WHAT THE F...?!
The bells of Westminster Abbey were singing like hell in his mushy brain which seemed like made of fire. He could actually FEEL his ruffled hair with each movement he made. His heart was actually beating in his ears and he had absolutely no recollection of what he might have done last night to earn such a massive hangover. Like the kind he used to have when he was a teenager, doing monstrous orgies, being stoned, fucking and being fucked, just before he decided to get serious with Angela and try for the police force after Uni. No one in the yard knew that prim and proper (and now depressed with a chaotic divorce) D.I. Greg Lestrade had a hectic punkish youth.
Except maybe a certain consultant detective he didn't want to think about right now... Not until he had identified his surroundings and current situation. Now, okay, last memories : end of a (shitty) workday involving two housewives murdered by their abusive husbands and at least five now orphaned kiddies sent to the social workers, consequently needed a pint with workmates at their usual pub, one beer, two beer... And … ?
He barely remembered a Philip Anderson and other mates laughing stupidly at a seriously drunk Sally Donovan trying to do a rather accurate imitation of their chief superintendent, his big belly and his pompous voice. It was a rather funny evening until some prick from a rival division made a rather blunt remark about Angela, Greg's now estranged wife, and her lack of loyalty in the last days of their fifteen-year old marriage. He then clearly remembered the row and a few well placed punches who made the opponent bleed. But... Nothing else. He apparently took a blow in the jaw according to the lingering pain in it and the bruise he could feel. He might have passed out, which could explain the amnesia.
But, in that case, who brought him back to his apartment ? He blinked painfully trying to discern his familiar bachelor pad with the horrible wallpaper and the curtain-less windows. But he was sure there was no painting on the right side of the four-poster bed... Wait, WHAT ?
He sat on the expensive satin sheets (WHAAAA' ?), which were DEFINITLY NOT HIS, put on a ridiculously huge, yes, four poster bed he never saw in his whole life. The bedroom looked like those on the pictures from luxury hotels Angela used to drool upon while preparing their honeymoon, like the one they went while staying in Paris. Beautiful golden and white silk furnitures, red velvety curtains which let some sunlight go through, radiating on the painted ceiling and walls with faux renaissance style... It could have looked absolutely ridiculous and "nouveau riche" but it still had elegance. A thousand theories on the reasons why he was here started rolling through his ransacked brain until it stopped bluntly.
He was naked.
Stark naked.
Oookay... Now that was bad. Drunk, plus naked, plus unknown bedroom meant undoubtedly he had been lucky yesterday night. But still, what if they were in a hotel far more too expensive for his modest income, this was going to be even more horribly awkward. And besides, and he felt disgustingly macho for thinking this, but what if his unknown night-stand partner was, shall we say, not his type ? Now THIS was EVEN MORE awkward.
He slowly turned to his left. He felt the recognizable warmth of another body. He perceived long pale legs emerging from the sheet, a back gracefully bent to the side, broad lightly freckled shoulders, too broad for a woman... A man. Greg blushed. It has been so long since his last male lover, some nameless bloke that used to hang around his crew from the Uni times. Not something particularly unforgettable. This one was chubbier but taller with light auburn hair. Greg blushed even more, thinking that, even dead drunk, he still had a thing for redheads.
Then the sunlight arose and he saw the disaster on his one-night partner's skin.
He didn't know if the man had really white skin or if it was the blood and bruises that made him look so pale. There was bad scratch marks on his back, purple bruises on the hips and several signs of struggle, or holding, or spanking, it wasn't clear. Greg felt a terrible cold wash upon him. He knew for sure that he was responsible for these cuts and marks. When totally gone he could be really rough, but that was before his wedding, when he decided to tune it down because Angela didn't like it, the bounding and the swearing and the crude, raw sex. Oh god, what if... ? Greg couldn't stand it any more. He had to know if the partner was all right, was... willing for this. Greg could have slapped himself for being so dumb, so irresponsible.
At that moment, the man sighed deeply and turned around, still sound asleep.
Greg felt like the ground shattered between his feet. He felt nauseous and dizzy at the same time. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be...
Mycroft Holmes.
He was naked, battered, a cut on his lips, probably from biting himself to hold back screams, to endure whatever Greg was doing to him. Dark circles under his eyes, luckily from exhaustion, not by being hit. His hair, for the first time ever, wet and in disarray, a strand forming a delicate question mark on his brow. Greg couldn't believe that languid and abused creature was the stern, authoritative man that dismissed him with a wave of his hand, the same man he sometimes dreamed to bent over his desk whether he liked it or not and teach him a lesson he would never forget.
