned in, brushing his fingers ghostlight against the side of Mycroft’s throat.

“Want me to leave another one?” he whispered. “This time somewhere no one can see?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

But his pupils dilated.

And Albert noticed.

The workshop was over.

The board was satisfied.

The hotel room was a mess.

Mycroft was folding his suits with the kind of clinical aggression usually reserved for murder scenes.

Albert, half-dressed, was throwing his things into a duffel like he’d already declared war on the concept of luggage.

No words yet. Just the loud zip of a bag, the crinkle of a plastic toiletry kit, and the deafening hum of everything left unsaid.

Mycroft slammed a tie into his suitcase. “If you ever breathe near my neck again, I will have your surgical license revoked through six different review boards.”

Albert didn’t look up. “If you didn’t want anyone to notice, you could’ve worn a turtleneck instead of strutting into the boardroom like some stuck up Victorian scandal.”

Mycroft spun. “I don’t strut.”

Albert tossed a sock. “You do when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

Albert stepped closer. “You are now.”

Their eyes met across the room. Heat and fury. Electric.

“I should’ve had you fired after orientation,” Mycroft hissed.

“You should’ve kissed me three nights ago in the elevator,” Albert snapped.

Silence.

Just the echo of the air conditioner and both of them breathing like they’d run miles to get here.

“What is your problem?” Mycroft demanded suddenly, voice rising. “You walk around like rules don’t apply to you, you disrespect boundaries, you make jokes about things that are”

“Hot?”

“Inappropriate!”

Albert’s voice sharpened. “You think I’m doing this for laughs?”

“You’ve done nothing but push”

“Because you don’t move unless someone shoves you!”

That hit.

Mycroft blinked.

Albert stepped forward, close now. Too close. Close enough that Mycroft could see the line of tension in his throat.

“I’ve been trying,” Albert said, quieter now, angrier still. “I’ve tried being patient. I’ve tried being subtle. But you.”

“I can’t afford to be careless,” Mycroft said, voice like steel under strain.

“And I can’t afford to keep pretending this is one-sided.”

Then it cracked.

Albert surged forward and kissed him hard, fast, unrelenting.

And this time, Mycroft didn’t pull away. (ABOUT DAMN FUCKING TIME MYCROFT. i do this to myself when I decide to write everything slow burn)

He gasped into it, staggered back slightly, caught by Albert’s hands on his waist. Their mouths clashed like fire meeting dry forest. No finesse. No planning. Just years of tension finally snapping like a wire under pressure.

Mycroft’s hands bunched into Albert’s shirt.

Albert bit down on Mycroft’s lower lip and grinned against his mouth when he gasped again.

When they broke apart, panting, foreheads pressed together, Mycroft whispered “I hate you.”

Albert smirked, voice wrecked. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “I really, really don’t.”

They stood there in the wreckage of their restraint, surrounded by packed bags and unspoken rules.

Neither moved.

And the bed behind them waited.

Albert’s lips were warm.

Furious.

Desperate.

But not careless.

It wasn’t the rough slam of mouths Mycroft had braced for. It was… deliberate. Purposeful. Like Albert had been imagining this kiss for years and wasn’t about to waste a second of it.

He kissed him like he meant it.

Like he wanted Mycroft to feel every inch of the truth in it.

And it gutted him.

Mycroft shuddered. His spine locked. His hands hovered for one second unsure whether to shove Albert away or pull him closer by the collar. He didn’t have to choose.

Albert’s hand curled behind his neck. Anchored him there. Held him like something valuable.

Mycroft exhaled shakily into his mouth.

“Still mad at me?” Albert whispered between kisses, lips brushing the corner of Mycroft’s.

“I’m furious,” Mycroft said breathless, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good.”

He tilted Mycroft’s face gently, kissed his jaw, then the soft spot just under his ear. And Mycroft, for the second time in his life, moaned.

Quiet. Controlled. But helpless.

Albert didn’t gloat. He just smiled, lips barely touching skin. His thumb brushed Mycroft’s cheek, slow, grounding.

“You’re not made of stone, y’know,” he murmured.

“No,” Mycroft admitted hoarsely. “But I’ve spent a decade pretending I am.”

Albert’s forehead pressed against his.

“I know.”

Their lips found each other again slower this time. Lingering. Almost sweet. Like neither of them could believe this was real.

Albert didn’t push further.

Mycroft didn’t run.

And neither of them noticed how tightly they were holding on until it was time to breathe again.

Mycroft’s voice was barely a whisper: “We have to pack.”

Albert chuckled, low and wrecked. “You’re terrible at pretending you weren’t just seconds from climbing me like a ladder.”

Mycroft stepped back, barely. Straightened his tie. Cleared his throat.

Albert licked his lips, gaze hungry but soft. “So what now?”

Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes. “Now we go back to London.”

Albert tilted his head. “And then?”

“Then we do this the right way.”

Albert’s expression shifted something unspoken flickering across it.

He nodded once.

“Okay,” he said, softer than Mycroft had ever heard him. “We’ll do it your way.”

Just not for long.

Notes:

IM SORRY I KEEP SLOW BURNING THIS BUT I LOVE THE PAIN.

Chapter 5: Truth

Summary:

“You’re scared,” he growls. “You are terrified of what this is. Of what I am to you.”

“There is nothing between us,” Mycroft says coldly.

Albert laughs. Bitter.

“Then why the fuck do you look at me like I’m going to ruin you?”

Silence. Thunder rumbles outside.

“I read your file,” Mycroft says, voice clipped. He doesn’t look up. “The disciplinary notes. The evaluations. The unofficial comments.”

Albert stares.

“Oh,” he breathes. “That’s what this is.”

The hospital lobby was buzzing.

Phones ringing. Nurses wheeling carts past. Scrubs, ID tags, shoes squeaking on polished tile. Business as usual.

Mycroft Holmes stepped through the sliding glass doors with the poise of a man who hadn’t spent three nights sharing a hotel room with Albert James Moriarty.

He looked pristine. Composed. Dry cleaned to hell. And absolutely, 100% like a man who had NOT been kissed against a cheap headboard.

Albert saw him from across the hall.

Stared.

Didn’t wave.

Didn’t blink.

Just watched.

Mycroft passed him without a glance. Not a nod. Not a flinch. Like Albert was a potted plant in the surgical wing.

Albert turned slowly.

“Oh,” he muttered, voice low. “So we’re pretending.”

Albert cornered him by the coffee machine.

“Mycroft.”

A beat.

“Yes, Doctor Moriarty?” Mycroft didn’t even turn.

Albert blinked. “Oh. Last name now. We’re formal.”

“I wasn’t aware we were ever informal,” Mycroft replied flatly, pouring black coffee with surgical precision.

Albert laughed once. No humor.

“You’re seriously gonna act like it didn’t happen.”

Mycroft sipped. Calmly. “What didn’t happen?”

Albert stepped closer. Close enough to touch.

“The kiss.”

Silence.

Albert leaned in, voice low and sharp. “The kiss you didn’t stop.”

Still nothing.

“The kiss,” he growled, “you leaned into.”

Mycroft set his cup down.

Met his eyes.

And said with the audacity of a man hiding a fresh hickey under his collar “I don’t recall what you’re referring to.”

Albert’s mouth dropped open.

“No,” he whispered. “No, we’re not doing this.”

“I’m quite busy,” Mycroft said, already turning away. “If you’d like to book a meeting, go through my assistant.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

It started with the tie.

Mycroft always wore the same STUPID pristine collection blood reds, silvers, navy. Structured. No nonsense. Regal.

So when Albert walked into the morning briefing wearing a perfectly knotted, deep red tie identical to Mycroft’s usual, Mycroft noticed.

He stared. Blinked. Glanced down at his own tie.

Albert caught the look.

Then winked.

“Nice tie, Doctor Holmes. Great taste.”

Mycroft didn’t respond.

He just wrote “unhinged” in the margin of his meeting notes.

Then came the coffee.

Every day, like clockwork, Albert started showing up in Mycroft’s office at 8:47 a.m.

No knocking.

Just waltzing in, dropping a coffee on the desk, and saying, “You looked like you needed it.”

“Are you bribing me?” Mycroft asked dryly the third time.

“Would it work?”

“Not even remotely.”

Albert leaned on the desk. Smiled lazily. “That’s fine. I’m playing the long game.”

Mycroft didn’t touch the coffee. Until of course Albert left.

The final straw? The coat incident.

It was a cold afternoon. Wind howling through the hospital’s entrance. Mycroft forgot his overcoat in the HR wing after a fire drill.

Albert found it.

And wore it.

Down the corridor.

In front of everyone.

He strutted past the nurses’ station like it was a runway. Mycroft’s tailored wool coat draped over his scrubs, collar popped, hands in the pockets.

“Nice coat,” murmured a nurse.

Albert smiled. “Stolen from someone uptight.”

Mycroft came storming out of the elevators seconds later, saw it froze. Jaw tight. Eyes wild.

“Albert.”

“Oh, hey. I was just warming it up for you.”

“You are not funny.”

“You think I’m hot, though.”

“Return it.”

Albert leaned in, close enough to be felt. “Make me.”

Mycroft didn’t.

That night, he opened his briefcase and found a note.

“Admit it. You missed me in that coat.” – A

It was later.

Mycroft was alone in the HR conference room, finishing compliance forms.

Albert walked in.

Shut the door.

No scrubs. No teasing smirk. Just, stillness.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said softly.

“I’ve been busy,” Mycroft replied, not looking up.

Albert stepped closer. “You’re hiding.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re panicking.”

“I’m ignoring.”

Albert let out a breath. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me,” Mycroft snapped back.

“And you didn’t stop me.”

A beat.

Silence.

Then Albert moved behind him slow, deliberate and brushed his fingers along Mycroft’s jaw. Just barely.

Mycroft tensed.

Albert leaned in. “I can wait,” he whispered. “But I’m not backing off.”

Mycroft turned halfway. Their noses nearly touched. Their breath mingled. And for one agonizing second, the air between them cracked with everything unsaid.

“I will not become your game,” Mycroft said lowly.

“You already are,” Albert murmured, stepping back.

And just like that, he was gone.

Albert walks into the HR wing not with a smirk, not with coffee, but with a full damn box of pastries from the most impossible-to-book café in the city. Handwritten note taped to the box.

“Can’t flirt on an empty stomach. – A”

Mycroft ignored it to. (He ate six in one sitting)

Albert’s walked by with a few interns. Laughing. Easy. Warm.

Then he sees Mycroft.

And stops talking mid-sentence.

Interns blink.

Albert blinks back.

“Mycroft,” he says smoothly, “you’re glowing.”

“…Excuse me?”

Albert just grins. “Is it the lighting or are you blushing? Either way breathtaking.”

Mycroft freezes.

The interns stare.

Albert walks away without breaking eye contact.

That evening, Mycroft’s finishing up reports in his office.

There’s a knock.

Albert steps in a clipboard in hand.

“Quarterly department survey,” he says.

“I don’t-”

Albert tosses it on the desk. “Just one question. Be honest.”

He flips the clipboard around.

The “form” reads:

“On a scale of 1 to ‘Please pin me against your office door,’ how badly do you want to kiss me again?”

Mycroft stares. Jaw locked. Breath caught.

Albert leans over the desk. Close. Smug.

“You can write in your own option if you need.”

Mycroft slowly, carefully tears the page in half.

Albert grins. “So dramatic.”

“Get out.”

Albert winks. “Try and stop me.”

Albert’s scheduled for a hospital wide training session and guess who HR assigned to oversee it?

That’s right. Mycroft.

The entire hour, Albert barely glances his way.

Until the final slide.

He ends the presentation with a bland bullet list then flips to a custom-made meme slide that reads “CONSENT IS SEXY."

Mycroft’s soul leaves his body.

That night, Mycroft’s alone. In the elevator. Doors nearly closing.

Then.

Albert slips in. Last second. Chest heaving. Hair damp from rain. Tie undone. Scrubs clinging in all the wrong places.

Silence.

The elevator hums.

“You’re ignoring me,” Albert says quietly.

Mycroft stares at the numbers.

“I’m doing my job.”

Albert shifts closer. “You’re punishing me.”

“No,” Mycroft snaps. “I’m protecting myself.”

Albert blinks.

From this close, they’re practically nose-to-nose. Rain still dripping from Albert’s collar. His breath smells like cinnamon gum and rebellion.

“I like you,” Albert says softly.

“I know,” Mycroft breathes.

Albert leans in achingly slow.

The elevator dings.

