When people talk about their first date with their now-husband or now-wife, everyone will tell you they went to a nice restaurant, had dinner, watched a movie, kissed in front of the door and one of them left. When people ask Gregory Lestrade, he has to lie. Not that he would be ashamed of his first date with his now-husband, au contraire it had been exciting, but not a default date.
They didn't really agree to have a date; it was Mycroft Holmes who decided he wanted to see the DI. Someone always sent him letters, pictures of Greg showering, of Greg laughing and working, sweets, and beer. Little gifts without any signature, only one sentence written in red ink – he later found out that it was human blood – "I'm a psycho, but who cares?". Of course Greg tried to find the person responsible for this, but without any fingerprints and little DNA, they didn't have a chance.
Greg tried to ignore the letters like everyone would, but after a while – and twenty letters telling him that he was good-looking, handsome and a great bloke, he began to get curious. Who would send him something like that, letters written in blood with gifts only couples would send each other? His mind told him not to be a fool; this man or woman could be a stalker or a killer, waiting for the chance to rape and murder him. These letters were a farce, he shouldn't blush every time he was reading them. He really shouldn't, it was foolish, absolutely dumb and silly, but he still lay in his bed and imagined how the writer of these... love letters might look like.
Definitely tall, Greg loved tall men to whom he had to look up. Maybe rich and posh, no one would enunciate himself like the writer without being posh, polite – a man with style. Hopefully not ugly, not that he was a man who only adored someone's looks, but it was more attractive to be adored by a handsome bloke.
The more letters he got, the clearer the picture got. The writer told him that he was able to hack into every camera in the entire town and country and that he was able to see Greg always, anywhere he maybe. Some people would freak out because of that, but Greg felt flattered. There was someone out there who spent his time watching him, a psycho probably, but the thought was what counted. He felt like a fool, slowly falling in love with someone he had never met and who stalked him, but he couldn't help himself.
The way the man spoke, how Greg was able to tell in which mood he was only because of his handwriting – normally his letters were a little bit italic and small, a beautiful and elegant handwriting; but sometimes the letters were bigger and cramped and Greg somehow knew that the man had been angry about something; or the letters were smaller than usual and written in block letters, a sign that the writer was tired, exhausted and sad. It was sick to think that he was able to deduce that, but he knew he was right. There was no doubt about that.
After a month of daily letters, he began to tell everyone that they had stopped. Sherlock didn't believe him and neither did John, but neither of them said anything. Sally was glad, his superior allowed him to go out without bodyguards following him everywhere – the writer had commented that they were silly and non-essential, that he would have been able to kill them within minutes – and the other officers didn't even comment on it. Of course they all were glad that this freak stopped stalking him. He always got angry when they talked about the writer like that. He wasn't a freak, he was gentle, posh, and lovely. He paid attention to Greg when no one else did, commented when he had a new haircut when no one at the Yard noticed.
Yes, he fell in love with his stalker, problems with that?
After another month, the letters changed. The writer told him that he wanted to meet him and that while it sounded like he was inviting Greg to his last meal before getting raped and killed, the writer assured Greg that he wouldn't hurt him. He would never hurt Greg, and the DI believed him.
So when the writer asked him if he wanted to meet him in a warehouse outside of London, Greg turned his head to the camera in his room from which he knew that the man watched him, and nodded. His heart beat faster and he blushed, because he felt that the man was smiling and grinning. If people found out, they'd call him crazy, maniac.
Greg was standing and searching for his coat when someone knocked on his door. He opened it and was surprised to see Sherlock and John, both looking serious, John a bit worried too.
"How can I help you?" he asked politely, even if he wanted them to piss off so he could go on his... date? Meeting? He didn't care what it was, his hands were wet because of his excitement.
"We read the letters," John said after clearing his throat. "And we know that you're about to go to this meeting..."
"We're here to make sure you don't go because John is worried that this man is going to kill or rape you – probably both."