He apparently had made it reality because, between Mycroft's slightly parted thighs were the clear remnants of a completed coupling... mixed with a tiny streak of blood. Oh, dear god, he had ripped him apart. Oh god, oh god, he had raped one of the most powerful men in the country. He had committed a crime. To top it all, Mycroft's wrists were still half-wrapped in a completely ruined tie, stained with blood. He had bound Mycroft to prevent him from fighting back, forcing him... Rapist. His broken mind was flashing the ugly word in technicolor...
And then the memories came back. His hands holding a stunned Mycroft Holmes, pushing his vest on his elbows to handle him. " Detective ?" Greg remembered being angry, being so pissed off that he needed a release. He needed someone, anyone to hurt, to be humiliated as much as he was. "Gregory, what … ?" It was not Mycroft Holmes that was squirming in his arms, it was something delicious, something he desired, something he WANTED. It was sweet flesh between the neck and shoulders, waiting to be tasted, to be adorned with a circular mark of teeth. It was a rebellious body, a cold body who needed dominance, who needed the warmth of Greg's lovemaking, to be tamed and possessed. "No ! NO !" He muffled the pleadings with sharp teeth and invading tongue. Owning that mouth with it. He remembered it felt like heaven and that his prey's legs suddenly gave way beneath them and they landed on the floor where Greg had total control of his claim, still trapped in his own vest under the Detective Inspector. They laid there, panting, locked into each other's eyes and Greg remembered the fear in the grey-blue ones, the absolute confusion that made him so vulnerable, that made Greg want him even more. "Greg, I beg of you... I ..." Greg had smirked then owned the moaning mouth once again. When they parted with a tiny smack, he growled. "Shut up and enjoy the ride."
The rest was too blurry to be clearly stated. He remembered a fight, torn clothing, rash breathing and brutal moving, two hands caught in silk, bend upward with one merciless fist, soft pleadings from a broken voice, the feeling of being melted inside a tight furnace, a brutal internal explosion and cries of pain... or pleasure, he couldn't dare to hope.
Greg was dead, he knew it. As good as cold meat. Mycroft sighed again and barely squirmed, making the sheet move and revealing even more damaged flesh. What to do ? He could discreetly grab his clothes (scattered across the room, hard to discern from Mycroft's and maybe not even wearable any more...), dress up hurriedly and SCUTTLE OFF FOR DEAR LIFE. Greg was about to decide for this undignified escape. But then his intellect and sense of duty took control of his survival instincts...
"I may run, I may hide, but he WILL find me. He will ALWAYS find me. And anyway, I cannot escape myself more than I can escape Mycroft Holmes."
Greg was ashamed of himself, of his actions, of his first movement to run away from his responsibilities. His ex-wife managed to fuck him up good but he was going to stop the madness and take whatever the outcome might be like a man. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, mentally saying goodbye to his previous more or less carefree life. It wasn't the same anymore with Angela gone anyway... Now was the time for payback.
He slowly turned around only to meet two grey-blue eyes, still heavy from sleep and last night's jazz, still marked by dark circles, bearing the same confusion.
"Greg ?..." asked a raucous voice, seemingly strained for the same reason.
Greg Lestrade, future ex-Detective Inspector and probably corpse, held his head between his hands.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It has been an awful day.
Three terrorists attempts prevailed, two civil wars in foreign countries avoided, an arduous reconciliation between two important members of the Parliament which little differences could have broken the current government, and a few aborted petty scandals who could have publicly destroyed numerous lives.
And not a minute to sit in peace and enjoy some tea. Or even better, whisky.
Mycroft felt the upcoming headache and it was not yet over at almost midnight. He remained on guard because, at any moment, the cell could ring to announce the later demise of Brother Dear. Sherlock and John were away to resolve some of their twisted uninteresting cases. To Mycroft, anything that was not relevant for his position in the Government was uninteresting.
He shivered. His office at the Diogenes Club felt cold and the silence, ordinarily soothing, was unnerving tonight. There was times like these were Mycroft felt isolated. Not lonely, he insisted to himself, but estranged from everything else, on his own. As if he was the only human being on earth.
A beautiful woman with silky dark brown curls and sweet brown eyes entered the office. Andrea asked him if he needed anything. Mycroft dismissed her with a simple wave of his hand. She quietly took her leave. Anyone not knowing how Mycroft and his PA had worked their relationship for years would have taken Mycroft for an incredibly rude twat. Which was not entirely false, he thought, smirking to himself. But Andrea and Mycroft went way back. They knew each other almost by heart, even the darkest, shameful things. He knew that, when Andrea was very young and inexperienced, she had an abusive boyfriend who brainwashed her into submission. The one and only time in her life when she temporarily lost it to a man. Until one day, after recovering from a miscarriage he provoked by hitting her in the belly, she stabbed him and disappeared. The guy ended his life in a wheelchair. She was hired by Mycroft shortly afterwards. Mycroft knew. He gave her a special present for her 28th birthday: a list of renown abusive pricks among the government staff, as dangerous as her former boyfriend in public and private, and for her to take care of. At her discretion, of course.
