La Neige draped himself over an uncomfortable, throne like, wooden chair and regarded Mycroft for a moment. Then he swivelled his glittering black eyes on to Greg.
"Well Gregory. You never told me there were two of them? And they do seem to be trouble don't they?" He stood, his suit every bit as elegant a Mycroft's, caressing his slender frame, and stopped a foot away from the elder Holmes brother. One dirty fingered hand caressed the side of Mycroft's face. "Beautiful, but trouble."
He looked straight in to the Icy blue eyes and sneered a smile. He was the same height as Mycroft. Greg shuddered. It was like a terrible mirror. Mycroft never saw the slap coming. La Neige's hand left no mark, but there was a stinging ring in the air.
"Silly boy. What were you thinking?" And then he turned his attention to Sherlock.
The body had been placed on what Mycroft came to think of as an altar. A large marble platform, surrounded by candles. Sherlock's finger tips and lips were blue. His face still crossed with cuts. Cuts that would never heal? Mycroft felt Greg's hand slip in to his, squeezing gently.
La Neige ran a predatory hand over Sherlock's naked torso. LeStrade placed a restraining hand on Mycroft's shoulder.
"How sweet. I'm not going to hurt him. After all, what can I do? You're the one who killed him! But you want him back? Your little brother. Mummy's favourite is he?"
Mycroft shot La Neige a poisonous look.
"I do hope he's this passionate in bed in Gregory. It's a wonder you don't catch fire. Burned up in the heat of the Iceman." La Neige clicked his tongue. "But this one. This one is cold. He's never loved. Never been touched. He's special. Virginal."
"Sherlock's a virgin?" Greg would have laughed but for the sick feeling churning up his insides.
"Yes. Oh yes Gregory. And that is why his rather lovely brother here is not dead. Tell me beautiful, what did he taste of?" he licked his lips.
"School dinners." Mycroft felt his stomach twist. That was the taste. Prep School dinner.
"Interesting." The veins in La Neige's pale face pulsed slightly and the sneer broadened, showing his blackened teeth. "You do know this means he is yours now?"
"What?" Mycroft and Greg spoke together.
"You've drank the blood of a virgin, Mycroft Holmes. He's yours. Your brother is now entirely yours to do with as you will. You can bring him back. But if you do, you are the only one who can make him end. And if anything should happen to you, he will walk the earth for all eternity. Damned. Forever."
As repulsive as Mycroft found La Neige, he couldn't help but notice the underlying sadness in him. And Mycroft understood. Whoever had turned La Neige was gone. Dust. And La Neige had to walk the earth forever, rotting from the inside with no hope of reprieve. He almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Mycroft turned to LeStrade.
"What do I do? He's my brother. He's the only thing in my life I ever cared about. I can't lose him yet." Greg nodded. He understood.
Mycroft's lips were smeared with his own blood as he bent down to kiss his brother. It took a few moments and then Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. A few moments more before his brain rebooted. A few moments before he shoved Mycroft away from him.
"Mycroft? What the fuck do you think you are doing? Stop kissing me! Ewwww! What is wrong with you?" And then he looked around the room, taking in the scene in the flickering candlelight. "Oh my God Mycroft. You fat bastard! What have you done?"