Greg sighed. He knew that they wouldn't let him go, because they thought the writer was dangerous. They didn't know the truth, they had never seen the gifts and they weren't able to read between the lines, they didn't see the love and admiration. But he did. He pushed them out of the way and ran downstairs, hearing a shout and he knew that they were following him. He tried to get into his car, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. John wrapped his arms around Greg and pushed him down to the floor, holding him tight. Greg wasn't able to escape. Fucking army training.
"Let me go," he demanded angrily, "I could get you arrested for that!"
John sighed and Sherlock, standing in the doorframe with a blank expression, opened one of the letters and began to read it. Greg watched him carefully, it was the one with the address of the warehouse and without it he wouldn't be able to find the location. It took the consulting detective twenty seconds to read the letter and fifteen seconds until he ripped it. Greg growled and tried to push John out of the way.
"You're acting like a maniac, Greg!" John hissed in his ear. "This man is going to hurt you, don't you see that?"
"You know nothing about him!"
"I do," Sherlock said while running his fingers through his curly hair, "I know this handwriting. That's why we can't let you go."
"Since when do you care?" Greg growled. There was no way he would be able to escape John's grip. The army doctor was too strong for him. "Let me go, John! Now!"
"Knock him out, John, he's annoying me with his crazy behavior."
Greg heard a sight. To hell with their care, he was a grown man, able to defend himself if he was in danger and the writer didn't pose a threat, he was sure. He could hear a car racing in their direction, and then a loud bang – a sound like someone using a crowbar to hit someone else's skull – and a hushed scream. Someone pulled John away from Greg, as he looked to his side, he could see the unmoving and unconscious body of the ex-army doctor lying next to Sherlock's. Suddenly there were hands on his shoulders and someone lent down, covering Greg's eyes with one hand.
"I'm afraid I'll have to kidnap you now, Detective Inspector, there's a warehouse desperately waiting for your presence."
And then everything went black because someone hit his head.
He wasn't in pain as he woke up, which surprised him. His vision, as he slowly opened his eyes, was blurred, his head dizzy and every thought disappeared when he tried to continue with it. It was dark, cold but there was heat coming from somewhere in front of him. The only sound he could hear was a ringing in his head, the aftermath of the knock. And there was a tapping. He was only able to see frames, but he was sure there was a man, slowly walking in a circle around him, watching him. Greg felt the burning gaze on his skin.
He groaned and shook his head to clear it.
It worked and suddenly everything was sharp and he was able to see the stranger, now stopped, standing directly in front of him.
The man was ginger, his hair colour a cross between bright red and dark brown – auburn. His eyes were shining in the darkness surrounding them, bright blue-grey eyes looking directly at him without blinking. He was tall, taller than Sherlock and – of course – taller than Greg. He wore a three-piece suit with a waistcoat, expensive looking shoes and a vintage pocket watch. He held an umbrella in his left hand, the source of the tapping. His smile made Greg's heart beat faster and faster.
The man didn't look like he had expected him to, except the height and the posh look, but that wasn't a problem. He still looked incredibly handsome.
"I assume you're finally awake, Detective Inspector?" the man asked him and Greg recognized the voice, it was the man who had covered Greg's eyes in front of his flat. "That's excellent, I was afraid that the food would get cold before you were awake."
Greg raised an eyebrow and turned his head in the direction the man was pointing with his umbrella. There was a table standing in the middle of the empty warehouse, covered with a red tablecloth, expensive-looking glasses and plates. And, much to Greg's amusement, a bag with the logo of a Chinese diner.
The man chuckled and caught Greg's attention again.
"Unfortunately I'm not able to prepare Chinese food, which I know is your favourite," he said and cocked his head a bit, "at least I was able to find some fitting wine you should like. But I think you should be able to ask questions, it was quite rude to kidnap you without asking if I was allowed to."
He chuckled again and swung his umbrella.