Let's just say some were never found.
And, of course, she knew.
She knew what happened to Mycroft when he was 17, what he had done later, at 23. Maybe not the particulars, but the essential, surely...
At the very least, she knew more than Sherlock ever did. Which, in Mycroft's topsy-turvy world, meant everything.
Mycroft always felt like a big snake crushing his chest each time he thought about it.
When he turned 17, his mental capacities attracted attention and he knew that if he wanted to make his way through the elite, he had to learn their rules. He started taking riding lessons. He always liked horses and the whole horse culture. He liked the stables' smell, the noises, the elegance of riding costumes, the skilful art of mastering a touchy mare or an uncooperative stallion... He hated the hunt, though. To Mycroft, it was unnecessary bloodshed. Even if he loved seeing the pack of dogs running free through the bushes. The Holmes were dog persons. Mycroft had also loved Sherlock's dog, Redbeard, whatever his brother might think about it.
And there was that stable guy.
He was older, more than 25, and in Mycroft's memories, he was handsome in a coarse sort of way. He was constantly chewing gums and THAT was something that gave Mycroft a murderous mood. He had that disgusting smirk each time he saw Mycroft trotting with his favorite mare. Once, Mycroft was certain he heard a low "Nice arse on you, red..." and a small laugh. He had to summon all of his self control not to make his horse turn around and whip the insolent git with the riding crop.
That man's presence was insufferable. It gave Mycroft goosebumps and violent thoughts. He wanted him out and started avoiding him. Only to see him waiting on the stables' doors or stalking around the tracks nonchalantly, as if he owned the place, always on Mycroft's path, deliberately following Mycroft with his eyes. And chewing his godforsaken gum with that godforsaken smirk on his stupid, handsome, godforsaken face.
Retrospectively, Mycroft knew now that the outcome was sadly common and predictable. Had he been more knowing of the world then, he would have prevented it... Or not. He still wasn't sure after all these years.
It was late and Mycroft had spent a longer time in the woods that was usual. There was no one in the premises and he took care of his horse himself. He was good at it. He was enjoying brushing the soft mane, when he heard a noise and felt that he was not alone any more.
"Well, well, well, look who's here."
Never in his whole life Mycroft felt such a rush of pure terror. He didn't understand why his whole body and tongue had turned into lead in seconds. The stable boy was looking at him with a weird light in his dark brown eyes. It gave him the air of an hungry bear. Mycroft was about to ask him to get out when he felt arms around him and a mouth upon his engulfing him like an impossibly heavy blanket. He felt like there was multiple hands groping his butt, caressing him wholly and brutally. Like he was attacked from every side. He tried fighting back only to be manhandled and turned face against the hay-covered floor, so fast he had a bit of hay in his mouth.
"Cut that out, slut." Said his aggressor with ease and confidence, as if he was lecturing a dumb child, "You and I are meant for this date since the beginning. Now, let's get to business." And he fumbled for his belt, according to the horrifying noises Mycroft heard. And it finally dawned on him what was going to happen.
"NO !" He had screamed at the top of his lungs and tried to rise up only to be shoved down even more roughly and to feel his own trousers being pulled down. "I. Said. CUT THAT OUT !" yelled his attacker, spanking his naked buttocks to accentuate each word."You'll like it, my little red bitch, I swear it." And to increase Mycroft's horror, he felt a terrible stab of insane pleasure with each blow. And instantly, he inexplicably went erect. "My, my, responsive are we ?" the monster chuckled. And, in a flash, he shoved his fingers into...
Mycroft opened his mouth in a silent scream, because of the pain, because of the fear, because of the confusion, because of the horror, because his pounding heart wanted to get out of his chest, because of the brutal pleasure who gave him almost an orgasm. Because of all of this in one pure, unique second. The Man-beast started moving his fingers in and out, to scissor them (Mycroft bite his under lip, his eyes and breath gone wild...), added a third and shoved them even more brutally (Mycroft whimpered pitifully, panting erratically...), finding a spot that made Mycroft scream for real. Of pain or pleasure, he didn't know any more.
