Suitable Partners Chapter 7 – Mycroft

Once again, this is Dark!Mycroft. Rape, physical abuse and victim mentality are here.

John called out from his seat by the window, "Sherlock, there's a black car pulling up outside the flat."

Sherlock did not reply, but put on his coat and quickly gathered up some random papers to hold when he realized his hands were shaking. "He probably wants me to take a case for him," he sniffed disdainfully. "If it is a complex one I may not be back tonight."

"All right," said John, without looking up from the newspaper.

"Don't worry about me," said Sherlock, and swept out of the flat to face his fate.

At the Diogenes Club, Sherlock made his way to Mycroft's room, his game plan firmly in mind. He would see this through, whatever the cost. John was worth it. And to be truthful, he was quite looking forward to being free to choose for himself. It would be a novel experience. Yes, focus on the end game, the goal. Don't think about the damage which could he might sustain in the process of getting there.

As usual, Mycroft was already ensconced in his chair when Sherlock entered the room. "Strip and lie on the bed," he instructed.

"I have something to say first," said Sherlock quietly. He stood just inside the door, head down, not openly defiant in his posture or tone.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. This was new. Sherlock had, of course, gone through a teenage rebellion phase when he did not want to be dominated by his older brother, but Mycroft had thought he was past all that. He wasn't on drugs, so he was not just lashing out at the closest person. What could possibly have inspired Sherlock at this point to break training and demand to speak? Mycroft genuinely could not think of anything, which was a new and intriguing situation.

"Very well. Speak."

Sherlock's voice was low but clear, and occasionally there was a slight tremor of controlled but deeply felt emotion. "You and I have been in a relationship since I was a teenager. I am very grateful for all you have taught me and shown me. But I feel the need to make my own way now and I want to try having a relationship with John." Sherlock had dithered back and forth over telling this straight out to Mycroft, but he would soon know anyway so Sherlock had decided to be as straight-forward as possible. "John wants exclusivity in a partner, so I would like to put our relationship… back on a more usual fraternal footing."

Sherlock had given the phrasing of his request a lot of thought. He did not want to say to Mycroft to "stop" anything, or worse that he wanted to "break off" anything. Such terms could only be viewed as a challenge. And if he could shove off any of the responsibility for the relationship changes to John's demands, that would help too. Above all, he wanted to avoid saying the word "no" to Mycroft – that had never worked out well for them, even on the rare occasions that Mycroft had taken his refusal seriously.

"What John doesn't know won't hurt him," said Mycroft dismissively.

Sherock took a deep breath. This was it, time to make his statement and chance the consequences. "This is what I want too. If you don't let me go, I'll make it public about what we've been doing. There's a detective inspector I know at New Scotland Yard, and if I give him the evidence I've collected he will be forced to investigate. You can probably suppress the outcome of the investigation, but it will start rumours that would not be good for your career in Whitehall."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Sherlock was serious. The detective inspector thing was a bluff, had to be. "Why don't you let me think about it? Strip and get on the bed for me. I'm in the mood for sex, and I think an orgasm would do you good too. Wouldn't you like that? You know I can make you feel good – I know which buttons to press and exactly how hard you like it." Mycroft smiled suggestively. This was the way, dangle the carrot and Sherlock would get distracted. He'd never push through with this crazy idea. Keep him busy and entertained and he would forget anyone but Mycroft had ever existed.

Sherlock hesistated, then said very clearly, "No. I'm never playing these games with you again." Well, that's torn it. There is only one way this can go now. Mycroft letting him go without protest had always been extremely unlikely.

Mycroft felt the red rage rising into his chest, his vision dimming, but he gritted his teeth and tried to breathe through it, tried to give Sherlock another chance. "I said: strip." Mycroft would have liked to repeat the entire instruction, but his self-control was shredding and he didn't trust his voice.

"No." Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and waited for all hell to break loose.

It didn't take long. The next thing Sherlock knew he was on the floor, the whole right side of his face on fire with pain. Mycroft had never hit him in the face before except with an open palm – had never wanted to leave marks, but clearly now all limits were gone.

Sherlock felt himself being hoisted into the air by the back of his jacket and belt, and thrown towards the bed. He remained perfectly limp, allowed his body to lie where it fell without attempting to move. He knew from experience that the struggle would only make Mycroft more excited. The best way out was through, and perhaps if he were totally passive it would all be too boring and Mycroft wouldn't be able to get it up. Perhaps.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and his breathing even as he felt Mycroft rip his trousers down. Mycroft was panting and growling under his breath. Would it be a caning day or a rough sex day? The whistle of the implement through the air gave Sherlock a fraction of a second warning. It was the paddle with air holes. Shit. My body is only transport for my mind. Nothing he can do to my body can kill my spirit.