"I... well... who are you?" Greg titled his head and examined the stranger again. He was handsome, indeed, no one could pretend he wasn't.
"What an unoriginal question, my dear," Greg blushed because of the pet name and smiled like an idiot, "it seems like poor Sherlock wasn't able to tell you his conclusion?"
"He said that he knows you..." Greg whispered surprised and looked up into the stranger's eyes. "Where are Sherlock and John?"
"I'm surprised you are concerned about them after they tried to stop you from coming here," the stranger told him, but pointed with his umbrella to one of the walls.
Sherlock and John were sitting there, both tied to a chair with tape covering their eyes and mouths. Sherlock's forehead was covered in blood and Greg could see dried blood in John's hair. They were unconscious.
"As you can see, they both are alive and healthy." Greg turned his head to look at the man again. "Well, except for the terrible headaches when they awake, of course."
Greg nodded and cleared his throat. "Well, who are you?"
The man swung his umbrella again and bowed with a grin on his features.
"I'm Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure, Detective Inspector, to finally talk to you face-to-face. Even if I have to admit your blushing every time you were reading one of my letters was quite cute to watch."
Greg blushed again and smiled. He couldn't help himself, this man made him feel like a love-drunk girl in high school, getting compliments from her crush. He had never met this man before and yet he still felt like he already knew everything about him. And he was a Holmes, which meant he was exciting, interesting and strange for everyone but the person who was able to understand him.
"Why did you write me these letters?" Greg asked the question he had been asking himself since he began to enjoy the little messages. Why would someone with this power, he was able to hack and control cameras everywhere after all, talk to Greg Lestrade? Why would he want to meet him, why would someone as handsome as this man tell him that he - a small man with grey hair and scars everywhere - was… cute, sexy, good-looking?
"Why not?" Mycroft asked him with titled head.
"Erm," Greg cleared his throat, "You could just have talked to me, you were at the crime scenes, sometimes I was able to see you."
"You noticed me?" Mycroft smiled and swung his umbrella - Greg was sure he had a gun or sword in it - again, "I'm impressed, Detective Inspector."
Greg felt flattered and smiled. He knew that this man must be a psycho or a killer - he admitted it in every single letter with the ending sentence "I'm a psycho" - but he enjoyed this chat. Mycroft Holmes was a good conversationalist, polite with the knowledge of when he should give a compliment. Greg wasn't Sherlock, but he would have known when this man lied to him - he was honest.
"So, why didn't you talk to me? Must have been easier than writing letters with… blood."
"Ah, of course you would find out that it's not red ink," Mycroft nodded and tapped his umbrella on the ground. "Blood isn't only nutrients. Blood is life, the liquid of the soul. It is the soul. 'Only be sure that thou eat not the blood: for the blood is life; and thou mayest not eat the life with the flesh.' I have always been a fan of old-fashioned media, letters are much more personal than phone-calls and I couldn't risk being seen by my dear brother." He switched the hand holding the umbrella and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Is it… your blood or do you… Kill people only because of their blood…?"
Mycroft smirked. "It is indeed the blood of my victims."
Greg jumped from the chair and jerked backwards, searching for his gun but it was gone. He knew that Mycroft was a killer, he had known it from the report Forensic gave him on the letters, but… to hear it from the man with an inflection as if he was talking about the weather… it shocked him.
"You seem to be surprised, Detective Inspector." The man took a step in Greg's direction and pointed with his umbrella at the table where Greg's gun lay. "Feel free to shoot me, if you want to."
"You're going to kill me if I reach for it, right?" Greg laughed dryly.
Mycroft cocked his head. "Why would I want to kill someone as handsome as you are? That would be a waste. And I would never hurt you, Detective Inspector." He lowered his head and he made a little break between every word of his last sentence, sending shivers over Greg's back.