"I knew it. Cockslut. Dany swore you were a virgin but you're just a whore like all the posh gits in this fucking place !" Mycroft barely heard the words in his blood-fuelled and overwhelmed brain. He felt like he was going to pass out. The Man-beast was speeding up and it was killing him. "PLEASE !" he yelled. The Man-beast stopped. " 'Please' wha' ? 'Please stop' or 'please more'?" It sounded like a serious question. "Oh well, never mind" he continued "I'd love to see you suck my rod but I'm in a little hurry, so..."
And he took Mycroft. In one gesture.
Mycroft seriously thought he was dying. It was not only the penetration, it was the callous hands on his tender hips, the rough, merciless pounding that send his head up and down with each blow. It was the fact that he was there on his hands and knees, powerless, taking it all, his fingers white and digging the ground. It was the fact that he felt like he was mounted by a giant horse, that he was like a low sex slave taken by some huge centaur, a Man-beast in heat to breed him like a mare. The fact that he felt burning tears on his face although he didn't know that he was crying.
And worse of it, the fact that it was the most terrible ecstasy he ever felt, that he liked it, being raped and called "slut", "whore", "How does that feel, little bitch ?", "Like my big dick, pussy ?" Mycroft came in spite of the pain, the fear, the humiliation. And it was glaring white, and it was perfection, and it made him pass out.
He woke up alone, and sore, and cold, and terribly lonely. Luckily his horse came to smell him and his warmth woke him up. Curiously, the only thing that prevented him from running naked to the woods, screaming like a banshee and going mad was the thought of little ten-year-old Sherlock, with his gentle dog and his pouting lips "You never do anything with me with your stupid horses, now ! At least, I WANT my story tonight !" The certainty that Sherlock was waiting for him, waiting for his night time story (a custom he couldn't quit) and that he definitely wouldn't sleep until he had it made him rise, pull up his pants, clean his face and walk home.
That's how he learned total dissimulation and control.
And Sherlock had his bedtime story.
And he never knew he saved his older brother's sanity, if not his life.
The next day, Mycroft learned that the stable guy (whose name was Andy Graham) had left. Minutes after learning this piece of news, he rode the feistiest horse to an exhausting gallop through the moors, cursing, yelling and screaming his frustration, his disappointment and his loneliness to the wind. He secretly cried for weeks, waiting for a miracle to bring him back his Man-beast.
At 23, Mycroft was climbing up the ladder and feeling empty. That helped in a way because the barrier he put between him and the rest of the world was the best armour ever. His reputation of mercilessness gave him credit to the highest authority. Little did they know that it was simply longing and self-disgust. Slowly, he started to distance himself from his little brother. Not because he thought him dumb, he certainly wasn't, but because Mycroft was afraid he might soil Sherlock with his impure way of life. So, no longer bedtime stories for both of them.
Because, just before he entered the very selected membership of the Diogenes Club, he was a mascot, sort of, of another club, even more secret, even more selected and even more special.
A club were Mycroft was bound, submitted, beaten and passed out as a sexual outlet for everyone to use.
It was a release to him, being a sex toy for dozen of men and women once a month (he needed time to heal between those sessions) and acting the prostitute part was highly lucrative since those stupid elites could not keep their mouths shut while Mycroft was skilfully using HIS mouth on them. During a threesome with Mycroft in the middle, two members of the shadow cabinet spilled out the plan for the next elections. Mycroft earned a power greater than ever. Only by being a greedy slut dreaming of being mounted by the perfect and forever lost Man-beast. Nothing had been so intense as this brutal covering. Everything else was just an ersatz.
But one night, things went all to hell.
Mycroft had been the centre of the evening, as usual. He had been taken by numerous persons of the two genders, sometimes by several in the same time. He had been called by every rude definition possible. He was torn inside out but he was strangely peaceful because he had the brief illusion of an experience almost similar to his first coupling.
He came home at day break, only to find sixteen-year-old Sherlock, wearing only his bottom pyjamas and holding a glass of milk.
And looking at his once loved and respected Big Brother like he was a piece of dirt.
Sherlock was showing promising capacities of deductions and Mycroft was grooming him to be his second in command, hopefully. Mycroft knew that if they worked together this country could change entirely. For better or worse. But Sherlock had learned a little too well.
He knew that Mycroft had been weird for months, that he was hiding something and seeing and deducing his dishevelled, freshly fucked, haggard brother was like being in the very room Mycroft had been used and abused and sharing this filth. Not knowing anything about the rape, Sherlock thought his brother to be a pervert.
He made an awful grimace and turned around. Mycroft wanted to call him back, to explain, but once again, his tongue had turned from flesh to lead.
It was all too late.