Doors open.

And Mycroft…

shoves him back with a single hand on his chest.

Then walks out.

Without a word.

But his hand stays curled in the air like it remembers the heat.

The storm outside is brutal.

But not as brutal as the silence between them.

Mycroft’s office is dim, the overhead light casting sharp shadows. His hands are on the desk. White-knuckled. Albert stands across from him, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

"You crossed the line," Mycroft says, too calm. Dangerous.

Albert laughs short, sharp, ugly. “God, again with the line.”

“I’ve been patient,” Mycroft snaps. “I’ve given you far more leniency than you deserve.”

Albert steps forward. “Then maybe stop pretending it’s just about protocol.”

Mycroft’s jaw tics. “This is about protocol.”

“Bullshit.”

Albert’s voice is rising louder, rougher. He’s not holding back anymore.

“You’re scared,” he growls. “You are terrified of what this is. Of what I am to you.”

“There is nothing between us,” Mycroft says coldly.

Albert laughs. Bitter.

“Then why the fuck do you look at me like I’m going to ruin you?”

Silence. Thunder rumbles outside.

“I read your file,” Mycroft says, voice clipped. He doesn’t look up. “The disciplinary notes. The evaluations. The unofficial comments.”

Albert stares.

“Oh,” he breathes. “That’s what this is.”

“I know what kind of man you are,” Mycroft goes on, eyes still on the desk. “You flirt. You get bored. You move on.”

Albert’s face twists not in anger, but pain. But he covers it with fury.

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know enough.”

“Do you?” Albert barks. “You think you can summarize my life in a couple fucking footnotes?”

Mycroft finally looks at him.

“Three complaints,” he says. “Two HR officers. One nurse. All marked as ‘inconclusive’ and ‘dismissed without action,’ but there’s a pattern.”

Albert is shaking now. “Yeah. There is a pattern.”

He steps closer.

“You want the truth?” His voice cracks. “Fine. One of those HR officers Gregson lied. Said I came onto him. Said I tried to trade sex for a schedule change.”

Mycroft blinks.

“I didn’t,” Albert spits. “But I’d turned him down before. Repeatedly. And he didn’t like it.”

“…Why didn’t you file a complaint?”

Albert barks a laugh, eyes wet. “Because I did, Mycroft. And you know what the head of HR told me? ‘Be smarter about how you present yourself.”

He wipes his face with the heel of his palm.

“Everywhere I went after that, the rumors followed. Not official. Not enough to fire me. Just enough to ruin any chance at being seen as real.”

Mycroft is silent. Still.

Albert keeps going voice breaking.

“So yeah. I flirt. I joke. I act like none of it matters. Because if I don’t, I don’t get to stay. People like you don’t see me as anything but a liability.”

He takes a breath. Then another. Then:

“I liked you,” he whispers. “From day one. Not because you were pretty. Not because you were powerful. But because you looked at me like you saw everything.”

A pause.

“And now I wish you hadn’t.”

The storm outside is quieter now.

Not gone. Just… waiting.

“Albert,” Mycroft says softly.

Albert turns to go.

But Mycroft grabs his wrist.

“Don’t,” Albert says, without looking at him. “Don’t touch me if you don’t mean it.”

And Mycroft quiet, careful stands up. Walks around the desk. Comes face to face with him.

“I mean it,” he says.

Albert doesn’t believe him. Not yet. His eyes are bloodshot. His mouth pressed into a hard, hurt line.

Mycroft lifts a hand slow, permission in every movement and brushes a thumb beneath his eye.

Albert doesn’t pull away.

And then Mycroft leans in. Not fast. Not forceful. But real. And presses the gentlest kiss to Albert’s cheek. Then his jaw. Then, finally god FUCKING finally his lips.

It’s soft. Raw. Honest.

No sex. No games. Just feeling.

Albert shudders.

He exhales against Mycroft’s mouth.

“I still hate you,” he whispers.

“Good,” Albert murmurs. “You’re hired.”

Mycroft laughs just barely.

And then Albert kisses him back. His laughter breaks off halfway. It catches. Sharp. Like a cracked note in his throat.

And then suddenly he’s not laughing anymore.

He stumbles a step back from the kiss, breath stuttering, hands curling into fists at his sides like he's physically trying to hold something in.

Mycroft stills. “Albert?”

But Albert doesn’t answer.

Instead, he tilts his face up toward the ceiling, blinking too fast, like if he doesn’t look at Mycroft if he just focuses on anything else he’ll be able to keep it together.

He can’t.

The first sob rips out of him like it was ripped from his ribs.

“Fuck,” he chokes, stumbling back another step. “God, I-I told myself I wasn’t gonna, fuck, this is so-”

His voice collapses into static.

Another sob. Then another. He clutches his own chest like he could stop it, like he could contain whatever’s breaking loose from the inside.

“I didn’t-I didn’t do any of that shit,” he gasps. “The stuff in those files, those comments, those weren’t real. That guy he-he made it all up. He wanted me gone, he-he-”

Mycroft watches, frozen.

“I loved that hospital,” Albert sobs, hands shaking. “And they all looked at me like I was a fucking monster after what he said. And I thought God, I thought I’d start over here, and you-you looked at me like I was filth from day one, and I told myself I could take it, I could handle it, but I-”

He crumbles forward, one hand on the edge of the desk to hold himself upright, shoulders wracked with uneven, heaving cries.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean for this. I just-I wanted someone to believe me. Just once.”

Silence.

Then-

Soft footsteps.

Mycroft crosses the room quietly.

And for a moment, Albert flinches like he’s expecting to be yelled at. Dismissed. Punished.

But instead, Mycroft wraps his arms around him. Firm. Gentle. Real.

Albert stiffens for only a second before melting, fists bunching in Mycroft’s shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

“I read your file,” Mycroft says, low and quiet in his ear. “Every word. Every line. And I still saw you. The way you treat your patients. The way you fight for them. The way you never give up.”

Albert’s sobs slow just a little.

“I didn’t know what to believe at first,” Mycroft murmurs. “But I believe you now.”

Albert swallows, trembling against his chest.

“You’re not filth. You’re not what he said you are. You’re just-” Mycroft exhales, barely a whisper “You’re just Albert. And that’s… that’s enough.”

Albert lets out a broken little laugh against his collarbone. “God, you’re such a bastard,” he mumbles, voice wrecked.

Mycroft smirks faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

They stay like that. For a long, still moment.

Wrapped in silence. Arms. Breathing.

Albert’s hands curl a little tighter in his shirt.

“Don’t let go yet,” he says quietly.

“I won’t,” Mycroft promises.

And for once he means it.

Albert is whistling.

Whistling.

He’s wearing a fresh pair of blue scrubs, hair actually combed (well mostly) and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like a man who has just both cried his eyes out and gotten held lovingly by the one person he didn’t think gave a damn.

He looks lighter. Not healed but healing.

Mycroft sees it the moment he walks past the main nurse’s station. Sees him, rather leaned back against the counter with a coffee in hand, chatting up a surgical intern with an absolutely criminal wink.

But the moment Albert spots him?

That wink triples in intensity.

“Mycroft!” Albert sing-songs, loud enough for the entire east wing to hear. “You sleep okay last night? Or still recovering from your little emotional support cuddles?”

Mycroft doesn't stop walking but he does blink.

And instead of snapping, instead of threatening to write him up or narrowing his eyes into death lasers—

He just sighs.

A slow, measured, resigned sigh.

“I’d advise you not to test your luck, Doctor Moriarty.”

Albert lights up.

“Ooh, you’re calling me ‘Doctor’ again. What happened to all that first name intimacy from last night? Bit shy now that we’re back in public?”

Mycroft pauses in front of the elevator.

Turns his head. Looks at Albert. Slowly.

“I tolerate you,” he says, flatly.

Albert’s grin is blinding.

“Oh, honey,” he says, taking a long sip of his coffee, “in my world, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

The elevator dings. Mycroft steps in.

Albert follows him in naturally.

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood,” Mycroft says.

“Am I?” Albert hums, leaning casually against the elevator wall. “Can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s because someone finally believed me. Or maybe it’s because I sobbed into a three piece suit and didn’t get told to get a grip. Or maybe-” his eyes gleam, “Maybe it’s because I got to wrap my arms around you and you didn’t run screaming. Progress, huh?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer.

Not at first.

But his lips twitch.

Just barely. A half smile almost impossible to catch.

“Progress,” he agrees softly.

Albert stares at him.

Eyes wide.

Heart so stupidly full it almost hurts.

The elevator doors open again.

Mycroft steps out, spine straight as ever.

Albert watches him go.

And for the first time in weeks maybe months he lets himself hope.

The knock is soft.

Mycroft doesn’t look up.

“Unless someone’s coding in the atrium, I’m not accepting visitors.”

The door creaks open anyway.

“You always this cranky past midnight, or just when you’re lonely and pretending you’re not?”

Mycroft finally glances up just in time to see Albert shut the door behind him, plastic takeout bag swinging from one hand.

“No blood on the scrubs this time,” Mycroft murmurs, eyeing him.

“No scrubs at all,” Albert smirks, pulling off his hoodie to reveal a snug white tee beneath it. “Don’t worry, I’m off the clock. Just thought maybe HR might like a surprise health inspection. Or maybe a spring roll.”

He sets the bag on the desk, unapologetic.

Mycroft leans back, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Albert says, pulling out a box of noodles, “Here you are. Still at your desk. Still pretending I don’t haunt your every thought.”

“I don’t”

Albert cuts him off. “Don’t lie to me. Not tonight.”

Silence.

Only the soft crinkle of wrappers and the subtle hum of the overhead lights.

Albert pulls out the second container and nudges it toward Mycroft. “Eat. You haven’t since lunch. I asked your assistant.”

“You asked my-?”

“She adores me,” Albert shrugs. “Or maybe she just pities you.”

Mycroft picks up the chopsticks.

He doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t have to.

They eat in silence for a while. Side by side. Not touching. Not quite smiling. But something simmering.

When the food’s mostly gone, Albert leans back in the chair across from him, arms folded behind his head, shirt riding up slightly at the hem.

“You ever gonna talk about it?” he asks softly.

“Talk about what?”

“Why you’re scared of me.”

Mycroft stiffens.

Albert doesn’t press.

Just waits.

And Mycroft… folds. Just a little.

“I’m not scared of you.”

Albert raises a brow. “No?”

“I’m scared of what I feel with you.”

And then?

The air shifts.

Albert’s gaze drops to Mycroft’s lips.

Slow. Hungry. Disbelieving.

“You wanna pretend that doesn’t mean something?” he murmurs. “After everything? After the tub, the hickeys, the elevator, the crying?”

“Albert-”

“Shut up.”

He stands.

Walks around the desk.

Stops right in front of Mycroft’s chair.

And when Mycroft doesn’t move?

Albert leans in.

Slow. Careful. Inches away.

“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to leave.”

Mycroft’s breath hitches.

He doesn’t speak.

So Albert kisses him.

And this time?

Mycroft doesn’t pull away.

He lets it happen.

Lets Albert cup his jaw, tilt his head, kiss him deep and slow and like it matters. Because it does.

It has for a long, long time.

And when they finally break apart, breathless and blinking?

Mycroft exhales, voice hoarse “I’m still your boss.”

Albert grins.

“And I’m still gonna make you fall in love with me.”

The kiss has faded, but the afterglow is still very much alive.

Albert is lounging in the visitor chair now, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, while Mycroft arms crossed, coat off, expression unreadable sits behind his desk trying to refocus on hospital policy spreadsheets like he didn’t just kiss a man in his office for five full minutes.

He fails.

Miserably.

At some point, the glow of his screen starts to blur.

He blinks.

Once. Twice.

His head tilts a little to the side…

Albert glances up when the silence stretches on, his teasing smirk locked and loaded but then stops.

Mycroft Holmes poster boy for control, perfection, and emotional suppression has fallen asleep.

Asleep.

Head gently leaned back against the leather chair, brows relaxed for once, arms folded loosely. There’s a faint, tired crease between his eyebrows like he fought the exhaustion as long as he could.

And lost.

Albert stares.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “You really don’t know how to rest, huh?”

He stands slowly. Walks around the desk. Squats in front of the chair.

Still out cold.

Still so perfectly, stupidly overworked.

Albert sighs. “…Alright.”

The cab ride was silent, save for Albert quietly muttering “sorry, sorry” as he adjusted Mycroft’s dead weight against his side and convinced the driver not to ask questions about the man in the expensive waistcoat half asleep on his chest.