Greg slowly walked to the table, never letting Mycroft out of his sight, and took the gun. The bullets were still in it and it hadn't been manipulated. Greg pointed it at Mycroft's chest, finger at the trigger.
"I could just shoot you now and drag you off to a cell," Greg said. His hands were shaking, he didn't want to shoot at this man, but his job was more important than his private life.
"I know you won't do that, but as I already said - feel free to shoot at me whenever you want to."
Suddenly Sherlock groaned. The sound of him trying to get out of his bonds interrupted the silence. Mycroft turned his head and smiled.
"It seems that my brother is about to wake up, what a pity. I hoped he would stay unconscious until we had eaten the Chinese food. I'm afraid it's cold now." Greg looked down into the bag. It still smelled delicious, like his favourite food and he had no doubt that it was exactly the dish he always ate.
Mycroft walked to his brother and patted his head kindly. But then, suddenly, he began to smile and raised his umbrella to hit Sherlock with it. There was a loud groan as Sherlock was hit, more blood and then it was silent again.
It was impossible that that umbrella was a normal one.
"So… where were we?" Mycroft asked while he returned to the exact place he had been standing before. "Ah, yes. You wanted to shoot me." He lifted his arms and raised them aside. "Go ahead."
Greg snorted and lowered the gun. They both knew that he would never shoot this man. Not after all these letters and gifts.
"You're a murderer?" Greg asked and took a deep breath, "Flirting with a DI?" He suddenly felt like an idiot. He had been silly to believe that a psychopath could really be interested in him. "So, they were right? That the letters were fake, nothing in them real? You wrote them just to get a chance to kill a DI?"
Mycroft did something which surprised Greg. He pouted.
The elder Holmes looked like a serious, posh man, not like someone who would pout easily. It looked angelic and cute and the anger left Greg's mind within seconds.
"You are insulting me, Detective Inspector. I would never lie to you and I would never hurt you." He titled his head and clenched his umbrella. "I already told you that."
"Why did you write these letters? Why did you give me these gifts and the photos? Just tell me why!"
Mycroft smiled. "Because I'm interested in you, Detective Inspector. I already told you that you're attractive and handsome. Do I need more reasons to explain why I wanted to meet you?"
Greg sighed and ran one hand through his hair, looking at John and Sherlock. And then he smiled.
"The food's still warm and I'm hungry." He sat down and rested the gun next to his dish. "I hope it's not poisoned."
Mycroft chuckled and sat in front of him, umbrella hanging over his backrest. He lent back and entwined his fingers.
"It isn't, I can assure you."
Greg waited until Mycroft began to eat. It was his favourite food and his stomach growled, he was hungry and the food looked fantastic. Mycroft smiled at him and took another sip of the wine. Greg hesitated. Yes, he had a crush on this polite gentleman, but he wasn't a fool. This man in front of him was a killer, a man who wrote with blood, and who was a self-proclaimed psychopath. He shouldn't trust him, but he already did.
"The food is getting cold, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said and smiled at him. "Should I prove to you that it is not poisoned?"
He lent over the table, took one of Greg's spring rolls and ate it. He chuckled, took another and held it in Greg's direction.
"It would be a pity to waste this, don't you agree?"
Greg rolled his eyes and ate. Hell, even if it was poisoned and Mycroft was resistant against it, at least he would die with the knowledge that there was someone who adored him. His ex-wife certainly never had.
"Does it taste poisoned?" Greg shook his head and ate another one. "Shall I do the same with the wine?"
Greg laughed quietly and took a sip of the red liquid. It tasted good, expensive and normally not his choice of drink, but it completed the atmosphere of the date. The candle in the middle of the table cast a cloud over Mycroft's face, darkening it. There were two unconscious people sitting against the wall next to them and he had a gun lying within his reach, but he felt like he was in a restaurant.
"I would ask you to tell me something about yourself, Detective Inspector, but I already know everything."
Greg raised one eyebrow and smirked, "You do? Prove it."
