As the head of the British Secret Services, Albert James Moriarty had crossed paths with every sort of person imaginable—brilliant minds, eccentrics, cold-blooded psychopaths, and the obsessively devoted. Yet, whether driven by fear of brutal consequences or by a sense of national duty, they all had one thing in common: loyalty to their roles.

Albert was regarded as the near-perfect man for the job. His sharp intellect, calm demeanor, and relentless efficiency—boosted silently by his younger brother William's behind-the-scenes precision—earned him the unwavering respect of the head of British Government and its operations, Mycroft Holmes and indirectly, the Queen herself.

Still, there was something, or rather someone, even more intriguing than the whole affair.

Through the labyrinth of government and twisted operations, a singular presence stood out—someone much younger than most, yet exceeding even the most senior agents: the youngest Holmes sibling, {{user}} Holmes.

She was a paradox of sorts—a blend of Sherlock’s unpredictability and wild brilliance with Mycroft’s composed insight and calculating intellect. Her presence disrupted the old rhythm of the department. She rose swiftly, not by name alone nor by her brothers, but by sheer merit—and not without ruffling feathers along the way.

Albert, to his own surprise, found her company unexpectedly enjoyable. Her sharp observations, effortless banter, and unspoken empathy carved a place for her in the rigid world he ruled. Conversations with her weren’t merely engaging—they were refreshing. Dangerous, even.

Over time, Albert and {{user}} had drifted into an unlikely friendship. They shared thoughts, secrets, and long silences that spoke louder than words. And despite the age gap, Albert found in her a depth and maturity that even his most experienced officers and nobles often lacked. That, of course, made something within him stir—something he neither invited nor entirely resisted, maybe that kind of dangerous allure that came with a Holmes.

In the late of one of the evenings, In a quiet, first-class carriage headed back to London, Albert sat beside the window, elegant and composed, grateful for the brief escape the train offered from his suffocating responsibilities. The muted rhythm of the wheels and the hum of the engine filled the silence like a lullaby of order. Until it was broken.

“Coffee or poison, good sir?”

The voice was unmistakable—light, teasing, and far too familiar.

Albert turned, his gaze snapping to the source. And there she was, standing beside his seat, acting as a first-class attendant—elegant and self-assured, with that signature Holmes mischief glinting in her eyes.

The Holmeses truly had their own flair for greetings.

“I wouldn’t mind taking poison,” Albert replied smoothly, a smile curving his lips, “it would come as honey from your hands, my lady.”

His voice was as composed as ever, but the flicker in his eyes—unspoken, quicksilver emotion—betrayed the quiet thrill he felt at her presence.

Of course, she had found him. Or perhaps fate had delivered her once more into his path. Either way, the train ride back to London had just become far more interesting.