Now they’re here.

Albert’s place is clean shockingly. Modern furniture, deep navy tones, record player in the corner, dim warm lighting.

He carefully deposits Mycroft on the couch.

Pulls a throw blanket over him.

Then just looks.

The man on his sofa doesn’t look like HR. Doesn’t look like a paper pushing overlord or a ruthless suit. He looks gentle. Like someone Albert could fall for.

He crouches down, brushing a piece of hair away from Mycroft’s face.

“You’re not as bulletproof as you pretend to be,” he whispers. “And I’m not going to let anyone else figure that out but me.”

Then because he’s a little selfish he presses one last kiss to Mycroft’s temple.

And curls up on the floor next to the couch.

He could’ve slept in his bed.

Could’ve woken Mycroft up.

But something about just being near him tonight it matters.

And somewhere around 3:30, both of them are fast asleep Albert on the carpet, hand still brushing Mycroft’s fingers over the edge of the couch.

Somewhere unfamiliar. Soft couch. Even softer blanket.

Mycroft blinked. Then blinked again. Wooden ceiling. Dim light. A faint smell of coffee and something toasted.

His neck ached.

He shifted slowly coat still on, shoes long gone and sat up with the disoriented grace of a man who’d never in his life fallen asleep anywhere besides his own home or first class transit.

“Where” His voice cracked. “What-?”

A voice drifted from the nearby kitchen:

“Ah. Sleeping beauty wakes.”

Mycroft froze.

Albert leaned against the counter. Shirtless. Again. Mug in hand, steam curling up past his jawline, wild curls even messier than usual.

“Good morning, Doctor Holmes.” He took a long sip. “Sleep well?”

“Where am I?” Mycroft asked slowly.

“My place. Don’t get too excited it was an act of mercy. You passed out in your chair like a drama patient after a morphine drip. And I wasn’t about to leave you alone in that ice cold tomb you seem to call an office.”

He took another sip, then added “Also, I didn’t feel like carrying your ass twice in one week.”

Mycroft groaned quietly and buried his face in his hands.

“Don’t worry,” Albert said cheerfully. “No one saw us. Except the cab driver. And my neighbor. And probably the raccoon behind the bins.”

Mycroft let out a strangled sound.

Albert just smirked. “I made coffee.”

“I don’t”

“I made yours black with one sugar, Your Highness.” Albert turned and grabbed a second mug, then walked it over and set it carefully on the coffee table. “Don’t flatter yourself I read your HR profile.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “That file is encrypted.”

Albert grinned like sin itself. “So is my medical history. Didn’t stop you, did it?”

Touché.

Mycroft took the mug silently.

Albert stayed standing. Watching. Smiling.

“So,” he said, voice suddenly lower. “How’d it feel? Sleeping somewhere that wasn’t a desk?”

“Strange,” Mycroft admitted.

Albert stepped closer. “Did it help?”

“A bit.”

A pause.

Then Albert crouched beside him like last night expression unreadable now. Quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

Mycroft looked over.

Albert’s eyes were dark. Careful.

“Did you mean it?” he asked. “That kiss. Was that just heat of the moment, or-”

“I don’t do heat of the moment,” Mycroft cut in, voice clipped. “I’m not careless. Especially not with you.”

Something in Albert’s face cracked.

He stared for a second too long.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Good. That’s good.”

Mycroft looked down into his coffee.

Albert looked at him.

“You still have the hickey,” he said smugly.

Mycroft choked.

Albert grinned and stood, stretching lazily. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer. And if you wanna avoid the walk of shame I’ve got an extra scarf you can borrow.”

Mycroft blinked.

Albert winked.

“Make yourself at home, lover boy.”

The smell of coffee still lingered.

Now it was joined by something even more dangerous eggs. Scrambled. With herbs. And toast, lightly buttered. The kind of breakfast you only make when you care a little too much about someone waking up in your house.

Mycroft stood awkwardly at the threshold of the kitchen, a little disheveled and a lot out of place in his suit without his tie, hair slightly mussed from sleep.

Albert, wearing joggers and a loose gray t-shirt, was humming softly to himself as he flipped something in a pan.

"You cook now," Mycroft said dryly, trying to anchor himself in snark.

Albert didn't even turn around. "Baby, I’ve always cooked. You just never stuck around long enough to see it."

"Don't call me baby."

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Mycroft sighed into his coffee. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still here.” Albert plated the eggs with a flourish. “Sit.”

Mycroft hesitated, then obeyed more out of exhaustion than obedience, he told himself.

Albert slid the plate in front of him like this was a normal morning.

Mycroft looked down. Then up.

“You used parsley.”

Albert grinned. “Observant and pretty. No wonder HR’s scared of you.”

He sat opposite Mycroft with his own plate and dug in like this was just any breakfast. Like they weren’t standing on the edge of something massive. Something impossible.

Mycroft took a bite.

He blinked.

“This is good.”

Albert gave him a lazy, pleased smirk. “I know.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

Then Albert leaned forward a little, voice softer now. “So last night.”

“Was a mistake,” Mycroft said too quickly.

Albert just tilted his head. “Was it?”

Mycroft didn’t respond.

Albert watched him quietly. The smirk dropped.

“I like you, Holmes,” he said. No sarcasm. No grin. Just truth.

“I’m not good at this,” Mycroft whispered, gaze fixed on the edge of his toast.

Albert reached across the table. Just enough to brush his fingers against Mycroft’s.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m patient.”

A pause. Stillness. Electricity humming just beneath the surface.

Then, slow as molasses, Albert stood. Walked around the table.

Mycroft looked up, unsure.

Albert leaned in.

And kissed him again just under the jaw, featherlight.

“You missed a spot shaving,” he whispered against his skin.

Mycroft exhaled sharply, his hand tightening around the edge of the table.

Albert smirked again, stepping back.

"Finish your eggs," he said, grabbing his mug. "You’ve got ten minutes before I drive you to work and pretend I didn’t spend the night watching you mouth the words to hospital policy in your sleep.”

Mycroft buried his face in his hands.

Albert whistled on his way out of the kitchen.

The chaos of their workshop trip? Buried. Or so Mycroft thought.

He came back to the hospital composed. Cold. Efficient.

Albert came back with a new skip in his step and a dangerous habit of walking past HR just to “accidentally” make eye contact with Mycroft.

Daily.

“Good morning, Doctor Holmes,” Albert would purr.

Mycroft would stare at him like he was a bug under a microscope.

Then spend the rest of the day unable to focus.

Chapter 6: What are we?

Summary:

“Stop staring like that across the room.”

“Stop following me with your eyes every time I laugh.”

“Stop letting me get this close.”

He closes the distance. They’re nearly chest to chest. “And then pretending it didn’t happen.”

Mycroft doesn’t breathe.

Albert’s eyes are glassy now. He’s not yelling. He’s just tired.

“I don’t care if you hate me. But stop pretending like I’m crazy for feeling something when you look at me like that. Every damn day.”

Albert leaned casually against the vending machine, talking to one of the peds nurses Klara. Loud enough for Mycroft to hear from the other room.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Albert was saying. “Too busy. Unless someone wants to change my mind.”

Mycroft sipped his coffee so hard he burned his tongue.

Klara giggled. “I’m sure there are plenty of volunteers.”

“Oh.” Albert said, not even trying to be subtle. “I’ve got my eye on someone. They’re a little uptight, but I’m working on it.”

Mycroft closed his eyes.

Albert walked past his office a minute later and winked. Mycroft’s hands were full of paperwork. Albert was nowhere on the damn schedule.

“Didn’t want the interns touching these. Figured I’d deliver them myself.”

Mycroft didn’t look at him. “You’re late.”

Albert stepped closer. “For what?”

“For being predictable.”

“Aw. So you were expecting me.”

A pause. The silence charged.

Albert leaned in. “You’ve got a tell, you know.”

Mycroft blinked. “A what?”

“A tell. Every time I get close, your jaw clenches. Right there.”

His fingers brushed the edge of Mycroft’s jaw, slow, deliberate.

Mycroft jerked back. “Don’t touch me.”

Albert raised both hands in surrender. “Hey. You looked tired. Was gonna offer a massage. You’re really tense lately.”

“Because you’re insufferable.”

“And yet-” Albert’s voice dipped. “You haven’t filed a complaint.”

Mycroft turned away.

He didn’t see the flash of worry in Albert’s eyes.

Just heard him say, softly, “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No.”

Albert stepped back. “Then maybe let yourself have a little fun, Holmes.”

Now we cut to the hospital courtyard, after hours. The sky’s turning dusky. Everyone’s gone. Everyone but them. Albert’s leaning against a bench, arms folded, still in scrubs. Mycroft stands across from him, suit jacket folded over his arm, tension coiled tight in every inch of him.

They’ve just had a spat. A petty, stupid thing over case files and hallway etiquette and Albert “not acting professional enough.”

But that wasn’t really what this was about.

Not anymore.

Mycroft’s about to walk away when Albert finally speaks. And his voice isn’t teasing this time.

It’s low. Hoarse. Hurt.

“If you don’t want me, stop acting like you do.”

Mycroft freezes.

Albert steps forward, slow, almost cautious.

“Stop staring like that across the room.”

“Stop following me with your eyes every time I laugh.”

“Stop letting me get this close.”

He closes the distance. They’re nearly chest to chest. “And then pretending it didn’t happen.”

Mycroft doesn’t breathe.

Albert’s eyes are glassy now. He’s not yelling. He’s just tired.

“I don’t care if you hate me. But stop pretending like I’m crazy for feeling something when you look at me like that. Every damn day.”

“I’m not pretending,” Mycroft says softly.

Albert flinches. “What?”

Mycroft meets his eyes. And his voice finally breaks.

“I do want you. I’ve tried not to. God knows I’ve tried.”

“I read every report. Every transfer letter. Every complaint.”

“I thought I knew what you were. But I don’t. I don’t, Albert.”

“Because the truth is."

His voice catches in his throat.

Albert doesn’t speak. He just waits. For once.

“You bloody terrify me. And I still want you anyway.”

Albert’s breath stutters.

“So stop talking,” Mycroft finishes. “And let me ask you properly.”

A pause.

Then, shaky but firm, “Would you uh, go to dinner with me?”

The silence that follows is thick. Heavy.

Then Albert breaks into the softest, stupidest, most disbelieving grin he’s ever worn.

“You’re really asking me out.”

Mycroft: “Yes.”

Albert: “Like, on an actual date.”

Mycroft, dryly respondes “I’m familiar with the concept, yes.”

Albert, then steps forward, right into Mycroft’s space, and just once presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They never officially schedule a date.

They just sort of fall into something.

The next day, Albert walks into the HR department with two coffees and a croissant like it’s normal.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, still as clipped and polished as ever.

“What is this?”

Albert smirks. “Your preferred caffeine order and a pastry I may have watched you order three times last week.”

Mycroft accepts it, mutters something unintelligible, and tries not to look too pleased. He fails.

Albert watches him take the tiniest sip of coffee and smile, just barely. He tucks the moment into his back pocket like a treasure.

That night, they text.

Nothing romantic. Just hospital gossip. Shared complaints. A few memes Albert sends that Mycroft pretends not to laugh at.

One week later, they get drinks. Not a date. Just a post shift wind down.

Except Albert leans in when he talks. And Mycroft’s eyes linger every time he takes off his jacket.

When Albert pays, Mycroft tries to argue.

Albert just tilts his head. “You asked me out, remember?”

Mycroft turns bright red. He hadn't forgotten.

The next morning Mycroft steped into his office to find a single flower in a water cup. No note.

He doesn’t need one.

Albert walks by five minutes later, glances in, sees it still there, and smiles.

Their conversations change. Softer. Sharper. Fuller of things unspoken.

Albert stops flirting with other staff.

Mycroft starts using Albert’s first name in meetings.

They sit next to each other in group briefings now. Albert makes jokes under his breath and Mycroft bites his lip to keep from laughing. Everyone notices. No one says anything.

Then, one night, after a particularly brutal shift, they find themselves on the rooftop of the hospital.

It’s quiet. Windy. The city glows beneath them.

Albert lights a cigarette, offers one to Mycroft out of habit.

“I don’t smoke.”

“I know,” Albert says. “Just wanted to see if you’d take something from me.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply.

Albert leans against the wall, exhales slow.

“I’m not good at this.”

Mycroft glances over. “At what?”

“This.” A vague wave of his hand. “Being normal. Taking things slow. Being liked. For real.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything for a long while.