If he was like Sherlock, he would love to show off. And indeed, Mycroft began to smirk and his eyes began to glow like the one's of a child who was about to get some candy.
Mycroft lent back and folded his hands in front of his lap.
"Your divorce was two years ago, but your ex-wife still tries to get you back. Not because she loves you, she never did, but because of your salvation and your position. Of course you don't want her back," Mycroft's features hardened and Greg gulped, knowing that that had been some kind of threat and warning for him.
"But you feel sorry for her and you allow her to visit you every Saturday for breakfast and you take her to lunch. You have been bi-sexual since you were 15. Your first kiss was a boy you shared a class with, mathematics if I am not mistaken. But you always preferred men, you're not a fan of breasts and curvy figures and you like the feeling of a cock inside you or in your mouth. You hate your nieces, they are too loud and annoying, but you never let them or your sister see your hatred because you feel like you owe her. She introduced you to your first boyfriend, the one who took your virginity only to leave you two weeks later."
"How do you know about Jeremy?" Greg asked surprised. No one but his sister had ever known about them, and she had never told anyone. They never went out together, they didn't talk during school or in their free time. They only met at Jeremy's house.
Mycroft titled his heat. "I know everything, Detective Inspector. And I also know that you asked yourself why he left you and where he went. He was killed in Canada; a drunken driver hit him while he was ignoring the street signs."
Greg didn't like the look in Mycroft's eyes. There was something murderous, not crazy or maniac, but self-confident and powerful in them.
"Did you…" Greg swallowed hard and looked on his plate, "kill him?"
"Me?" Mycroft laughed, but stopped after a while and lent in Greg's direction, their noses were almost touching. "I ordered him killed, but I did not drive the car."
A shiver ran over Greg's back and he gulped again. Mycroft lent back and continued to eat as if nothing had happened. He just confessed a murder, but he seemed to know that Greg wouldn't tell anyone about this chat.
"Tell me about yourself, Mycroft." Greg said after a while and smiled. "You know everything about me, but I don't know a thing about you."
"You know that I'm a killer and a psychopath, Detective Inspector."
"Call me Greg, if I'm calling you Mycroft that would only be fair."
Mycroft nodded and smiled. "Very well, Gregory. You know that I'm a killer and a psychopath, you know that I'm Sherlock's older brother."
"Yes… but I don't know what you do for a living, what you prefer, your favourite books… aren't those things people talk about on dates?"
"Well, this isn't an ordinary date, is it?"
Greg laughed. "No, I don't think it is. I've never been on a date with a… murderer and with two of my mates tied to chairs."
Mycroft turned his head to look at John and Sherlock. He must have hit them hard, they both were still unconscious.
"I'm not a murderer, Gregory, I'm a killer. And a psychopath."
"You Holmes seem to like calling yourselves psychopaths. Your brother says he's a sociopath and you're a psychopath. Is that some kind of hobby or inside-joke?"
"No, I assure you I am a psychopath." Mycroft took his umbrella and tapped it against the ground. Maybe it was a habit, his way to show that he didn't like the conversation or that he was nervous. It was easy to see his mood in his handwriting, but he seemed to be a master at hiding his emotions in person. "Are you trying to deduce me?"
Greg blushed and ate another spring roll before he could say something awkward and silly.
"Anything interesting?" Mycroft asked him grinning. "Impress me."
The DI cleared his throat and entwined his fingers and rested his hands in front of his plate. Mycroft's were a few inches away from his, he could almost touch them.
"Well… you seem to be posh, and polite. It's not a trick, I guess… anyway, you try to hide your emotions, maybe because you think they're your only weakness, you try to act like you're only able to be happy, not angry, nervous or sad. But your handwriting reveals you. I was always able to tell which mood you were in when you wrote the letter, it changes when you're angry or tired and exhausted. I think you hold a high position, manager or politician, because it would be easy for you to kill people without getting caught when you have influence. You… well, either you're gay or bi-sexual, I'd say you were gay because of the way you dress and smell, your cologne is expensive and so is everything you wear, except your pocket watch, so I would say it has a meaning for you, maybe an heirloom."
