It had taken him a few moments to process the information. He remembered dying. He remembered the black cloud pulling up over him and thinking as it reached his eyes that he really should have arranged for someone to look after Sherlock. Who would look after his little brother? Mummy was going to be furious. He remembered all of that. And then the next thing he remembered was the burning. It was terrible and exquisite at the same time. Rather like having hot candle wax poured over you, something he had done on only a handful of occasions but enjoyed immensely. It was amazing what you could get if you had enough money.
And then he was awake. Not dead. But he was quite sure he was no longer alive. The blood. Smeared across his face. Dropped like rose petals across the bed. The pale face of Gregory LeStrade, with its crimson lips a bright focus. And the man. Smiling. Predatory. Telling Mycroft he was beautiful. The unwashed hands moving over his body. And then something else. Something new.
He was hungry.
Not the hunger he was used to. The hunger he had come to ignore through years of practice. Through starving himself. This was different. He felt hungry in his bones. So hungry he could think of nothing else. And that made him unbelievably angry. An anger he was unable to control. Unable to think. His brain not obeying his commands. Certainly he had no objections to the pleasures and indulgences of flesh and bones. But always on his terms. Not like this. Not out of control.
"I'm hungry." The voice was raspy. Sore. The pale face looking at him registered surprise and then something else. Fear? Regret? Pity?
"We need to get you blood. It's the only thing that will stop the aching." There was apology in the voice. "You can't ignore it. It will get worse if you do. Get dressed and come with me?" Cold hand gripped cold hand. And Mycroft found himself compelled to obey.
He dressed quickly, the Saville Row tailoring replaced with dark jeans and a zip through sweatshirt, clothes kept in the back of the wardrobe and never worn. Until now. And then out in to the London Night. The City never really slept. But at three in the morning it was definitely catnapping. A few Taxis pottered about. The last of the late night party people being ferried to their beds, trailing Kebab meat and Vodka fumes in their wake. And all he could think of now. All that mattered was the aching cramp of hunger eating away at his insides. It was a short enough ride from Mayfair to St Bart's but by the time they pulled up outside the hospital Mycroft's brain had narrowed to nothing but a single pin point of desire. Blood.
The first few drops made him gag as they slid down his throat. He was aware of every vein in his body now, all of them screaming at him to get on with it. To feed them. He closed his eyes and swallowed the rest of it. He was surprised that there was no taste.
"Is that better? Or are you still hungry?" A reassuring hand on the back of his head.
"I need more." Three further bags of O Negative purloined from the fridge and Mycroft was feeling considerably better. Rather like the feeling he got when he finally gave in to temptation and ate a whole Cheesecake in one go. But without the guilt, after all how many calories could there be in blood? And there was something else. The wrinkled inability to think had been replaced with Knife edge creases. He could feel every cell of his brain, and he had command over all of them. He turned his attention to Gregory LeStrade, who had been watching silently. He had never noticed before, but Greg was giving off the scent of Liquorice and freshly baked cakes.
"Are you all right? I mean, do you feel better?" Silence. "Mycroft?" And suddenly Greg found Mycroft Holmes on top of him, pushing him to the floor, grinding against him and tearing at his clothes. Looking down at him with dangerous eyes.
"I need you." His lips still had blood on them, Greg's teeth marks still visible on his elegant marble neck. Greg could feel the hardness of Mycroft's erection straining over him. He could see the eyes burning with lust. And he could smell the Dark Chocolate as it enveloped his senses. A hundred and twenty four years was a very long time.
"Oh God Mycroft, yes please." And then he was lost.