Then he moves closer. Just enough for their sleeves to touch.

“You don’t have to be good at it.”

Albert turns his head. Their eyes lock. Something hangs there terrifying and fragile and almost beautiful.

“Just,” Mycroft says, voice softer than anyone’s ever heard it, “don’t stop trying.”

Albert stares at him.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Albert’s grinning now, wide and unguarded.

Finally after a long lingering two weeks of waiting a time and date was finally set.

The restaurant was quiet, tucked between a dusty antique shop and a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and something older. Low jazz drifted through the air, golden light painting soft shadows across their table. Two glasses of wine sat between them, nearly empty.

Albert leaned forward on his elbows, smirking.

“You know, you’ve been giving me the same polite smile all night. I’m starting to feel like I’m at a job interview.”

Mycroft gave a soft huff, the barest lift of a smile.

“Would that make this more or less terrifying for you?”

“Terrifying in a different way,” Albert said. “You’re a hard read. It’s weirdly hot.”

Mycroft coughed and immediately reached for his glass.

Albert grinned.

“There he is.”

They moved on to dinner. Then a shared dessert. Then a walk under the streetlamps. The night was warm and quiet, the world hushed just enough to let secrets creep in unnoticed.

“You ever think about leaving medicine?” Albert asked as they walked, shoulders nearly brushing.

“Sometimes,” Mycroft said. “Usually after reading discharge notes at 2 am.”

“What would you do instead?”

“Own a bookstore. Quiet. Solitary. Preferably haunted.”

Albert laughed. “Of course your fantasy career involves ghosts.”

“Better than administrative meetings.”

“Low bar, Holmes.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged humming like a live wire. Every glance lasted a beat too long. Every step brought them just slightly closer.

They paused at a park bench, tucked beneath a tree with lights strung through its branches. Mycroft sat. Albert followed, stretching his arms over the back casually, his fingers brushing the top of Mycroft’s shoulder like it meant nothing.

Mycroft didn’t move away.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Mycroft said quietly.

Albert tilted his head. “This?”

“Us. Whatever this is. It’s unnerving.”

Albert’s voice dropped, gentler. “Why?”

Mycroft took a breath. Didn’t look at him.

“Because I don’t know how to do this slowly. Or halfway. Because if I start wanting something, I don’t stop.”

Albert’s teasing smile softened. His hand shifted, now resting fully behind Mycroft’s neck.

“Then don’t stop.”

And that’s when Mycroft looked at him really looked at him. All the bravado gone. Just a man who was scared to be wanted for real.

Albert didn’t kiss him.

He leaned closer. Close enough that Mycroft could feel his breath. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

Mycroft stared at him, chest rising and falling fast.

“I hate sleeping alone,” he said. “But I hate waking up and finding someone gone even more.”

Albert’s eyes flickered. His voice broke a little.

“You won’t have to worry about that with me.”

"Then why don't we make sure that doesn't happen tonight." Albert laughed smugly.

Mycroft turned red. Mouth beginning to move trying to somehow suppress words but then fell closed again.

After a long pause.

"If you try any funny business Moriarty, you're done for." Mycroft said dryly.

"No promises darling."

Mycroft looked away rolling his eyes. Albert swore he saw a small smirk in that cold frown of Mycroft's.

Albert had only meant to put on a movie. Something easy. Something boring, even. But somewhere between the second act and the lights dimming in the living room, Mycroft had folded himself into the corner of the couch and completely passed out.

Albert didn’t move. Not for a while.

He just watched. Watched the way Mycroft’s body finally relaxed like all the tension he kept wrapped around him like armor had finally crumbled. Albert slowly and calmly repositined Mycroft so his head rested against Albert’s shoulder. One hand dangled lazily in his lap, the other curled under his chin like he was guarding himself even in sleep.

It wasn’t until the credits rolled that Albert finally whispered, “You’re killing me, Holmes.”

He shifted carefully, arms around Mycroft’s waist as he picked him up bridal-style.

“You’ll never let me live this down,” Albert muttered under his breath, carrying him toward the spare room though his own room was warmer, quieter, closer.

Screw it.

He nudged open his own bedroom door and gently laid Mycroft down on the left side of the bed, pulling the covers over him. The man didn’t even stir.

Albert watched him for a moment longer, standing there shirtless in the soft glow of the nightlight.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in.

Not a kiss.

Not really.

Just a soft press of his forehead to Mycroft’s. Barely there. Like a secret.

“Sleep tight, storm cloud,” he whispered.

And then he slid into bed beside him not touching, not crowding just close enough to hear him breathe.

Morning light spilled through the bedroom window in soft gold streaks, brushing against the curve of Mycroft’s jaw like it knew it didn’t belong there.

He stirred slowly and felt around him. Warm sheets. Soft pillow. Not his bed. Not alone. Albert.

Albert was shirtless, back to him, dark curls flattened slightly where he'd slept against the pillow. The line of his spine, the shape of his waist Mycroft had seen less explicit things in anatomy textbooks that made less of an impression.

He inhaled sharply.

The sound woke Albert.

“Mmm You drooled on my pillow,” came the smug, sleepy voice.

“I did no such thing.”

Albert rolled onto his back lazily, arms stretching over his head. “Then whose pretty mouth was open and snoring for the last hour?”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do when you’re tired and unguarded and maybe a little bit emotionally constipated.”

Mycroft sat up with a violent swish of the sheets.

“I-. That’s highly inappropriate,” he huffed.

Albert just grinned. “You’re welcome.”

There was a beat of silence as Mycroft glanced around the room his tie on the nightstand, his blazer folded neatly on a chair, his dignity nowhere to be found.

“...You didn’t wake me?”

“You were exhausted.”

“I could have-”

“You looked safe here,” Albert said, voice lower now. Gentler.

Mycroft froze.

Something lodged in his throat. It wasn’t annoyance. It wasn’t embarrassment.

It was fear.

And tenderness.

“I should get dressed,” he muttered.

“You could,” Albert teased, voice light again. “Or, I could make you coffee, you could pretend you don’t find me wildly charming, and we could pretend this isn’t the most domestic morning of your cold, overworked life.”

Mycroft pinched his nose. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet here we are.”

Albert stood boxers low on his hips, skin glowing in the sunlight like he was carved from some smirking Renaissance sin.

Mycroft didn’t look. Didn’t blink. (He absolutely fucking looked.)

Albert paused at the doorway and turned.

“I meant what I said last night you know.”

Mycroft’s breath caught.

Albert’s voice was soft now. Too soft. “About wanting more.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to deflect, to argue, to run. But instead he froze, words slipping. “I’ll take my coffee black.”

Albert’s eyes widened just a little.

And then he smiled.

“I already knew that.”

The bathroom filled with a soft hiss of water steam curling up the mirror, fogging glass and good intentions.

Mycroft stood at the sink, brushing his teeth with precise, surgical strokes, pretending his heart wasn’t pounding like he’d just run code blue across two floors.

Behind him, the shower door creaked open.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t need to.

He could feel Albert step into the water like it belonged to him. The shadowed outline of his back appeared through the fogged glass, head tilted back under the spray. Water rolled down the line of his spine like gravity had fallen in love.

Mycroft spat toothpaste into the sink like it had personally offended him.

Albert’s voice floated through the steam. Lazy. Dangerous. “You know there’s room in here for one more”

Mycroft scoffed, rinsed his mouth. “You must have a concussion if you think I’d share a shower with you.”

A laugh low and wicked. “Not asking. Just offering.”

“Do you want me to leave the door open for you?” Albert said, tone featherlight. “Or are you going to keep pretending that hickey wasn’t an accident?”

Mycroft glared into the mirror.

The damn mark was still there. Faint. Purple. Brutal.

“Shut the door,” he muttered, turning to leave.

But his gaze flicked. Just once.

A peek.

Albert’s head snapped toward the fogged glass, like he felt it.

Mycroft was halfway out the door when.

“Wait,” Albert called.

He turned, annoyed. “What?”

Albert opened the glass just enough to peek his arm out droplets racing down tanned skin. He reached toward Mycroft.

“You’ve got something” His thumb brushed just beneath Mycroft’s jaw.

And there.

Just the faintest touch it was warm, gentle and totally 100% meaningless.

Except it wasn’t.

Mycroft froze.

Albert leaned in, still behind the glass, water still raining down his chest. “There. Soap, maybe. Or nerves.”

Mycroft stepped back like he’d been scorched.

“I’m going to get dressed,” he said tightly.

Albert grinned. “Try not to think of me wet.”

Mycroft slammed the door behind him.

He thought of him wet. EVERY. DAMN. SECOND.

Albert yes worked in pediatrics however every once in awhile he would be shoved in the OR to perform surgery. He hated the OR with every fibre in his being.

The OR was cold, far to cold. Albert felt like an anemic he hated the cold. He was halfway through the procedure a routine patch close on a congenital defect in a young boy’s heart. It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

His hands trembled just slightly when he asked for the suture.

He told himself it was fine.

The moment the scalpel nicked the edge of the pulmonary vein, he knew it wasn’t. A jet of blood sprayed across the sterile field. A nurse gasped. Someone shouted. The anesthesiologist cursed.

The vitals tanked.

Flatline.

“SHIT” Albert’s voice broke. “Clamp... give me the no, not that one, I NEED-”

He froze.

Hands covered in blood.

Eyes locked on the now coding child.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Dr. Moriarty” a nurse started, alarmed.

“Back away,” came a calm voice from the OR door.

Everyone turned.

Mycroft Holmes was already halfway into scrubs, snapping on gloves, eyes locked on the open chest.

“Back. Away,” he repeated.

Albert’s legs wouldn’t move. He stood there, frozen, red up to the wrists, panic behind his eyes.

Mycroft stepped in, moved past him like a shadow, and took his place.

“I need suction on the left. Stat. Someone page Cardiology and tell them Dr. Holmes is finishing this operation. Now.”

The team shifted instinctively. Trusting.

Mycroft moved like he’d never left the table.

Like it had always been his hands.

He clamped the vessel. Stopped the bleeding.

Stabilized the rhythm.

Restarted the heart.

Albert stumbled back. Someone caught his elbow.

He couldn’t breathe.

He could barely hear the monitors come back to life. Couldn’t hear the nurse whisper, “Sinus rhythm restored.” Couldn’t hear the team’s relieved sigh. He was drowning in silence.

It wasn’t until the surgery was over until the child was stable and being wheeled to recovery that Albert came back to himself.

Mycroft pulled his gloves off with a snap, then looked up.

And locked eyes with him.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

Albert didn’t argue.

They made it as far as the on call room before he collapsed onto the little bench near the wall of lockers. Hands still trembling.

“I-” Albert tried. “I’ve never I hit that vein, I-I could’ve...”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve killed him.”

“You didn’t.”

Mycroft’s voice was cool, but his eyes his eyes were soft. Too soft. It made Albert feel worse.

“I froze.”

“You panicked. You’re human. It happens.”

“Not to me.” Albert spat the words like acid. “I’m not supposed to choke. I don’t choke. I was the best surgeon in my residency year, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t even THINK.”

“You were overstimulated. Your fight or flight kicked in. Your brain was screaming at you to run.”

“I’m supposed to be better than that.”

“You’re not a machine, Albert.”

Albert’s hands curled into fists on his thighs.

“I saw the blood and I don’t know. Everything just went blank. Like my brain unplugged. I heard the monitor flatline and I just shattered.”

Mycroft took a step closer. Slowly.

“You did everything you could. And when it was too much, I did everything I could. Because I was watching. Because I saw you.”

Albert looked up, eyes rimmed with red.

“That makes it worse.”

Mycroft blinked. “What?”

“That you saw me fall apart.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I’d rather see you fall apart,” Mycroft said quietly, “than see you pretend you’re fine and bleed out from the inside.”

Albert’s breath hitched.

That cracked something deep.

He stared at him really stared and said, raw, “I’ve never failed like that before.”

“You didn’t fail.”

“I felt like I did.”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away. Just sat beside him.

“Do you want to go home?”

Albert blinked. “I don’t think I can be alone right now.”

“You won’t be.”

Albert stared down at his hands. Then back at Mycroft.

“You’re staying?”

“Always.”

Albert barely made it to his apartment.

He didn’t even remember the car ride. Didn’t remember the elevator ride up. Didn’t remember unlocking the door. But he remembered how cold his hands felt. How loud the blood had sounded when it sprayed out. How fast the heart had flatlined.

He stood frozen in his kitchen. Jacket still on. Shoes still on. Hands still faintly red even after scrubbing three times. His throat was dry. His chest tight.

