The man who had tried to punch Mycroft had been thrown across the room and collapsed in a pile of bones against the wall. No one was quite sure how that had happened. But now everyone was afraid. Well, everyone except Greg, who was so turned on he thought his groin was going to explode if he didn't have Mycroft very soon. He could smell the heady chocolate aroma filling the room. He knew Sherlock could too. The younger man had slinked over to his brother and was standing behind him now, a look of desperate desire on his face.
John Watson was still trying to work out quite what was happening. And his brain was also trying to compute the information that despite seeing him plunge from the top of the building to the road beneath, with blood oozing from his head and his body broken, Sherlock was still alive. And obviously Mycroft had something to do with it. And John had punched Mycroft and sworn at him, and silently and not so silently cursed him. And it seemed he owed the elder Mr Holmes a rather massive apology. Once he'd got his whole head around how he'd never noticed how sexy Mycroft was before, or that he'd got muscles or...
John shook his head. It was that strange smell in the room that was confusing him. It was filling his nostrils up and making it difficult to breathe. Chocolate and thunderstorms and that slightly antiseptic smell you got from Root Beer.
"We are leaving. And if you try to stop us. Or you ever interfere with my family again I will end every last one of you." Mycroft flexed his shoulders slightly, his leather jacket creaking in the silence ringing around the room. There was the slightest beam of light filtering in to the room, caressing the side of Mycroft's head and turning his hair the most beautiful copper colour. Mycroft stepped away from it instinctively and his face was in the shadows once more. But John could still see his eyes.
They were burning.
La Neige stared into the blue depths of those eyes. It was like looking at the sky on a summer's day. Like looking at the heavens. Something La Neige had not done for many years. It hurt to look at the sky and the sun. It burned. And he was burning now. He turned away from Mycroft's gaze. He supposed he had known that this day would arrive. But he had never expected that when it did he would be staring into the eyes of this copper haired fallen angel.
They had all backed away, clinging to the edges of the room as though they could get away from those burning eyes by disappearing into the cracks in the walls. Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother, his Silver eyes piercing the gloom, seeing fear and disbelief in every face. Feeling the sharp focus of his brain. Feeling the power? Was that was it was? The power Mycroft actually had. Feeling that surging around him like a loose electrical cable snaking its way towards earth. Knowing that when it touched down there would be trouble. It was like waiting for the fix to hit.
Greg pressed himself against Mycroft's back. He didn't care. Not anymore. He was so aroused. He wanted Mycroft to take him right then. An elegant hand reached backwards to touch his face.
"Soon." Mycroft's lips hardly moved as he said it. "Sherlock. Get John."
Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, feeling John recoil at his cold touch. Feeling the smaller man's resistance.
"Please John. I will explain later. But we have to go. Now." Sherlock wrenched John to his feet and dragged him forcefully towards the only exit.
Mycroft stood facing La Neige with Greg still pressed close behind him. The detective inspector snaked an arm around Mycroft's torso, caressing his body and grinding against him.
"What are you?" La Neige asked again, watching the younger man tilt his head back against his partner. There had never been anything like this. It had never been foretold. La Neige searched his mind for something, anything, some tiny mention of this somewhere in the centuries of lore. There was nothing. This was new. And dangerous.
"I think we may be the future. I suggest you stay in the past. Where you belong. I'm not quite sure yet what kind of man I have become. I really don't recommend you push me. Otherwise you may find out."
La Neige found himself nodding to the back of Mycroft's head as the tall man walked casually from the room, Greg a little way in front of him. La Neige nodded and two of his acolytes ran after them. They were reduced to dust before they had taken three paces. Mycroft turned.
"No second chances. That's the kind of man I am. You understand?" Mycroft followed Greg out into the daylight.
"Master? How did he do that?" There was always someone stupid enough to ask the questions. La Neige half walked, half staggered to his chair, shaking his head.
"I don't know." La Neige whispered softly, fingering the dent in his face where Mycroft had hit him.