Mycroft didn't say a word. He looked Greg in the eyes, a corpse-like stare. Greg cleared his throat and tried to avoid the look. It was impossible; Mycroft's eyes were hypnotizing.
And then he clapped.
Not enthusiastic like soccer-fans cheering for their team, slow with long breaks between each clap, but he smiled. Greg felt proud and blushed when Mycroft's hands brushed his own.
"I see my brother has been a good influence on you, Gregory. You were correct about everything except one thing." He lent down until their lips were only a few inches away from each other. "I do not think emotions are my only weakness, I know it."
Greg smiled and stared at Mycroft's lips, they looked like they were soft, made to be kissed. "So, are you gay or bi? And what about the watch and your job?"
"A curious one, aren't you?" Mycroft chuckled, "I am gay, I always was. Sherlock used to say I'm afraid of, to quote him, 'Boobies'. The watch used to be my father's and before him it was his father's and so on. And I am a politician. To be exact, I am the British Government."
Greg raised his eyebrow. "You're the British Government? Why don't I believe you?" He smiled and titled his head, their noses touching while he did it.
"I can hack into every single camera in Britain, Ireland and Scotland. I could kidnap anyone without any consequences and I can kill everyone I want because no one would dare insulting me with the conclusion that I might be a killer. You and Sherlock are the only people who know what I do."
"What about John? Sherlock seems to tell him everything."
Mycroft laughed and took a sip of his wine, not moving away from Greg. The DI could feel how his body got warmer, the hairs on his neck stood up.
"Sherlock hates me, yes, but he would never tell anyone what I am. He knows that I want to see the world burn, that I want to kill people just because I can and he does nothing about it. And do you know why?" Greg shook his head. Mycroft's eyes darkened again, the bright blue and grey got darker until they were almost black. A crazy glare, of which Greg should be afraid, but he wasn't. As Mycroft continued to talk, his voice was only a whisper. "Because it's his fault that I started to kill. And without me, he would have nothing, not his brilliant mind, not his deducing skills. Nothing."
"It's his fault?" Greg shivered. He liked this deep, raspy voice, the whispering and the knowledge of power and influence.
"Sherlock used to get bored so easily," Mycroft said, his voice sounded psychopathic, crazy, but still serious and controlled and he titled his head and brushed Greg's lips with his own. "He would cry and scream and sometimes run to the graveyard. He just stood there, perfectly still in front of the graves and he always told me he wanted to see a corpse, that he wanted to touch the wax-like skin because he wanted to dissect them until he could reach their heart. I wanted to be a good brother, so I went outside to the slum of our hometown and killed a homeless guy. Le sang a coulé et coulé et mes mains ont été rouges et j'ai ris parce que j'ai aimé ce sentiment. (1). But Sherlock wanted more and more."
Greg got goose bumps. This sounded like the story of someone who was caged in a padded cell, hidden in the shadows because no one should see them and feel sorry for them.
And yet here he was, almost kissing a killer and feeling sorry for him because of his baby brother who wanted to cut human beings open. And he was surprised that he didn't mind, that he wasn't afraid of Mycroft Holmes because he fucking loved this man and he would never betray him, he would never tell anyone that this man was a serial killer and psychopath.
"'Cause really I'm a psycho, I told you I'm a psycho", Mycroft suddenly sang and chuckled, rubbing his nose against Greg's, "You know I'm gonna' get ya."
It shouldn't have surprised Greg that he was able to speak with a perfect American accent, this man probably spoke more languages than Greg would know. And that chuckle… Greg loved the way it sounded, that it was able to send shivers down his back and into his crotch. And this man sang like an angel, like a demon with wings and a halo, switching between heaven and hell within seconds.