Mycroft closed the door softly behind them. He didn’t speak.

He just watched.

Watched as Albert leaned on the counter with both palms like he needed the granite to hold him up.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” Albert whispered.

Mycroft took a step closer. “Come on.”

Albert shook his head. “I’m fine-”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t need-”

“Shower,” Mycroft said gently, cutting him off. “Hot water. Steam. You’re freezing.”

Albert went to protest again but was abruptly cut off.

“Albert.”

That broke something.

Albert’s mouth pressed shut. He gave a shaky nod and turned toward the bathroom.

He didn’t even flinch when Mycroft followed.

The water steamed up the small bathroom within minutes.

Albert stripped slowly, like his limbs had forgotten how to move.

Stepped into the stall.

But he couldn’t stop shaking.

His knees nearly buckled under the spray.

He leaned both palms on the tile wall. His head hung low. The heat soaked his hair, poured down his spine but it didn’t sink in deep enough. Couldn’t reach whatever part of him had gone cold.

And then he felt the sudden touch of someone else, a cold body slowly moving into the confined space around him.

“What” Albert started, voice raw.

He turned just in time to see Mycroft stepping into the shower, fully clothed, shirt already soaked, water plastering his hair back.

Albert blinked, stunned. “What the hell are you-”

Mycroft reached out. Gently took both of Albert’s wrists.

Held them steady between their bodies.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m-” Albert’s voice cracked.

“Let me help you stop.”

Albert stared at him. Water dripping from his lashes.

His mouth opened. Closed.

Then he crumbled.

He folded forward into Mycroft’s chest, fingers digging into soaked fabric, letting out one ragged, breathless sob.

The kind you only make when your body’s been holding it in all day.

Mycroft wrapped both arms around him and held him there.

Tight. Still. Steady. Letting the water wash away the blood.

Letting the silence do the healing.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, voice barely above the sound of the spray. “I’ve got you.”

Albert didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

They stood there for a long time.

Eventually, Mycroft helped him out dried his hair with a towel, helped him into sweats and a hoodie, all without a word.

They curled up on the couch after.

No TV. No music.

Just quiet.

Albert’s head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

And, for the first time since the surgery, his hands finally stopped shaking.

The lights were off, save for the faint gold from the kitchen that neither of them had the energy to switch off.

The couch was small barely big enough for two grown men but somehow, they’d made it work. Mycroft’s arm was around Albert’s shoulder. Albert’s knees were pulled up on the cushion. A shared blanket draped over both of them, still warm from the dryer.

Albert was the first to speak.

Quiet. Like he didn’t want to wake the moment.

“You didn’t have to get in the shower.”

“I know,” Mycroft said.

“You got soaked. Your shirt was ruined.”

“I have others.”

Albert looked at him, eyes heavy lidded and glassy, like the tears from earlier were still echoing behind his ribs. “Why do you care?”

It came out flat. Not cold just tired. Honest.

Mycroft’s fingers stilled where they’d been absently tracing circles on Albert’s arm. The question hung there, so much weight packed into so few syllables.

He finally answered, voice barely audible.

“Because I couldn’t watch you fall apart alone.”

Silence.

Albert’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“I didn’t come to fix it,” Mycroft said softly. “I came because I couldn’t stay away.”

The lights were dim, the hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the stillness. Mycroft’s arm was around Albert’s shoulder, his fingers moving in slow, thoughtful circles.

Albert shifted just enough to look at him, expression vulnrable.

“...This thing between us. Is it real?”

Mycroft didn’t hesitate this time.

He looked straight at Albert and said “Yeah.”

Just that.

Quiet. Steady. Certain.

Albert blinked. His breath hitched, like he hadn’t expected the answer to come so quickly or to mean so much.

“Yeah?” he echoed, barely above a whisper.

Mycroft nodded, his voice low and warm.

“From the first day you walked in. You drove me insane, still do actually.” He exhaled. "Sometimes I genuinely want to ring your neck you drive me mental to the point I feel like I need a full on psychiatric evaluation."

He paused again silently laughing to himself then continued.

“But I keep thinking about you when you’re not there. I wait for your damn jokes. I notice when you're not in the cafeteria. I care.”

Albert swallowed. Hard. “You mean it?”

Mycroft gave a tired, crooked little smile. “Unfortunately.”

Albert laughed wet and broken but honest. “God, you’re a pain in the fucking ass.”

“And you’re chaos in human form.”

They stared at each other, too close now, sharing the same breath.

Then Albert’s voice dropped.

“Don’t go. Not yet.”

“I won’t,” Mycroft murmured.

Albert let his head fall onto Mycroft’s chest, and Mycroft didn’t move. Just wrapped both arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when Albert whispered, almost shyly. “Can we stay like this for a bit?”

Mycroft’s answer came with no hesitation. “As long as you want.”

Outside, the city flickered with midnight light. But inside, everything finally felt still.

Albert hadn’t moved from Mycroft’s chest in what felt like an hour, though the clock ticked steadily on. The silence was comfortable now quiet, like they’d been holding their breath for months and could finally exhale.

Then Albert’s voice broke through, soft but tentative. “So-" He paused and was about to reconsider his words when it just slipped. "does this mean we’re dating?”

Notes:

Ignore my absolute terrible use of commas.

Chapter 7: Nia

Summary:

Meet one of my favourite characters to write <3

Mycroft looked down at him with that dry, unimpressed stare Albert secretly found sexy as hell. One beat passed. Two.

Then Mycroft smirked and said “I thought you’d never ask.”

Albert blinked just once then grinned, slow and radiant. “You arrogant bastard.”

And Mycroft, entirely unbothered, just muttered, “You like it.”

Albert sat up a little, still nestled into the crook of Mycroft’s arm. “Yeah,” he said, voice low now. “Yeah, I do.”

The tension curled between them like heat lightning. They stared just stared until finally, Albert leaned in first.

And Mycroft didn’t stop him.

Their mouths met warm, sure, and a little desperate. This time, there was no mischief, no teasing. Just months of buildup snapping like a rubber band. Albert’s hand curled into Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft's fingers found the nape of Albert’s neck, holding him there, kissing him like he’d waited a lifetime.

And when they pulled apart, just barely breathing, Albert whispered “So that’s a yes?”

Mycroft laughed under his breath, resting his forehead against Albert’s.

“It’s a very emphatic yes.”

The next morning Albert strolled into the hospital like he owned the damn place. Hair slightly tousled. Collar slightly wrinkled. That smug grin that screamed, "Yeah, I had a good night what about it?"

He even winked at the receptionist, who blinked twice and immediately texted five people.

Meanwhile, Doctor Mycroft Holmes was already at the nursing station, face buried in a tablet, pretending like his entire being wasn’t screaming DON’T LOOK AT ME. He could feel it. The stares. The whispers.

“Morning, Dr. Holmes,” one of the interns chirped with an overly chipper tone and a not so subtle smirk.

Mycroft didn’t look up. “It is, indeed, morning.”

Albert slid in beside him with a coffee in hand. His coffee, the one Mycroft always drank.

He handed it over wordlessly. Mycroft hesitated.

“Everyone’s watching,” he muttered under his breath.

Albert leaned in and whispered back, “Good. Maybe now they'll stop trying to flirt with you.”

Mycroft coughed. “They weren’t.”

“They were,” Albert replied, grinning like the devil in scrubs. “But it’s okay. I’m very possessive.”

Someone cleared their throat behind them. A nurse. “Dr. Holmes? Your neck.”

Mycroft blinked. “What?”

“Your collar. It’s a little askew.”

He reached up and froze when his fingers brushed the faintest outline of a bruise just barely hidden under his collar.

Albert’s grin widened. “Oops.”

Mycroft’s ears went pink. He adjusted his collar swiftly and cleared his throat like he could will the earth to swallow him whole.

Albert leaned casually on the counter, sipping his own coffee.

“You okay?” he asked, all innocence.

Mycroft gave him a deadly glare. “I am fine.”

Albert winked. “You sure? You’re breathing like I’m a code blue again.” (Foreshadowing...?)

Someone nearby choked on their latte.

(OKAY EVERYONES ABOUT TO MEET NIA SHES MY BABY I LOVE HER)

Room 521 was dimly lit just the soft hum of the monitor and the gentle beeping of Nia’s vitals. Mycroft sat on the edge of her bed, his suit jacket draped over the back of the nearby chair, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loosened. He looked less like Dr. Holmes, Chief of Neurology and more like someone who cared. Nia’s head was shaved from her recent craniotomy, a soft knit cap resting on her pillow. She blinked up at him with wide eyes, her tiny hand held in his gloved one.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

“Sometimes” Mycroft said, voice low, almost a whisper. “But the pain fades. And you, young lady, are stronger than most of the adults in this building.”

She giggled, a fragile sound. “Even you?”

He smiled faintly. “Even me.”

She reached up to touch the little bear charm he wore subtly on his lanyard something no one ever really noticed. “You like bears?”

He hesitated. “My brother Sherlock gave it to me when I first started med school. Said it would keep me brave.”

She beamed. “Then I want one too.”

From the doorway, Albert had been standing silently, completely still, arms crossed against his chest and donut forgotten in his hand. Watching this quiet, gentle version of Mycroft the one no one else got to see. His heart squeezed in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Mycroft looked up he knew he was being watched. Their eyes met, and for a moment, there was no teasing. No witty jabs. Just that quiet recognition.

Albert finally stepped in, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I thought you didn’t like kids.”

Mycroft didn’t look at him. Instead, he gently smoothed Nia’s blanket, brushing it over her knees. “She’s my patient,” he said softly. “And I’m not paid to like people. I’m paid to care for them.”

Albert raised a brow, crossing the room now, slower than usual. “You’re the Chief of Neurology. You could’ve just sent a resident.”

“She asked for me.” Mycroft stood, carefully. “And children like Nia they don’t just need charts and meds. They need consistency. Safety. Someone who remembers their name after the procedure is done.”

Albert looked at Nia, now dozing peacefully. Then at Mycroft, who was fixing his cuff with trembling fingers.

“You’re good with her,” Albert said.

“I’m her neurologist,” Mycroft answered tightly.

Albert smirked, stepping a little closer. “You’re also the man who wrote me up for breathing too close to your office. I didn’t expect you to melt for a seven year old.”

“I didn’t melt,” Mycroft snapped, cheeks warming. “I maintained appropriate bedside manner.”

Albert leaned in, voice soft. “She asked if I was your boyfriend the other day.”

Mycroft’s eyes darted toward the door. “She’s concussed.”

Albert grinned. “Still has great instincts.”

Mycroft gave him one last hard stare before brushing past him toward the hallway. Albert followed.

“Don’t read into this,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, I’m not. But maybe next time” Albert nudged him gently. “You could come visit my other patient, and we’ll see if he thinks you also look like my boyfriend.”

“Unbelievable,” Mycroft muttered but he didn’t pull away when Albert’s hand grazed his wrist.

Albert was in Room 407, crouched down beside a little boy’s bed, carefully adjusting an IV line while explaining, “so the medicine is like little superheroes, right? They zoom into your blood and help knock out the bad guys.”

The boy giggled, his voice a little hoarse. “Do they wear capes?”

Albert straightened with a wink. “Of course. You think I’d let boring medicine into your system?”

“Dr. Moriarty,” came Mycroft’s voice calm, smooth, but there.

Albert turned, slightly startled. Mycroft stood at the doorway, holding a clipboard like he belonged there, expression unreadable, but eyes lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“You lost, Holmes?” Albert asked, masking his surprise. “This isn’t the ICU wing. Neurology’s upstairs.”

“I’m aware.” Mycroft stepped in, glancing briefly at the patient. “I came to check on Mr. Kessler. I read the chart. his vitals dropped last night.”

Albert blinked. “You read his chart?”

“I may have skimmed it,” Mycroft replied, approaching the bed and giving the boy a once over. “He’s one of the immunodeficient post op cases. You’ve been juggling three like him this week. Overwhelming, even for someone as irritatingly cocky as yourself.”

Albert laughed softly. “That was almost a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

The boy looked between them, then leaned toward Albert. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Albert snorted while Mycroft visibly choked on air.

“I uh he's my I’m-” Mycroft coughed once, face turning just a shade too pink. “I’m his supervisor.”

Albert raised a brow. “You really wanna tell him that?”

Mycroft glared. “I’m here professionally.”

“Sure, Doc,” Albert teased, watching him scan vitals like his life depended on it. “Next time you wanna professionally drop by one of my rooms, I suggest flowers.”