Once it was his turn to go to Uni, Sherlock started his addiction period. Mycroft always thought it was because of what he saw. But he was too ashamed to grab Sherlock, make him sit down so they could have a proper talk. Having lost any respect for his brother, Sherlock started antagonizing him.
So, the only person to ever know the main part of the story was Andrea. That was since the day he accidentally met Andy Graham again.
Andrea and him were having lunch at their favourite restaurant. Both of them glad to be able to sit down to enjoy proper cuisine after two weeks of hurried takeaways (even if they were luxury ones) in their usual silence. Both of them needn't to talk to understand each other. And Andrea saw Mycroft go blank in seconds, looking at a man from two tables away. She guessed that whoever that man was, his sight was shattering Mycroft's world.
It was Andy Graham, no surprise, but in the same time... It wasn't him. And that was the true horror to Mycroft's eyes.
Gone was the glorious human stallion, the only Man-beast able to truly own his soul and body, gone was the unrefined handsome conqueror. Instead, in front of his greyish, tired wife (they both wore similar worn-out rings), was a grumpy salary man, a little bloated and still rather good-looking for his age, but, that was the worst of all, he was definitely, incredibly... ordinary.
That was the moment when Mycroft understood he had totally idealized the whole experience (to survive it, obviously, and to make some sense out of it when there was none) and the man. There was no Man-beast, never was, never would be...
Andrea had to lead home a stony, deaf and mute Mycroft. For months afterwards, he became an empty vessel. No more craving for extreme sexual experience, no more desire for anything anyway.
A few months later, he received a phone call he always feared he would have some day. A police officer had taken in Sherlock having an OD in a crack house and brought him to the hospital. Without that officer's intervention, Sherlock would certainly have died.
The officer's name was Greg Lestrade.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Thinking about Gregory Antoine Lestrade (yes, "Antoine" was his second name and no one in the yard knew that his mother was french...) gave Mycroft... contradictory feelings.
Because their relationship was built on a huge misunderstanding. At first, Mycroft thought he could buy out Lestrade's loyalty as he usually did with people who approached his brother and somehow remained more or less close to him. Which was becoming rarer and rarer as Sherlock was behaving more and more erratically. But Greg Lestrade was the first to not only stay but try to give Sherlock some stability, giving cases undercover and covering his back when in trouble. Well, actually, the very first was a Mrs Martha Louise Hudson who Sherlock had once helped and remained a sort of confident. But she was not on the field, unlike the D.I.
Mycroft made a very bad move offering him money. The door, instead was shown to him in non-so polite terms. It was weeks before Mycroft managed to apologize and obtain a cold but civil interview. Greg heard Mycroft's reasons to overprotect Sherlock although he still found them paranoid and a little abusive. But a few months with Sherlock helped him understand. He surprised Mycroft by refusing a single penny but accepting to keep an eye on the troublesome sleuth. Eventually, he would report but only as a last resort. And so they did kept a formally professional and secret relationship.
Greg didn't look like Andy Graham. At all. He was far more handsomer and well-kept. Not to mention more principled. But, from time to time, Mycroft couldn't help feeling shivers down his spine each time Greg stood a little too closer. Or used an angrier (but still suppressed) tone of voice. Mycroft had to use all his strength not to fall on his knees and beg Greg to hit him, to use him, to take him, anything he wanted, anything at all...
Except that Mycroft was not 20 any more and knew that what he wanted was a consequence of his rape, not something very healthy. He had to turn a new leaf. And so he witnessed the slow demise of Greg's wedding which seemed to falter as much as Greg's friendship with Sherlock and connection to Mycroft grew stronger.
For Greg seemed to have a particular fondness for Sherlock (although he confessed more than once to Mycroft that he sometimes dreamed of punching him) and to more or less... trust Mycroft.
They were not the "Evening-at-the-pub" kind of friends, rather the "being-abducted-in-a-limo" kind of friends. But there was times, at the back of the car, when they were both tired, frustrated and sad, that they let their guard down and talked. Not much, but still.
And from time to time, Mycroft fetched a drunk Greg who had phoned him without being conscious of it. He was incoherent and unfit to take his car so Mycroft reluctantly took him safely back to his dreary house and annoyed wife. He almost tucked him in when Greg started to mutter softly "Ya fuckin' gorgeous, ya know tha' ? Dream to have my way with you..." and then drifted away.
Mycroft decided that it was only the alcohol speaking. He was not in the mood to deal with this.
