Chapter Text
Judgment Day
The flames swept swiftly from the theatre district and the brothels and gang dens of the tavern quarter, devouring the wooden structures as they surged. Parliament was placed on trial in a blazing furnace. Scarlet tides washed over the city’s lust and sin, power and decay. Through the crowd, Albert Moriarty walked slowly toward Mycroft.
Mycroft had just learned that the fire had originated from the Moriarty estate. Then, four or five more bombs were triggered across the city in near-perfect unison. Golden tongues of flame roared like beasts unchained, heralding the final act. Nothing could make Mycroft forget the man standing before him had once again chosen to burn down his own house. This was the second time. Albert destroyed things with impatience, always yearning to build anew.
“Albie,” Mycroft called him by his nickname for the first time. “Are you all right? You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
“I’m fine.” Albert’s once lustrous hair was now dulled, matted with black ash, falling over his brow. “I’ve no plans to die just yet. Don’t worry.”
Mycroft fell silent. The fact that Albert was still standing here meant that he had chosen to survive as a witness—to stay behind and face the world he had fought so desperately to reshape.
They stood at St. Katharine Docks, watching the blaze on the other side.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
— William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”
Two shadowy figures clashed atop Tower Bridge. Beneath them, Louis, Bond, Sebastian, their elder brothers, and countless Londoners held their breath—gazing upward at the most magnificent curtain call ever performed by the light and dark of the British Empire.
When the two black silhouettes finally fell together into the Thames, the crowd erupted in a cry of shock. Mycroft inhaled deeply.
“They… jumped.”
He saw the shimmer of tears in Albert’s eyes, like spray on the surface of water. His lips trembled, and he was on the verge of collapse.
Mycroft had just lost the last person on earth he could call family—the one he had hoped to protect with his entire life. His heart bled as it cracked, though his eyes were too scorched by the heat to cry. The wear on his face deepened, carved in grief, but Albert’s pain could only be worse. Mycroft stepped forward to support him. All he wanted in that desolate moment was to hold him close. It was the last thing he prayed for in this world.
Albert rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, his fist clenched tightly at the back of his neck, trembling with so much force it nearly drew blood. Through the raven-feather strands of Mycroft’s hair, Albert stared at the sky, ablaze with embers and a river alight. It was as if the inferno had drawn every last piece of his soul away.
The war was over.
London was never pure. We’re just returning it to its ashes.
The dream they once sketched together now closed quietly, dissolving into dust.
Then, Albert gently pushed Mycroft away, his voice hoarse—more farewell than threat:
“See you in prison, Mickey”