Mycroft didn’t rise to the bait, but the side of his mouth twitched. A beat passed.

Then, softly “You’re good with him.”

Albert blinked again, caught off guard by the sincerity in Mycroft’s voice.

“He’s one of the trickier cases I’ve seen,” Mycroft added, his gaze flicking to the little boy, now distracted by cartoons. “You’ve stabilized him longer than I expected. That took effort.”

Albert smiled genuine, quiet. “Thanks.”

They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, not touching, not looking at each other, but existing together.

And for once, Albert didn’t make a joke. He just let the silence be.

“You coming to lunch with me or you gonna pretend you don’t eat food like the rest of us mortals?”

Mycroft exhaled softly. “You’re exhausting.”

Albert grinned. “And yet.”

The lounge was unusually warm, humming with a rare kind of peace. Mycroft sat upright at the edge of the sofa, sipping lukewarm coffee while Albert dramatically fumbled with a container of salad he had no intention of eating.

"Tell me again why you even bought that if you're just going to complain about the dressing?" Mycroft asked, raising a single arched brow.

Albert, eyes full of mischief, peeled the lid off and dramatically sniffed the vinaigrette. "Because hope springs eternal," he said, then leaned back, watching Mycroft. "Also because I like complaining. Gives me something to do while I watch you cut your sandwich into trauma informed geometries."

"Some of us don’t require chaos to survive the day,” Mycroft replied coolly, but there was something lighter in his voice. Something warm.

Albert smiled. That soft kind of smile he reserved only for Mycroft. "I like watching you when you're relaxed. It's rare."

Mycroft looked up. He opened his mouth to reply then...

“CODE BLUE. ROOM 521. CODE BLUE. ROOM 521.”

Everything dropped.

Albert went rigid. The salad container slipped from his hands and hit the floor.

“521?” he said, voice brittle. “Is that..?”

Mycroft was already standing. “Nia.

For half a second, Albert didn’t move. He just blinked, chest rising too fast. Mycroft turned to him “Albert.”

That was all it took.

Albert was up in a flash, footsteps heavy as they bolted down the corridor together. Mycroft’s heart hammered, the hallway stretching endlessly in front of him. He could hear Albert muttering under his breath.

“No no no no.. she was stable she was fine”

“Focus,” Mycroft snapped but even his voice was shaking. Not with irritation. With fear.

As they ran, Albert reached out without thinking and gripped Mycroft's arm then slid his hand down to squeeze his thigh just above the knee. A grounding gesture it felt desperate, Intimate really really human.

“You’ve got her,” Albert said, his voice cracking. “You’ve got her.”

They turned the corner.

Room 521.

Chaos.

Nurses yelling. Machines wailing. A resident calling out vitals that made Mycroft’s blood run cold.

“She’s coding! She’s coding she was post-ictal and then she just-”

Albert froze in the doorway. For the first time since Mycroft had met him, he froze completely.

He couldn’t move.

His feet were planted, his breath shallow. Nia was seizing. Her tiny body convulsing violently on the bed, the beeping erratic and then flatline.

Mycroft shoved past him.

“Move! Clear the crash cart give me access!”

He barked orders like cannon fire, his hands steady even though his soul was unraveling. He didn’t even realize he was crying until a teardrop splashed against his glove. He leaned over Nia, already initiating compressions. Someone passed him the paddles.

“Charging to 15. Clear.”

Albert blinked.

Then snapped back into action.

“I’ve got the Epi!” he called out, voice hoarse.

Together, they moved in sync, the practiced rhythm of trauma care taking over. When Nia’s heart started again when the monitor beeped a slow, shallow rhythm both men exhaled like they'd been holding their breath for years.

Nia had been stabilized for a few hours now, moved to the PICU she had started to show small signs of waking. Her vitals were steady, though her body looked far too small against the sterile sheets and humming machines.

Albert stood outside the glass doors of her room, staring through the window like he could will her awake just by existing hard enough. His arms were crossed, jaw clenched, but his eyes, They were soft, aching threatening to pull the lever of the dam and flood down the waterworks.

Albert entered quietly.

He didn’t speak.

He just sat down beside Mycroft.

And after a moment after enough silence had passed that the air didn’t feel suffocating anymore Albert said, voice raw “I thought I lost her.”

Mycroft turned to him. Slowly.

"You didn't."

Albert looked at him, eyes shining, lower lip trembling in a way he couldn’t quite hide.

"Because of you."

And then hesitantly, quietly he leaned his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft didn’t move.

He just closed his eyes.

And let him stay there

“She’s okay,” Mycroft said gently, joining him.

“I know,” Albert murmured. “I just-”

He trailed off.

Mycroft didn’t press.

Albert got up and sat down beside the bed, reaching for her hand with the kind of care that made Mycroft’s chest ache.

“She held up better than I did,” Albert said with a breathless laugh. “God, I panicked. I just froze.”

“You’re human,” Mycroft said softly as he slowly stood up. “Even surgeons bleed.”

Albert looked up at him then. Slowly. “Is that in the neurology handbook?”

“No,” Mycroft said, a small smile playing on his lips as he made his way over and sat down next to Albert. “It’s just what I needed to hear once. A long time ago.”

Albert reached out, and this time it was Mycroft’s hand he took. Just a gentle touch between their fingers, barely anything at all.

But it said everything.

“She means a lot to you,” Mycroft said, nodding toward Nia.

“She reminds me of my little brother, William,” Albert replied, voice rough. “He used to get these awful fevers as a kid. We lived in and out of hospitals for years. I know what it feels like to sit in these chairs, hoping for a miracle.”

There was a long silence.

“I didn’t know that,” Mycroft said finally.

Albert shrugged. “I never told you.”

He smiled down at Nia again, brushing a piece of hair from her forehead.

“She’s going to wake up soon,” Mycroft said, watching them both.

Albert nodded. “And I’ll be here.”

Then without turning he gently tugged Mycroft’s hand, guiding him down to sit beside him. Close. Their shoulders touched. Neither of them pulled away.

“I’m glad you were there today,” Albert whispered. “She’s alive because of you.”

“She’s alive because of both of us,” Mycroft replied.

They sat there in silence.

Watching over her.

Two hearts, finally starting to beat in the same rhythm.

It was almost 2 a.m.

The hospital had settled into that eerie stillness the hum of monitors, the occasional distant cough, the rustle of nurses doing rounds. Mycroft had been up reviewing paperwork he should’ve signed off hours ago.

But one file remained open. Albert’s.

He told himself it was protocol. A routine update on surgeons' records. A check in on credential compliance. But the moment his eyes scanned the full legal name on the header, he stopped breathing.

MORIARTY, ALBERT JAMES.

James.

Not Julian.

Not the teasing lie Albert had smirked about the day Mycroft had to write him up for the third time.

“What’s your middle name?”

“You’ll have to fuck that info out of me.”

Later, he joked it was Julian. A name that sounded like mischief with an espresso addiction. A name Mycroft had begrudgingly let live in the back of his mind.

But now it was out in the open, it was James. It sounded steady, classic, gentle somehow.

Mycroft stared at the screen. Then he slowly leaned back in his chair.

So it hadn’t been Julian.

It had been another boundary pushed. Another layer peeled away. Another distraction from what was real.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there until he heard a knock on the door.

Albert. In scrubs. A hoodie half zipped over his chest. Eyes tired but warm.

“You left the nurses notes in the printer again,” he said, tossing a file toward the desk.

Mycroft caught it. Didn’t speak.

Albert narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”

Mycroft finally looked up, and quietly, without theatrics, just said: “So it wasn’t Julian.”

Albert blinked.

There was a beat. Then his lips twitched into something between a smile and a wince. “No. It wasn’t.”

“James?” Mycroft asked.

Albert stepped closer, leaned a hand on the desk. “Surprised?”

“No,” Mycroft murmured. “Just disappointed. I liked Julian.”

Albert laughed. “Oh? Want me to change it for you?”

“You change names the way you change hospitals.”

Albert's smirk faded slightly. “You read the rest?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The room buzzed with silence.

Then Albert leaned forward, a little too close, voice low. “For what it’s worth I like how you say my name. Middle one included.”

Mycroft didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just said, very softly.

“Don’t ruin James for me.”

And Albert, for once, didn’t have a comeback.

After the long, quiet pause in Mycroft's office the middle name James sat between them like something fragile and real.

Albert didn’t push .And Mycroft, for once, didn’t deflect. Instead, he quietly stood, grabbed the printed notes Albert had tossed at him, and said in a low voice “Let’s go check on Nia.”

Albert blinked, surprised. “Now?”

Mycroft was already walking. “The nurse said she's been up for hours shes already chatty as ever." So they walked the quiet halls together. Past the glowing nurses’ station. Down the pediatric wing, where cartoon murals lined the walls and everything still smelled faintly like bubblegum antiseptic.

When they reached her room Nia was awake just like Mycroft said. She was sitting up in bed, her thin arms wrapped around a plush dinosaur, IV lines tucked carefully away. Her eyes lit up when she saw them.

“Doctor Holmes!” she beamed. Then, turning to Albert “And Doctor Moriarty! You guys came together!”

Albert laughed softly. “Guilty.”

Mycroft gave a small smile and stepped closer. “Couldn't sleep. We thought we’d check on our favorite neurologically complex patient.”

“I’m your only neurologically complex patient,” she giggled.

“Still counts,” he said, pulling up a chair.

Albert sat on the other side of the bed, leaning his elbows on the rail. “You look good, kid. Color’s back in your cheeks.”

“I had pudding. The chocolate kind,” Nia said proudly.

“Oh, well. That explains it. Chocolate pudding cures everything,” Albert whispered conspiratorially.

Mycroft glanced at him with an amused sigh.

Nia looked between them, eyes narrowing in that too-smart way of hers. “You guys are acting weird.”

Albert raised a brow. “Define weird.”

“Like..” she squinted, tilting her head. “Like you’re trying not to smile too much.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “You should rest.”

“Nooope!!!” Nia said, curling into her blankets with that sleepy defiance only kids had. “Stay and talk. I hate being alone.”

Albert and Mycroft exchanged a glance. They stayed.

They sat on either side of her, voices low, talking softly about everything and nothing the pudding on the cafeteria menu, Nia’s dinosaur’s name (Sir Rawrington), and how Albert once broke his arm falling off a jungle gym in front of his brothers. At one point, Nia’s head lolled onto Mycroft’s arm. He stiffened. But only for a second. Then, carefully, he let her stay there. Albert watched the moment with something quiet and tender in his eyes. “You’re good with her.”

“She’s my patient,” Mycroft said softly.

“She’s more than that,” Albert replied. “You know it.”

And for once, Mycroft didn’t argue.

Nia mumbled something in her sleep. Her hand, small and fragile, reached out instinctively.

Albert took it gently, covering hers with his own. And in that moment in that small, dimly lit room, with beeping monitors and one dinosaur plush between them it hit Mycroft with the full force of truth He’d stopped pretending this was just about work. This was something else.

Maybe even something like family.

Chapter 8: Boyfriends - NSFW

Summary:

smut finally ensues!!

Notes:

HEY GUYS I AM SO SORRY IVE BEEN SUPER BUSY AND IM JUST GETTING SETTLED INTO UNI!! Anyway here's the next chapter dw they'll be more regularly posted now.

The morning began innocently enough. Mycroft had just finished his second espresso and was mentally preparing himself to round on his neuro cases when he opened the breakroom door and walked right into Albert. Albert, who was already holding a coffee for him.

"Morning, darling," Albert said with a grin that should've been illegal before 8AM. He held out the coffee. “Two shots. Oat milk. No sugar. Just like your clinical demeanor.”

Mycroft blinked. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough to know you talk to yourself when you walk. It’s adorable.”

Mycroft snatched the coffee. “You’re not on my service today.”

“No,” Albert said cheerfully, falling into step beside him as Mycroft strode toward the elevators “But I thought I’d shadow you anyway. You know for science.”

“For science. Albert, what are you doing?”

“Following my boyfriend,” Albert said easily.

“We’re not..” Mycroft sighed as the elevator dinged open. “Fine. But don’t distract my patients.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He’d barely made it to the neuro wing before Albert was there. No coffee this time just him. Grinning, radiating golden retriever energy in scrubs and a badge. While Mycroft felt like the black cat wanting nothing more then to die.

“Good morning Dr. Holmes,” he said, voice smooth, leaning in entirely too close as if there weren’t 19 nurses walking by giving them the look.