It went on and on for at least five years. Just before John Watson entered their lives and that the burden of Sherlock's carelessness weighed a bit more on on him rather than only on Mycroft and Lestrade. That was also the moment when Angela Halles-Lestrade finally asked for a divorce and, that very same night, John Watson and Molly Hooper had to call Mycroft (which they never did usually) because Greg was threatening to shoot everyone in the morgue. Mycroft came at once and managed to soothe him down. That was Greg's biggest drunk scene and the most scariest. He collapsed in a sobbing fit and whined painfully to Mycroft "You too ! You think ya so above meh ! Ya don't love me at all... Just like her..." Mycroft acted as if Greg was too far gone and smiled to a stunned John and Molly, assuring them that everything would be all right. He helped the moaning wine bag through the door. After that, Greg received a firm scolding from Mycroft (during a tremendous headache which made it worse) and promised he would make amends and be sober.
Mycroft never knew if Greg remembered any of what he was babbling during his outbursts. He preferred not to push this matter any further.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
So, as he was leaving the Diogenes Club, hoping to go to bed early to end this dreadful day, he received another surprise call from a once-again drunk D.I. Mycroft sighed deeply and swore to himself he will seriously teach Greg some lesson about not to cross some lines.
And he tried to ignore the tiny little voice who was thrilled to know Greg trusted him enough to call him for help, even when he was out of his mind.
When Greg entered the limo to sit next to Mycroft, there was a weird atmosphere already. It was not the self-pity-sobbing-and-whining kind of drunk, it was rather I-want-to-punch-someone-in-the-face kind. Greg had his fists tight, his jaw clenched and barely talked. Mycroft felt a little like sitting next to a ticking bomb. Not something he was unused to, but still...
And then, Mycroft decided that it was best to keep an eye on Greg for the night and let him sleep in his mansion. Greg just agreed with an unrefined grunt.
Once they were in Mycroft's salon, taking away their coats, Mycroft felt like Greg's eyes were burning holes on his back. "Well, Inspector, I shan't propose to you a drink other than tea. You had quite a few too many tonight, obviously..."
As soon as he said those words, he was brutally turned around and hit against the nearest wall.
"Think yar so clever..." growled the beast. Greg was showing teeth like an angry wolf, his eye had a weird glow, and he looked like he was about to bite Mycroft. Before Mycroft could say anything, his vest was pulled down to his elbow and he was trapped.
"Detective ?" Mycroft was not seriously scared. What Greg and no one knew was that the pseudo-wedding ring he used to wear all the time was not only a fake meant to avoid unnecessary female or male attention, but also a tracking device that could trigger an alarm. In seconds, an army of bodyguards could invade the premises and manhandle the crazy inspector. But deep inside, something in Mycroft wanted to see what Greg was up to.
Gregory seemed far away, caressing roughly everything he could lay hands on. Torso, arms, waist, thighs and even... crotch. Mycroft jumped at the brutal caress and felt his face starting to burn. It has been so long, it would be so easy to let go... Mycroft could handle it. He had tons of experience. But what of Greg afterwards ?
"Gregory, what ?..." Mycroft was brutally stopped by a brutal assault of teeth on his neck that took his breath away. Such a sweet pouring of warm pleasure right in his belly, it was almost a little too much. But Gregory moved to the shoulder (less impressive because it was still clothed but thrilling anyway), then to the other shoulder and finally grabbed Mycroft closer to him in a clear attempt to drag him to the nearest bedroom. He was almost hoisting Mycroft on his back like a caveman when the politician had the last sane thought of the evening.
"No ! NO !" Mycroft wanted to tell him that was not D.I. Gregory Lestrade. D.I. Gregory Lestrade was not the kind of guy who could give Mycroft Holmes a rough buggering and survive the shame of it afterwards. Greg Lestrade was supposed to stay a pure shining knight in order to stand the Holmes Brothers and the crazy world they were dragging everyone they knew into. He had to stay away from Mycroft-the-greedy-whore who was just... filthy. He should not be stained by that slut's past and his overwhelming needs. That was not what D.I. Gregory Antoine Lestrade was supposed to be. If it was up to Mycroft only, he would offer his ass on a silver plate right here and now and there was nothing he desired more than that at that moment. But that would destroy everything. Everything he worked for Greg and his brother to be protected.
Except that Greg in his alcohol-fuelled brain thought his claim was refusing him out of spite and that made him mad. He only answered by a kiss full of rage that almost made Mycroft faint. Thing was, he never kissed and was never kissed. Now, THAT was a brutal first. He slipped to the ground only to be roughly pulled into strong arms and carried away like a spoil of war to the main guest bedroom, thrown onto the ridiculous four-poster bed and laid on it. He felt that hands were literally tearing apart what remained of his suit, that his own hands were up and fastened in his own tie (quite loosely actually, but the fact that Greg had tried to act the dominant master and only failed was endearing) and at that point Greg was not listening any more (if he ever was...).