"What tells you that you don't have me already?" Greg asked quietly and licked over his lips, enjoying that Mycroft followed the movement with his eyes.
"I know that I do, Gregory", Mycroft chuckled and closed the gap between them.
Greg had kissed before, but it had never felt like this time. Mycroft's lips were soft, but his kiss was wild and hard and full of emotions and passion. Greg reached out to grab his shoulder, he dug his fingers into the fabric of the waistcoat. He moaned into the kiss as Mycroft stroked his hair, almost kindly. They parted, both breathless and grinning. Mycroft chuckled and titled his head.
"You just kissed a criminal, Gregory," he said and licked over his bitten and swollen lips, "and you did very well. I'm impressed."
"Thank you, you were acceptable."
Mycroft pouted and Greg laughed before he kissed him on the forehead.
"You kissed a DI who fell in love with a psychopath."
The man in front of him just smiled and stood up; John had just made a sound. They would wake soon.
"I'm afraid I have to kill them," Mycroft said and took his umbrella, already walking in the direction of his brother and the ex-army doctor.
Greg gasped appalled and stared at Mycroft with wide-open eyes. Kill them? His own brother and John? Greg could stop him with his gun, but he didn't even try to take it. He wouldn't shoot at Mycroft, he never would and the killer knew that.
Mycroft turned around and chuckled. "I think I should teach you to deduce when I'm making a joke and when I'm serious."
"You're not going to kill them?" Greg asked relieved.
"Why should I? If I wanted to kill Sherlock, I would have done it when he was a little, harmless child."
Greg stood up, packed away his gun and went to Mycroft's side. "I'll take them to their flat."
"They'll get on your nerves, unfortunately." Mycroft sighed and pulled out his cell phone, "I'm going to call my assistant, she'll take the three of you back to London."
Greg nodded and blushed as Mycroft put an arm around his waist. It felt natural.
"Here," he said, taking Mycroft's phone and typing his number in, "you can phone me instead of writing letters."
Mycroft laughed. A black car stopped in front of them and a young woman got out, nodding at Greg and Mycroft before she dragged the two unconscious flat mates into the backseat.
"I'm still going to stalk you."
"I don't doubt that."
Mycroft lent down and placed a kiss on Greg's cheek before he turned around and walked into the shadows of the warehouse, swinging his umbrella and humming a song Greg didn't know.
"You know I'm a psycho, I told you I'm a psycho", Mycroft turned around and pulled his right shoulder up to a beat only he was able to hear, grinning like a maniac, "Really, I'm a psycho! (2)"
And with these words he disappeared and Greg was only able to smile and shake his head before he got into the car. He turned his head and chuckled. John's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. It almost looked sweet. Almost.
(1): The blood flowed and flowed and my hands became red and I laughed because I enjoyed the feeling.
(2): Watch the extended trailer for "Alan Wake: American nightmare" about Mr. Scratch on YouTube, I'm sure you'll find out which dance move I described^^
So… *hides behind the desk* What do you think?
This is going to be a small fanfiction, maybe with three or four chapters, but not more.
I'm addicted to the song "The Happy Song" by Poets of the Fall and almost the only lyrics is "You know I'm a psycho, I told you I'm a psycho!"
And I just thought "Why not, Mycroft could be a criminal, no one would ever know and he could easily kill people without any tracks!" And I wanted to make him dance like Mr. Scratch from Alan Wake in the trailer for the new Add-on, I admit it. Watch it, I wasn't able to stop grinning like an insane idiot because of it.
I'm crazy.
And yes, Dark!Mycroft is awesome.
I think my Mycroft is a mixture between the original Mycroft and Moriaty, he combines the best of both of them and because of that, he is the perfect killer.
A gentleman-killer-psychopath.
Thanks for beta-reading to SilentEyedKat
And thanks to Clementine for correcting my french^^