“Albert,” Mycroft said through clenched teeth. “Do you not have an entire pediatric floor to be responsible for?”

“I delegated,” Albert chirped. “Don’t worry. The kids are busy coloring in anatomy charts. You know future doctors of America type of stuff”

“I am not your babysitting assignment.”

“Nope. You’re my favorite coworker who happens to be terrifying, brilliant, and looks criminally good in navy scrubs.”

Mycroft was not blushing. That would be ridiculous. He was simply warm. From stress, rage and definitely not from the way Albert’s voice dropped half a register on the word criminally. He stalked off. Albert followed. He tried going to the lab. Albert followed. He tried grabbing lunch and hiding in a staff closet. Albert sat on the floor outside the door and asked him about dinner plans through the crack. It would’ve been maddening if it wasn’t so endearing. Mycroft hated how endearing it was. How he found himself slowing down just slightly so Albert could keep up. How he caught himself glancing at every reflective surface they passed, just to see Albert there behind him, like some smug little shadow made of compliments and chaos. And worst of all? He liked it.

Every patient they saw, Albert would linger in the doorway, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping. He kept tossing in little comments “Wow, you really know your way around a frontal lobe” or “You’re amazing with kids for someone who claims he hates them,” and once, right in front of a nurse, “Should I schedule you for a cardiac workup? Because you’re making my heart do things.”

The fucking nerve this man had.

By mid afternoon, Mycroft found himself in the break room, trying to will his pulse into something respectable with a lukewarm cup of tea, when Albert came in again this time wordless. He just leaned against the counter beside him and nudged their arms together gently, like it was second nature. Like it had always been this way. And maybe, Mycroft thought bitterly, it had. Ever since the day Albert walked into his hospital like a walking HR violation with perfect hair. He didn’t say anything for a minute. Neither of them did.

Then Albert exhaled, soft and real. “I know I’m all over you today.”

Mycroft side eyed him. “You think?”

Albert smiled, but it was tired around the edges. “It’s not just because I’m annoying. I just yesterday scared the hell out of me.”

Mycroft didn’t move.

Albert kept going, quieter now. “I’ve never frozen like that in surgery. Never. But you were there. You came in. You finished it. And then you just held me after. Like it didn’t scare you.”

Mycroft’s fingers curled around the cup.

“I’ve never had someone do that,” Albert murmured. “Just be there like that.”

There was a long silence. And then, in a voice that surprised even himself, Mycroft said, “I’m not going anywhere.” Albert looked at him. Not grinning. Not smirking. Just looking.

“Does that mean I can keep following you around like a lost puppy?”

Mycroft huffed. “You already do.” Albert beamed.

They left the break room together.

And yes Albert’s hand found Mycroft’s at some point during the walk. And no Mycroft didn’t let go.

The hallway outside the neurology wing was bustling with nurses, interns, carts squeaking like they needed WD fucking 40 like three weeks ago but none of that mattered. What mattered was that Mycroft Holmes had just finished back to back consults, was six hours into his shift, and was being shadowed like a celebrity trying to run errands in peace.

“Is there a reason you’re still tailing me like a lost golden retriever?” Mycroft muttered without turning around.

Albert's voice came immediately far too smug for someone who had absolutely no business looking that good at 1:48 PM. “Mmm, not lost. I found exactly who I was looking for.”

Mycroft stopped walking. Dead in his tracks. Nurses nearly swerved to avoid him.

He turned, slowly, like a man restraining the urge to throw a clipboard. “Albert. It’s not even two o’clock.”

Albert checked his watch dramatically. “1:51 actually.”

“And you’re not on rounds?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t have surgeries?”

“Nope. Canceled. RSV baby stabilized, the other one transferred to ortho.”

“Clinic?”

“Not my day.”

“Paperwork?”

Albert shrugged. “Delegated.”

Mycroft’s jaw twitched. “Do you ever work?”

Albert’s grin widened, green eyes shining like he thought this was the most fun he’d had in a week. “Oh, I worked. I just cleared my afternoon. So I could be with you.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He stepped closer. Too close. Just enough for their arms to brush like it was accidental when they both knew it wasn’t. “You know, if you really wanted me gone, you wouldn’t have let me follow you for the last four hours.”

“I was trying to be professional.”

Albert tilted his head. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “Don’t you have patients?”

Albert leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I do. And unfortunately, one of them is standing right in front of me. You see, Dr. Holmes.” he made a show of pulling a folded post it from his pocket and reading it aloud “Presents with signs of emotional constipation, mild irritation, and a deeply repressed attraction to pediatric specialists.’”

Mycroft snatched the note out of his hand.

“You’re not funny.”

“You smirked.”

“I did not.”

“You twitched. Your lip did the thing.”

Mycroft exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re exhausting.” Albert’s tone softened just slightly. “But I’m not leaving.” And he didn’t.

He followed Mycroft into the next room. Didn’t speak when Mycroft examined a six year old recovering from a traumatic brain injury, just stood in the corner, watching with this quiet reverence like he was witnessing a miracle in action.

When the child smiled weakly and thanked Mycroft with a little whispered, “You talk nice,” Albert’s hand tightened slightly on the clipboard he wasn’t even supposed to be holding. Once they were back in the hall, Albert was silent for once. It only lasted about five seconds. “That was bloody incredible.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “The fact that I do my job?”

“The fact that you did it so gently.”

Mycroft’s mouth parted. He looked away. “She’s been through enough.”

Albert’s voice dipped low, real. “Yeah. I could see that. You were..” he swallowed, “You were really good with her.”

For once, there was no joke. No flirt. Just admiration. Then Mycroft, perhaps because he was tired or perhaps because the affection in Albert’s voice short circuited something in his very british, very uptight brain, said quietly, “Do you really not have anything to do?”

Albert blinked. “You want me to leave?”

“No,” Mycroft said too fast. Then, “I mean. I didn’t say that.”

Albert grinned. “Didn’t think so. I’ll clear tomorrow too.”

“Don’t you dare.”

But he didn’t stop walking next to him. And Mycroft didn’t tell him to. The doors slid closed with a mechanical hiss, sealing them into that tiny metal box that suddenly felt criminally small.
Floor 3 to Floor 7. Four floors. Forty seconds. It was silent at first.

Too silent.

Mycroft stood rigid, arms crossed, glaring at the elevator doors like they personally offended him. Albert leaned casually against the opposite wall, hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely too smug for a man who’d been shadowing him all day like an extremely hot ghost.

Ding. Floor 4. Albert didn’t speak.

Ding. Floor 5. Still nothing.

Ding. And then Floor 6.

Mycroft snapped.

His voice was low, taut, shaking with restraint. “Albert, I will give you whatever you want if you’ll just leave me be.”

Albert didn’t even hesitate.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, and purred right into Mycroft’s ea. “I want you. On top of me.”

Mycroft choked. Literally turned red from the base of his throat to the tips of his ears.

The elevator stopped at Floor 7, but neither of them moved.

Albert was still close. Close enough to feel Mycroft’s breath hitch. Close enough to hear the sound of restraint snapping in half.

Mycroft’s eyes locked on his.

He didn’t say a word.

But his jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them except possibly wrap them around Albert’s neck whether to kiss him or kill him was unclear.

Albert was smiling.

God help him, he was smiling like the cat that caught the canary and stole the whole birdcage.

Ding.

The doors opened.

A nurse stood waiting outside, blinking in mild confusion.

Albert smiled pleasantly and stepped out first. “Afternoon.”

Mycroft followed in silence, stiff as a board, murder in his eyes and desire hot on its heels.

Albert didn’t look back but he knew. God he fucking knew.

That was not the last word.

It was just the beginning.

The hospital intercom buzzed overhead sharp and urgent.

“Paging Dr. Holmes to Neuro. Repeat, Dr. Holmes to Neurology.”

Mycroft didn’t hear it.

Or rather he did, but he didn’t care. Not when he had Albert Moriarty pinned to the corridor wall of a dark, empty hallway. Not when Albert had just whispered that in his ear again. Not when Mycroft’s restraint had finally cracked, leaving behind something raw and reckless.

“Are you..” Albert’s voice was low, breathless, lips brushing the shell of Mycroft’s ear. “Ignoring a page for me?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. He grabbed Albert’s face and kissed him hard desperate, angry, like he was trying to shut him up and devour him all at once. Albert groaned into his mouth, hands threading into the back of Mycroft’s coat like he needed something to hold on to or he'd sink through the floor.

Mycroft’s phone rang. It buzzed violently against his thigh.

He didn’t move.

Albert kissed down his jaw, pulling just slightly away as he whispered, “You’re gonna get written up, Doctor.”

“I am the write up,” Mycroft growled, and crashed back into him like they were gravity itself. Albert let out a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a moan or both. Outside, footsteps echoed. A nurse pushing a chart past, completely unaware that two of the hospital’s senior doctors were currently making out like feral teenagers just behind a corner. The hallway lights flickered once. A cart beeped in the distance. Inside the shadows, Mycroft pressed closer, hand sliding up Albert’s chest, teeth grazing his lower lip.

“You don’t fight fair.” he hissed.

Albert’s grin was wicked. “Neither do you.”

The pager screamed again. A second call for Mycroft, more urgent.

This time, he pulled away.

Just barely.

His breathing was ragged. His tie was crooked. Albert looked wrecked in the best way.

They stared at each other.

Just for a second.

Then Mycroft turned and ran a hand down his face and muttered, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Albert’s smile was shameless. “You’ll die happy.”

And then just like that Mycroft was gone, straightening his coat as he vanished down the hallway like nothing happened.

Albert stumbled into the nearest supply closet like he’d just been shot.

His hair was a mess. His lips were pink from kisses. His chest was heaving like he’d run a marathon, but no he’d just been cornered in the hallway and thoroughly made out with. Pressed against the wall. Bitten. Hands under his lab coat.

And now?

Now he had a problem. A very specific, very firm, very visible problem. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, trying to breathe through it. “Okay, okay, just think about spreadsheets. Filing cabinets. Tax law. Cold showers. Mycroft in tweed wait, no, that’s worse..”

BZZT BZZT.

His pager buzzed.

Then, overhead: “CODE BLUE. ROOM 304. CODE BLUE. ADULT WARD.”

Albert stared.

“No,” he said out loud. “No. I don’t do adults. I’m pediatric. Children. Tiny, non blood gushing humans." He paused. "I mean sometimes they gush blood sure, but it's normally not that bad except for that one time.." He was rambling.

The door slammed open.

A nurse. Red faced. Panicked. “Dr. Moriarty, you're the only one available!”

“I’M ERECT.”

“What?!”

“NOTHING! Never mind, I’m coming!”

He shoved himself back into his pants, zipped up with an agonized whimper, and ran.

Room 304

It was already chaos.

Alarms screaming. People shouting vitals. A middle aged woman lying flat on the bed, skin pale and lips blue. Her heart monitor was going wild.

Albert skidded in. Still flushed. Still barely pulled together. “What do we got?!”

“She coded once already,” someone barked. “We got her back. She’s crashing again.”

“I NEED SUCTION PUSH ANOTHER DOSE OF EPI!”

His hands shook.

Not just because of the code.

Because of what he still felt pressing against his zipper.

And the fact that Mycroft's mouth had been on his just minutes ago.

He shoved on gloves and stepped in stomach in knots, mind racing, blood pumping in all the wrong places.

A nurse handed him a syringe. “You good, Doctor?”

Albert gave a strained smile. “Define good.”

Then the monitor flatlined.

“DAMN IT! SHIT. START COMPRESSIONS!”

He climbed up, started CPR with force. Sweat pouring down his back. Vision tunneling.

“Push another round of meds charge the paddles GET THEM ON HER!”

“Come on,” Albert whispered. “Come back.”

A blip. Then two. She had a rhythm. Everyone exhaled. The room deflated with it. Albert backed off slowly, arms shaking. His hands were red, gloved and slick with blood. His knees nearly buckled.

The resident glanced at him. “You okay?”

Albert just laughed too hard. “Honestly? No. But she’s alive and I didn’t pass out from several conflicting medical emergencies, so let’s call it a win.”

Fifteen minutes later.

Albert stood at the hallway sink, scrubbing blood off his arms like it was some kind of sin. His collar was open. His gloves were gone. His hands were trembling, jaw clenched. Behind him he heard footsteps. And then a voice.

“Mycroft.” Low. Calm. Familiar. Dangerous.

Albert didn’t look up. “If you’re here to tell me I’m flushed again, just punch me in the throat instead.”