"Greg, I beg of you... I..." I beg of you, please, reconsider. Please know that if you don't mean it, my heart will definitely break. I beg of you, do not be scared of me and my madness, do not leave me when you'll wake up tomorrow morning.
"Shut up and enjoy the ride."
Mycroft had closed his eyes to re-open them with a loud gasp when Greg attacked his cock directly. It had no finesse but it felt like fire to Mycroft. Greg was gulping it very awkwardly but, then again, as Mycroft used to perform oral sex to his numerous partners, it was rarely done to him and not for a long while. Greg had a red face (he was starting to choke from his enthusiasm) and glassy eyes and Mycroft had to focus to warn him. "Please, Greg, breathe..." he said weakly only to be answered by a glaring look and more ardour. "Greg, be careful ! I'll..." Mycroft was about to come too fast. "Would you just shut up ?!" Greg looked like an angry kid who was just disturbed from his favourite TV show. Mycroft smiled and laughed softly. He spontaneously caressed Greg tensed jaw with his thigh. "Please, Greg, go easy or it will end very soon." Greg gave him a vicious smile, scratched deeply the teasing thigh and held brutally both of Mycroft's legs firmly apart and down on the sheet in a very obscene posture. "It will be over when I'll say it's over." and went back to the job. Mycroft bit his underlip, almost dying from joy.
After minutes that felt like centuries, Greg had pushed Mycroft almost to his limits only to pull out and to flip the politician over to his stomach when he started to attack him, bruising him, scratching him, spanking, licking, biting (Mycroft loved to be bitten and thought Greg was about to kill him each time). Mycroft whined, pleaded, tried to soothe his beastly lover but did not scream because there was not enough force for it. He was totally limp, totally submissive and totally accepting everything Greg wanted. He was in a world of sensations, an over-sensitive receptor of pleasure and, for once in a long time, he was totally focused on the moment, on Greg's mouth, Greg's hands, Greg's body... He felt light and good, very good. He gasped when Greg attacked a particular place of Mycroft's bottom with his tongue (and not very delicately) "Greg, please... In the drawer, there's...you're not forced to..." But Greg only stabbed him faster and deeper. It seemed that whatever Mycroft said, he was keen on doing exactly the opposite. "Please, Greg, please... I'm so close..." Mycroft's voice was barely a whisper and his hands were clutching the bed sheet in desperation. "Please, Greg, I'll do anything..." He wanted it, he wanted it bad, he wanted Greg to fuck him as hard as he could. He was going crazy.
He felt Greg pulling out, he heard the noise of the drawer and the ripping of the condom's bag, he felt Greg again, grabbing his buttocks (and certainly marking them in the process) but the awaited stabbing did not come. Mycroft was starting to despair. "Greg, please ! Whatever I ever done to you, you are punishing me enough ! I'll die if you don't... Please !" Mycroft felt a brutal hand grasping his hair. He yelped. "YOU feel being punished ?" growled Greg, his voice a growling anger "How about ME ? Whatever have I EVER done to HER ? To YOU ?" He was almost screaming in Mycroft's ear. Mycroft was feeling faint again. "I LOVED her, fer god's sakes ! And does she do ? She fuckin' cheat on me and LEAVE ! And YOU..." He yanked Mycroft's hair to make his point clear. "Ya don't give a FUCK whether I live or die ! I LOVE you so much and ya NEVER see ! SHE knew … Me... about you..." Mycroft felt in swirling pool of confusion. Greg WHAT ? About WHOM ? ! "She knew I was in love with you ! She guessed... I don't know... That's why she left ! You Holmes little shits, think yar so clever..." Greg started to sob. Mycroft stayed still. Waiting to learn more. "And GOD, even Sherlock didn't see... Oh, yeah, excuse me, OBSERVE that I was drooling on his bastard brother ! And YOU ! You looking at me, like I am... what ? SHIT ?" And he shoved a brutal finger inside Mycroft who hissed, not much because of the pain but on the control of a very close orgasm. "Greg, I swear, I had no idea..." Greg shoved a second one and gave a angry snarl. Mycroft gave a loud gasp. "I swear ! Oh God... It is not a good idea, I am... not good. Not good for you..." Greg shoved a third, gave a vicious twist on a very special place that made Mycroft almost scream. "Nah, really ? Well, I'm telling you that. You're good enough for my dick." And with that, he took possession of Mycroft.
