Chapter 3. Last of the living Holmes
Mycroft Holmes, last of the honourable, legendary living Holmes lineage, leader of the human resistance and prisoner of the Vampire Lord of the British Isles was back in the familiar filthy dark cell under the Hall of Death and Glory
He was prey to the Lord's whims, sometimes he was housed and fed in unimaginable luxury, treated as an honoured and loved member of the family and then in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, he was back in this disgusting hellhole, with its periodic beatings, torture and starvation. It was designed to break him, he knew that and he had learnt not to resist but go with the flow, take the good to build up stamina for the bad.
He had longed for death; had come so close so many times but that bastard werewolf lackey Watson had saved him, time after time.
He was a special case, he knew that. The vampire was fascinated with him and truth be told, he was fascinated with the vampire. He was a Holmes and of the vampire's own blood line. Sherlock's brilliance took his breath away and left him mourning for the great Holmes he could have been instead of the evil monstrosity he was.
He had worked for years to find a way to destroy this stain on his family's name, since well before the revolution. His family had whispered the dread secret to its sons and daughters down the centuries and the able minded (and the Holmes had always had more than their fair share of those able in mind!) had been prepared, primed and sacrificed to defeat, damage and block the nightmarish threat to the family's honour, and the safety of this country. The ones Sherlock had found a worthy challenge, he had allowed to live into old age, but the others he had "culled" to ensure the strength of the blood line
The first time Mycroft had come close to killing Sherlock, the vampire had laughed, told him he was proud of him and offered him immortality and a seat by his side
The second time Mycroft had come close to killing Sherlock; the vampire had laughed and wiped out the remaining living members of the Holmes family, and offered him immortality.
The third time Mycroft had come close to killing Sherlock, the vampire had laughed and skinned the would be assassin alive, a mathematics professor by the name of Moriarty, James Moriarty who had worked out the probabilities of success against the vampires and offered his services to Mycroft because he didn't want to live his life under vampire rule.
Sherlock had used Moriarty's skin to make a pair of shoes which he had sent to Mycroft in a beautifully wrapped red gift box with a note to say that he had withdrawn his offer of immortality.
Mycroft took it as a compliment that Sherlock now thought he was too dangerous to turn into a vampire.
His shame knew no bounds that it was on his watch that his beloved family and country had been defeated.
He was to be broken and paraded as another of the insane Vampire Lord's pets, but he had not yet submitted to the final degradation, he had cried, he had begged for death, he had crumbled under the tortures but he had not given Sherlock what he craved, his soul, his devotion, his love and ….access to Baskerville.
In the game of minds they played, he knew he never would. Mycroft had removed or eliminated any weaknesses which could be exploited. Sherlock needed the stimulation and Mycroft knew to his cost what happened when the vampire lord was bored.
To give him access to the last remaining human stronghold with all its deadly secrets and great hope for the future would be akin to setting off nuclear weapons on this precious soil.
Baskerville was his last hope for mankind and neither the vampires nor werewolves could gain access to it.
He had seen to that as his top priority when he had recognised what was going to happen as the terrifying Mr Snow had killed the Prime Minister live on television.
Mycroft Holmes had been the British Government, the most dangerous human the Vampire Lord had ever met, and hadn't that made the vampire lord proud. God help him, even in his current pitiful state he could still mentally challenge the Vampire.
He had lost count of the number of times Sherlock had switched venues on him over the years since his capture. He was so tired of it, but he also knew that if he wasn't there as a buffer, the terror Sherlock would unleash on this beautiful beaten land of his birth would be inconceivable
Sherlock loved his games, loved watching him dance, but Mycroft kept his secrets.
If Sherlock had ever deigned to use human drugs on him that he would have had it all, but Sherlock was an old one and he disdained 'modern tricks'. He wanted to defeat Mycroft by using his intellect.
Nothing else would be acceptable to him and he had ripped the throat out of the only vampire who had been stupid enough to drug Mycroft during a torture session.
Mycroft's stay in the Vampire's luxurious estate, which had been the Holmes family home, had lasted for a long time after that episode, as if Sherlock was apologising and wanted to give him a fighting chance.
When open warfare had ultimately proved futile, Mycroft and his squads of grey men had continued to use shadow and sleight of hand to distract, disrupt and destroy.
Sherlock had enjoyed the amusing War Child fiction, the one that had sent the surviving old ones scurrying back to the Americas, and left him to rule and control this most fascinating of places.
Mycroft had used the old legend and played on their superstitions, and most vampires were so incredibly superstitious. It was fiction but it had suited Sherlock's purposes at the time. Regis was only a librarian after all, his interpretation of the human skin scrolls had been woeful inadequate.
He had even helped his brilliant young relative's little scheme, unobtrusively of course but he had ensured that the ghost Annie had become involved and she had been looking for something to love after losing her darling Mitchell. Sherlock had despaired of Mitchell, that gorgeous specimen of vampirehood hating his blood lust and wanting to be human. He had understood and even approved the werewolf boyfriend but honestly falling in love with a pathetic little ghost. Sherlock had tried to teach him that caring was not an advantage but he hadn't listened and had ended up dead at the end of a pointed stake being wielded by his own beloved werewolf.
Using Annie in the war child scam had appealed to his sense of retribution and when she had destroyed most of the old ones, including Mr Snow who was becoming a cause for concern to Sherlock's plans, herself and the baby; it had been most satisfactory and allowed him to best Mycroft yet again.
When Mycroft had finally been apprehended, Sherlock had been amused and even proud at his demeanour. He had stood in that warehouse, in his immaculate grey three piece suit, leaning on his umbrella surrounded by snarling vampires and he had coolly removed the sword thin stake from the umbrella and destroyed six of the vampires before he was taken. It was only Sherlock's presence in the shadows which ensured that Mycroft hadn't been torn to pieces by the enraged vampires, and the one who had dared to bruise him was despatched by Sherlock with Mycroft's own stake.
He had smiled at the dishevelled man and said almost kindly
"Time to come home my dear brother."
The flicker of fear in Mycroft's beautiful ice blue eyes had disappeared quickly but Sherlock had caught it and his smile had widened with satisfaction.
Now Mycroft was back in the cell, and waiting for the next round of torture to begin. He leant against the wall, not wanting to sink down to the floor yet as he knew what it had been left on it previously, and he had showered that morning.
His eyes scanned the darkened room automatically to see if they had actually left him a bed or some food this time but there was nothing except the body in the corner.
Body in the corner, Mycroft straightened and tensed. His first instinct was to go towards it but he restrained himself. It was a trap he knew it, he just didn't know what it was yet. He studied what he could see of the rag covered body, it was small and made smaller by being curved into the foetal position. It hadn't moved when he had been flung through the cell door so it was either dead or unconscious or so terrified that it was playing dead. He thought he could see the chest rise and fall in shallow breaths and made an educated guess.
"You really don't want to lie on that floor yet" he said mockingly. The rag covered body moved instinctively but quickly stilled.
Mycroft smiled coldly and said "I know you can hear me." the figure suddenly pushed itself into the corner as far away from Mycroft as it could manage. In the absolute silence of the cell, he could hear how it tried and failed to control its terrified sobbing breaths.
For the first time in years, Mycroft could almost feel pity.
Then a terrified young female voice pleaded shakily
"Please my lord, let it be quick."
AN:
Disclaimer: As previous chapters, not mine, no infringement intended. Having fun only.
Thank you to all who have favourited and alerted. Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it.
Thank you to AmyLisa and SilverColour for your kind reviews. The only spell Sherlock used on John was his charisma and sex appeal, and Mycroft is far from a vampire...
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