There was a pause. “You did well.”

Albert exhaled, shallow. “I didn’t even know where her organs were. Do you know how long it’s been since I worked on a normal sized heart? It’s like doing surgery in a cathedral compared to a chapel.”

He looked up eyes tired, red rimmed.

Mycroft stepped closer. “Why didn’t you call someone?”

Albert shrugged, fake light. “Didn’t have time. Plus, my pants were too tight to think clearly.”

“You’re impossible.”

Albert leaned his head back against the wall. “Yeah. And you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He meant it like a joke. Kind of. But Mycroft’s face softened just a little. His hand reached out and brushed a piece of gauze off Albert’s shoulder. The gentlest touch.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You need to sit down.”

“I need to crawl into the ceiling and die.”

“Not today, Moriarty.”

Albert slumped into the corner of the on call room, still slightly damp, half out of his scrubs, his face buried in his hands. He looked like a man who’d just fought god and lost and then realized he was still hard the whole time.

Mycroft shut the door gently behind them. Locked.

“So what’re you going to do about your uh..” Mycroft’s voice was the picture of English neutrality, but his eyes glinted. “..situation in the pants region?”

Albert groaned like he’d been stabbed. “Oh my god.”

“I’m genuinely curious. Do you have a backup pair? Or are you going to just walk the halls like that, praying no one notices the remarkably upright morale you’ve got going on?”

Albert threw an arm over his face. “You are so lucky I like you.”

“Lucky,” Mycroft repeated, dragging over a chair to sit across from him. Legs crossed. Smug. “Darling, I just watched you perform trauma surgery mid boner. I’m the lucky one.”

Albert lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine. I tolerate you with extreme sexual frustration.”

“Better.”

For a moment, they just sat there Mycroft, cool and composed in his stupid doctor coat, like he hadn’t cornered Albert in a hallway twenty minutes ago and kissed him until he saw stars. Albert, shirt half unbuttoned, a dried smear of blood on his forearm, absolutely fried. Then Mycroft reached out. Slowly. Carefully. And took Albert’s hand.

“I know that wasn’t easy,” he said, tone softer now. “You saved her life.”

Albert exhaled. “Barely. My hands were shaking. I haven’t had a panic attack like that in years.”

“You still did it.”

A pause.

“And you looked good doing it.”

Albert snorted. “I swear to God, if you start something right now, I will burst into flames.”

“I’m not starting anything.” Mycroft squeezed his hand. “I’m just reminding you how impressive you are. That’s all.”

Albert looked at hi really looked at him. The worry in his face. The care behind the quips. The slight tremble in his fingertips, too.

A silence fell again, but this time, it wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Warm. Then Albert leaned forward, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s. “I’m still hard,” he whispered.

“I know,” Mycroft murmured. “But I’m proud of you anyway.”

Mycroft stilled.

The teasing fell away. His gaze dropped, sharp and calculating and then slowly rose to meet Albert’s again. And something shifted. Not playful, not smug, just well decided.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ve made you wait long enough.”

Albert blinked. “Wait, what-”
Mycroft’s gaze didn’t waver. That cool, calculated edge had melted into something molten not hunger, not desperation, but something deeper. Devotion with teeth. He moved with quiet precision, hands gliding up Albert’s thighs as he sank down, settling between his knees like he’d done it a hundred times or fantasized about it a thousand.

“Mycroft,” Albert said, voice already cracking “You really don’t have to”

“I want to.”

And when he said it this time, it wasn’t some clever line. It was full bodied, like it came from underneath him. Then he leaned in. Tugged Albert’s scrubs down with care, with reverence. Exposed him slowly, until he was fully bare, flushed, heavy, still straining from hours of tension and nowhere to put it. Albert let out a breath that hitched hard halfway through.

“Fuck. Mycroft, if you put your mouth on me right now I’m not gonna.. I won’t last.”

Mycroft looked up at him with those dark, steady eyes. “Good.”

And then he was on him. Warm wet and really fucking deep.

Albert moaned loud and raw and sharp, his head smacking the wall behind him. His hips jerked reflexively but Mycroft’s grip was solid, grounding him in place.

“Oh my god, your mouth jesus, I can’t..”

Mycroft hummed low, and the vibration made Albert shudder.

“You’re gonna kill me” Albert gasped, fingers tangling in Mycroft’s hair, pulling just enough to anchor himself. “You’re actually gonna fuck gonna suck the life out of me right here in this goddamn chair.”

Mycroft’s rhythm was lethal. it was smooth, deep and Intentional. He hollowed his cheeks and twisted his tongue just so, one hand pumping the base in time, the other splayed firm across Albert’s thigh like he owned it. Albert was unraveling fast all adrenaline and aftershock and relief, everything crashing down at once.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” he gasped. “You knew exactly fuck, you knew what I needed.”

Mycroft pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing against sensitive skin. “I always know what you need.”

And then he swallowed him again deeper, impossibly, and Albert whined a desperate, unguarded noise that made his whole body twitch.

“Shit- shit.. don’t stop, don’t stop..”

Mycroft didn’t. Wouldn’t. He bobbed his head with controlled intensity, lips wet, jaw working, eyes fluttering shut like he was devouring something sacred.

“You’re gonna make me come.” Albert groaned, almost panicked. “Fuck I should be doing something for you, I should-”

Mycroft’s hand tightened on his thigh.

“Just let me have this.” he murmured between strokes, voice ruined.

And Albert did. He gave in. Let his head fall back, mouth falling open. Let the pleasure take him under, helpless and shaking and saying everything without thinking.

“I can’t believe I get to touch you." Albert sighed “You’re so fucking pretty like this."

“Your mouth is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me."

“I love you, god, I think I fucking love you-"

That last one was a whisper. Barely a breath.

Mycroft froze just a beat. Just a fraction of a second.

Then he moaned around him, loud and deep and possessive, and Albert shattered. He came hard hips jerking, fingers fisting in Mycroft’s hair, a low, ragged “FUCK!” echoing off the walls and Mycroft took every last bit of it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Just stayed there, swallowing around him like he wanted to ruin him from the inside out. Albert slumped, breathless, boneless, head spinning, heart slamming against his ribs.

Mycroft rested his forehead on Albert’s thigh, eyes closed, breath coming hot and ragged. His hands didn’t let go.

“Holy shit,” Albert whispered, chest still heaving. “What the hell was that?”

Mycroft looked up slowly lips swollen, hair askew, pupils blown wide.

“That." he said, voice gravel rough, “Was me taking care of you.”

Albert reached for him, fingers trembling. “Get up here.”
“Why?”

“Because I need to kiss you, and maybe cry a little, and then kiss you again until we both forget what grief tastes like.”

Mycroft stood. Climbed into his lap. And kissed him slow. Deep. Like he wasn’t just tasting his own mouth but claiming him.

Albert’s breath was still catching when the pager shrieked. He blinked like he didn’t understand the sound, his pupils still blown, chest flushed, lips parted like a man who’d just had his soul exorcised via mouth.

Mycroft, still straddling his lap, turned his head toward the noise like it personally offended him.

The page repeated.

Albert groaned. “No, no fuck, come on.”

“You’re not going down there,” Mycroft said flatly, already reaching for the pager clipped to Albert’s half undone waistband.

Albert swatted his hand away. “Mycroft.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I always tremble after..!” He flailed vaguely, like gesturing at the both of them was enough to summarize the entire spiritual event they’d just experienced. Mycroft leaned back just enough to look at him hair wild, lips kiss bruised, shirt half untucked like he'd just crawled out of a fever dream and he looked dangerous.

“You are not walking down to pediatric trauma with post orgasmic tunnel vision and jelly legs.”

Another beep. Louder this time. Urgent.

Albert groaned into his hands. “If I don’t go, someone dies.”

“And if you do, you’ll pass out next to the gurney and then I’ll have to perform CPR on you.”

He started trying to physically hold Albert down, bracing both arms around him like a human weighted blanket while Albert squirmed underneath, groaning in humiliation.

“Mycroft oh my god..”

“Be still. You’re not ready.”

“I am ready!” Albert shrieked. “I’m not made of glass! You don’t get to mouthfuck me stupid and then treat me like a Victorian lady in a fainting couch.”

Mycroft raised a single, imperious brow. “You literally said you were ruined five minutes ago.”

Albert whined.

WHINED.

The page came again.

This time, Mycroft sighed and gently like infuriatingly gently reached for the emergency radio on the desk.

“Dr. Moriarty is in route,” he said in that calm, clipped voice. “Give him two minutes. He’s recovering from uh..” he paused, eyeing Albert with dark, dark glee, “A strenuous consult.”

Albert yelped.

“You’re an actual menace,” he muttered, trying to shove his legs back into his scrubs, still red faced and flustered and very much not over what just happened.

“I’ll walk you down.” Mycroft said simply.

“I don’t need an escort!”

“You’re wobbly. I insist.”

And before Albert could protest again, Mycroft was already helping him up buttoning his coat, smoothing his hair, kissing the corner of his mouth like he hadn’t just made him see god.

As they stepped into the hallway Albert still flushed, still swearing under his breath Mycroft casually said “You know, for someone who just came down my throat, you’re extremely argumentative.”

Albert shoved him into the wall.

They arrived at pediatric trauma two minutes and thirty seconds later.

Mycroft never left the hallway.

Not until he knew Albert’s hands had stopped shaking.

The doors burst open and Albert was already moving gloves snapped on, hair tied back, and a flush still high on his cheeks from everything that had happened upstairs.

“Vitals are crashing,” one nurse snapped, wheeling the tiny, limp body toward him. “Nine year old male. Blunt trauma. Possible internal bleeding.”

“I need a full panel and imaging page peds surgery to stand by, and someone call down radiology move!”

His voice cracked only once. Barely. No one noticed.

Except Mycroft.

Standing just beyond the trauma bay doors.

Watching him like the entire hospital had fallen away and all that remained was Albert Moriarty gloves slick with blood, shouting orders, eyes frantic and shining like glass.

A nurse glanced toward the door, confused. “Is uh, is that one of ours?”

“Isn’t that the guy from HR?”

“I think he’s a neurologist too. But what’s he just standing there for?”

Mycroft didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stared, one hand pressed tight around his own wrist like he needed to anchor himself.

Because Albert was shaking. Not enough for anyone else to see. But Mycroft saw it. The tremor in his hands when he inserted the IV. The twitch of his mouth when the child flatlined for a second just a second but Albert’s whole body flinched like it had been shot.

He barked another order “Bag him move, come on!” and the nurses scrambled.

And still Mycroft stood there. Like he couldn’t breathe unless Albert told him to.

“Seriously” one nurse whispered. “Is he okay? He looks like he’s about to pass out.”

“Which one?”

“The tall one with the sinister rich man energy. He hasn’t blinked once.”

Another beat. A hard beep from the monitor. Albert swore “Shit, push another five of epi” and dropped his head for a second, just long enough to catch a breath. He looked up eyes wild, chest heaving and met Mycroft’s eyes.

Albert’s hands stopped shaking.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Mycroft gave him the barest nod.

And Albert turned back to his patient like he was carved from iron. Like just knowing Mycroft was there unmoving, unblinking, silent and fierce made him whole again.

The patient stabilized.

Barely.

And when the crash team rolled the gurney toward imaging, Albert staggered back, wiping sweat from his face with a trembling hand. Still flushed clearly not okay.

Mycroft stepped forward.

Immediately.

But a nurse stopped him. “Sir, I’m sorry only the care team is allowed back here.."

“He is the care team,” Albert said hoarsely, tossing off his gloves and nearly dropping them. “He’s-he’s mine.”

The nurse blinked. “He’s what?”

“HR,” Albert panted. “And he's a neurologist my uh pediatric neurologist It’s fine.”

The nurse backed off, startled.

And Mycroft flew to him.

Didn’t care about the blood on his coat. Didn’t care about the chaos.

Just grabbed Albert’s face in both hands and looked him over like he was trying to memorize him.

“You’re trembling again.”

“I’m not,” Albert lied.

“You are.”

They stood in the middle of the trauma bay alarms blaring, carts rolling, chaos all around and the world stopped again.

“I did good,” Albert mumbled, eyes glassy.

“You did incredible,” Mycroft said softly.

Albert leaned into his chest.

Just for a second.

Then stood up straight, cleared his throat, and muttered, “We’re never talking about this again.”

Mycroft smirked.

“I’ll have it engraved.”

Notes:

NEW CHAPTER WILL BE OUT TOMORROW