He was pounding quite brutally but not as fast as Mycroft would have wanted it. It brought him close but not enough. Yet it was still heavenly, the taking, the bruising, the being taken and Greg's rough breathing on his neck and cheek. His hands holding his hips and thrusting. He was high on cloud nine. "Yes, Greg, yes..." His eyes were closed. He wished he could see Greg's face fucking him, caress him, give him back what he was offering tenfold. A hundredfold. He was so good to Mycroft, his broken-hearted Man-beast, he was doing him so rough, moving faster and faster, hitting that precise spot... "Yes, my love, punish me..." A glorious stallion was shedding tears on his shoulder, mounting him to ecstasy with broken sobs. Greg was crying openly. "Oh love, don't." Mycroft managed to raise a trembling hand to soothe Greg's face and feel the wetness. "It will be all right, everything will be all right...Just, harder... A little bit harder..." And Greg obeyed, hurrying them together towards that white purity. "Love ya so much..."
Mycroft slept soundly and deeply. For once, no weird frustrated dreams or nightmares. Just a peaceful slumber. He slowly awoke to the distant feel of the sun and a rush of rumpled beddings. He slowly came back to consciousness, realising that he was not in his private upstairs bedroom, that he was not alone. He was sore all over as he was reminiscing every detail of his passionate night with... Oh, no.
Greg was on the side of the bed, his head between his hands, unmoving, not making any sound. "Greg ?" Mycroft hated the pleading note in his strained voice. Please, don't do that to me, don't go, don't despise me, talk to me, please. Greg didn't move an inch.
"Please, my dear..." Mycroft was about to say more, to hold out his hand to his lover but stopped at once because Greg had raised his head like an awfully bad-looking Jack-in-the-box. He looked indeed terrible... and terrified. His own hands were trembling.
"I'm sorry..." said an horribly heavy voice. Mycroft felt like a vice was gripping him to death. "I'm so sorry... I've done this to you, I have..." A Niagara of tears flew across the DI's cheeks, making his eyes look like big red balls with a spot of liquid lifeless black. His mouth quivered like a five year old's. Mycroft wanted to kiss that mouth, to drink those tears, to hold that man and never let go. Greg was not disgusted with Mycroft but with himself. "I'm a pig... I...Come on, just kill me and be done with it. I'm a rapist, a fucking criminal, a god-damn disgrace !" Greg was yelling now. Mycroft tried to calm him down, holding his face, making hush noises, "Please, love, please, darling, please..." Greg turned away, almost hysterical, "I'm telling you to kill me ! Or report me, or whatever ! I want to fucking DIE !" Mycroft grabbed Greg and pulled him to his chest tightly. Greg put a little fight but he was quickly subdued. They were both hurt, confused, dirty, worn out... Their lives were upside down and yet they felt comfort in each other's arms. A weird sense of security and warmness. Greg put his own arms around Mycroft and wept softly for a while. Mycroft was holding back his own tears, unable to say if it was out of sadness or joy. Greg was not disgusted by him. But things were far from settled down.
"Now, my love, listen to me." Mycroft was still tenderly holding his beautiful, unexpected present but he was back into business mode. " I will make some calls and we will both have our day off. Then we will have a bath and eat some breakfast. Once we are back on our feet, we will stay in bed and we will talk." Greg opened his mouth but Mycroft put a finger on his lips. "We will. If you want to keep your job, it is non-negotiable. I have things to say to you. Very serious things." He softly kissed a sniffling Greg. The D.I. looked like a baffled little boy. "And then, my sweet, if you still want me... You'll handcuff me and give us the rogering of our lives. Do we have a deal ?"
Greg paused, looking at Mycroft, wondering if this was for real, then decided to silently nod, wiping his dripping nose. Mycroft pulled him softly back to his chest. Greg closed his eyes, still sniffling a bit, his heart lighter. Mycroft kissed the top of Greg's head, his own heart bursting with happiness and relief.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Andrea cut the camera of Mycroft's guest room. She had spent the night watching the two men in the control room in Mycroft's office where she had a cot for emergency cases. Which the unexpected affair of his boss and his precious D.I. was, actually. She really thought she had to intervene to make it finally happen and it had on its own. She was getting her report about Andrew Taylor Graham ready. She didn't like the way Mycroft had ran away from the man. She had made the usual routine enquiry and discovered that Graham was keeping an under aged male lover, the latter being a runaway and his consent to the relationship rather dubious. It was about to land on the D.I.'s office tomorrow morning. Everything was settled the Anthea Way.
So, life was good. With a little hot and wet bonus between her legs from seeing her uptight and beloved employer being passionately fucked by his handsome stud. Very good indeed.