For the next half hour Sherlock repeated his mantra internally as he lay completely without resistance or response to Mycroft's shouts or beating. He ignored the whip, the cane and the paddle without a sound or twitch of protest. When his backside was a mass of blisters and angry red skin, Mycroft condescended to mount him and use him as a vessel for his pleasure. It was over in fairly short order – after an extended beating Mycroft always came quickly.

Finally, Mycroft withdrew his flaccid cock from Sherlock's abused hole, allowing his semen to drip down Sherlock's thighs. "All right then, slug." Mycroft said, with disgust. "I've had enough of trying to train you to behave and to respond to me properly. Get out of my sight. Go find yourself another master, I'm sick of you. Don't come crying back to me either, when John loses patience with you or can't work out how to please you. You have a sick, twisted mind and a frigid body – good luck getting any pleasure out of it with anyone else. This is officially over."

Mycroft zipped up his pants and straightened his waistcoat. He went to put on his jacket and noticed a small white rectangle of paper on the floor. He picked it up. It was a card with the name and contact details of one Detective Inspector G. Lestrade. Mycroft pocketed it. He might need to do some investigation on this tame D.I. of Sherlock's.

"Just one last piece of advice, Sherlock," Mycroft said over his shoulder "Don't let the club door hit your arse on the way out." Then he was gone.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and his body completely limp. His face, back, buttocks and thighs were on fire. His arse ached and he could feel Mycroft's sperm slowly trickling down his leg. So this was what winning felt like.

Sherlock was in the bath trying to soak the day's events out of his muscles and soothe his over-excited mind when he heard John's key in the front door. John would see his bruises and be possessive, protective, maybe even sexually excited by them. Sherlock decided to make the most of it. He quickly put on his most distressed expression and dashed some shampoo into his own eyes. The sting was worth the redness and slight puffiness it would create: it was the quickest way to simulate hours of crying. He turned his face away from the bathroom door to maximize the impact when he showed John his black eye.

John knocked on the bathroom door, "Sherlock? Are you in there?"

"Come in John," Sherlock called out.

John swung open the bathroom door, "If you don't mind, I thought I'd just wash my hands… Shit, Sherlock! What happened to you?"

Sherlock turned up his face to John, and enjoyed the shock and horror on his friend's face at the sight of his rapidly purpling right eye and still-red cheek. "I broke it off with Victor Trevor."

John gasped and reached out to touch Sherlock's cheek, but let his hand fall short. "He did this to you?"

"I was afraid something like this would happen, but I did it anyway," Sherlock let one tear run down his cheek, "See how much I love you? I did what you said and paid the price for it."

John gave a weak smile, "How about you hop out of the bath and come into the kitchen where the light is better and let me take a look at your face. I'd hate to think that anything might be broken."

Sherlock stood up and reached for a towel, and once again John gasped and it sounded like he also bit back a sob. It must look worse than he had thought.

Sherlock twisted around and looked down at his own backside in the bathroom mirror. He had to admit, it was a spectacular sight. Against his pale skin the lines from the caning looked livid, and the bruises were coming up dark purple and blue from his lower back almost to his knees. Some of the blisters on his bottom had broken open in the bath – he frowned at this last item. Everything else he could take in stride with a shrug and a philosophical attitude, but what if John didn't like the mess of open sores? Not to mention that it would hurt if he had to lie on his back for John to take him. Still, even knowing how it would turn out, he could not think of any other way to convince Mycroft that he was never going to play his game again.

"Oh God, Sherlock. I never would have insisted if I'd realized…"

"What? That I was right?" Sherlock allowed a trace of bitterness into his voice.

"Well, now you are free, at least. Enjoy your freedom and owning yourself. When you are healed, come and talk to me."

"Talk?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "I'd have thought you wanted more than just talk?"

"Perhaps, but not until you are recovered from this relationship. Make sure your heart is whole again before you give it away." John kissed him lightly on the forehead, then left the bathroom.

Sherlock thumped his head on the wall with frustration. Wait until he was recovered from his relationship with Mycroft? That would be the seventeenth of never. He had fully expected John to start with soothing cream on his arse and end with his cock inside it. Clearly, he had miscalculated somewhere. Seducing a doctor was turning out to be more difficult that he had thought.

A/N: Sorry for the length of time between updates! I'm trying to finish my other piece "Her Majesty's Secret Service" so this one has dropped down the priority queue. Don't worry, I have plans for Dark!Mycroft and Sub!Sherlock - I'm not going to forget them! However, this piece will probably not update more often than fortnightly until I finish the other one.