John finally knew what being afraid really was. It was this moment. The moment when you looked into the eyes of the most powerful man on the planet and knew that he wasn't actually seeing you. That you were nothing more than a snack to him. And John supposed he deserved it. After all it wasn't as if he'd not been warned.
John felt his skin prickling. Felt his blood humming around his ears. His throat was tight and his bowels felt loose. And all he could see. All he wanted to see, was Mycroft's eyes. The two sharp prongs pierced his neck, shredding the thick vein that was standing out against his pale skin. This was it. His blood was going. He could feel it. He was being emptied.
But under it all. Something else. John's groin was pushed hard against Mycroft's torso, grinding into the muscle and bone. He could feel Mycroft's erection pressing uncomfortably behind him. It was wrong. All of it. John tried to wriggle free, but found himself held firm by Mycroft's unnatural strength.
This is what he had asked for. He had a second to contemplate that. A second to regret ever annoying Mycroft. A second to try and choke the word sorry out of his ruined throat. Because he was sorry. Just a second. And then there was no more time.
Mycroft pushed the body off of him, drunk with the blood now surging through him, undoing the tight buttons of his jeans and closing his fist around his aching, dripping cock. He lay back in the chair and stroked himself slowly. John Watson tasted of bitter oranges and cinnamon. Not unpleasant. Mycroft felt his ejaculate pulsing up over his hand and smearing over his warm, full, belly. He felt his eyes closing.
"Mycroft have you seen..? Oh my God!" Greg's voice snapped him from his trance. "What did you do?"
Greg looked at the limp figure of John Watson, pale, small, his bathrobe open and his chest smeared with a trail of blood that reached down to the waistband of his boxer shorts.
"Mycroft?" Greg shook his shoulders. Mycroft looked at him with slightly unfocussed eyes.
"Gregory." His voice was quiet. Greg looked down at the mess spilling all over Mycroft and the chair.
"Mycroft. What did you do to John?"
"He asked me. He wanted it." Greg shuddered. He'd heard that defence before. Always from the mouths of the guilty.
"Mycroft. John's dead."
"We're all fucking dead!" Mycroft shouted. There was no way Sherlock hadn't heard that. Mycroft grabbed hold of Greg. By the throat. Lifting him clean off the floor. Greg thought he was going to kiss him. Only he didn't. He bit down hard on his neck. There was no way he could still be hungry. No way. Only he was.
"Mycroft. Stop."
"Stop what? This is what I am. This is what you made me." Mycroft pushed him away, Greg's blood mixing with John's on his lips.
"No. No I didn't." But a nasty little voice at the back of Greg's head was saying Oh yes you did.
"John?" Sherlock stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking at the scene beyond. Greg expected him to start shouting. To start being Sherlock. But he didn't. He just looked at his big brother like a fearful child, suddenly made aware that the monster in the cupboard was real.
"Mycroft?" Greg was trying to contemplate what new thing was happening now. What exactly was going on in that head. It was reasonable to suspect Mycroft was going mad. All that power, all that blood, all that intelligence. All surging through one poor bag of nerves and cells. His brain was probably melting, stripping away the finer processes to leave nothing but the animal beneath. But Greg couldn't let that happen. Not to John and Sherlock. And certainly not to Mycroft. "Mycroft? You need to sort John out."
The hand on the side of his face was cool. Pulling him down from the terrible black high he had found himself in. He was looking at Greg, fresh teeth marks down his neck. He was looking at John Watson, pale and unmoving. He was looking at Sherlock, abandoned. He was looking at himself, feeling bloated from a meal of blood he should not have eaten.
He knew he had done some terrible things in his time. Told himself it was always for the greater good. But it seemed that the lies and sacrifices were going to catch him up. And make him pay. Dearly.
He picked up John's limp body and looked at his brother.
"Sherlock?" He was asking permission.
"Yes. Yes, Mycroft, please." And that was worst of all. Sherlock never said please.