The two men unbuttoned his suit jacket and waistcoat and slid both expensive garments off before tackling his silk shirt and fine wool trousers with the same impersonal efficiency. Gregory had once joked that undressing Mycroft was akin to a Victorian seduction. There were so many layers of clothing to remove, along with their fastenings.

The attendants worked speedily, leaving him naked in seconds. Hands propelled him forward, until his toes touched porcelain. A bathtub.

"One moment, please."

One of them stepped away. He heard faucets creak and water gush. Mycroft was grateful: he'd sweated during the car ride. But that relief turned into shock when the other man fastened what felt like a leather collar around his neck.

If anyone but Gregory had brought him here, Mycroft would have perceived a threat. He'd have ripped off the blindfold, kicked in the assailant's direction, and followed up with disabling blows. This bathroom would smell of blood instead of flowers, and moans of pain would drown out the piano music tinkling upstairs.

"What is this?" he asked, slowly. Dangerously.

"Mr. Lestrade's wishes."

So Gregory had arranged this. It was all fine. He inhaled deeply and relaxed, allowing the man to buckle leather cuffs to his wrists. Then both his hands were raised and metal hooks snapped. Steel rings in the cuffs were now attached to a larger one in the collar, keeping his arms up and semi-immobile. The bindings weren't uncomfortable, but they did arouse long-buried memories from his days as a MI6 field agent.

Kabul, 2001. Lying on a dusty shed floor during a break in interrogation. Ropes around his neck and wrists that either choked him or tore his muscles, depending on his position….

No. This was not the same. Unlike Kabul, he could stop this if he wanted. He shifted in the leather bindings, exploring for the first time immobility without fear of pain or death.

"You're not to do anything for yourself, even wash," the man running the bath explained. "The restraints help you remember that."

The faucets creaked again, and the water stopped. Mycroft felt a blanket of sandalwood-scented humidity waft up and caress his face.

Not do anything for himself? Impossible! He was used to running his own affairs AND those of the country. He bit his lip to refrain from protesting. His escorts noticed, for one said, "Mr. Lestrade thought you might need this, and it seems like he's right."

He would have asked what 'this' was, but his jaw was lowered and a leather bit pressed into his mouth. Mycroft let out a surprised yelp and recoiled as the gag was buckled in place.

Tangiers, 1999. Buried alive by White Cell terrorists while U.S. forces swept the surface, looking for him, the sole survivor of the mass slaughter… Leather in his mouth, absorbing the moisture he hadn't yet sweated away….

"Mr. Lestrade advised what your safety signal was, and it will be respected if used. But you really should trust your partner."

Mycroft's stomach knotted with apprehension. Why was it so damn difficult to let go?

And why was he growing hard? Could he possibly want this as much as Gregory did?

A door opened. Mycroft turned his head toward the noise, listening for footsteps. He heard none, which was why he jumped when a cool hand gently grasped the back of his neck.

That hand- he knew it from somewhere. His nostrils widened as he strained to detect cologne, hand lotion, anything that might pinpoint the new arrival's identity.

"I'll take over from here, gentlemen," a woman said.