Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 1/6 + Epilogue
TITLE: Haunted 1/6 + Epilogue
AUTHOR: Elf
RATING: NC17
CHARACTERS: Lestrade, Mycroft, Watson, Sherlock
PAIRINGS: Lestrade/Mycroft
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
WORD COUNT: 25,000
DESCRIPTION: Everyone's off to Mummy's for Chrsitmas. No one could ever imagine what was about to happen.
WARNING: Non-Con, violence, underage sexual activity (15yo), OC death, dub-con.
NOTE: Thank you to 
randomly_rusted , who held my hand and gave me excellent advice all the way.
Lestrade stretched out his legs, settling back in the large seat. He hadn't ever been first class on the train before, but he knew there was no way Mycroft would ever have agreed to anything else.
"Comfortable?" Mycroft asked, sitting very neatly, legs crossed, with the newspaper spread out in front of him.
"Mmm," Lestrade answered, craning his neck to read the headlines as best he could.
"I could have purchased you a newspaper," Mycroft admonished, noticing.
"What? No, I'll have the sports section though, if you don't want it."
Mycroft extracted it and handed it over, then consulted his pocket watch. "Where is Sherlock? I really expected John to try to keep him in check. The train is due to leave in under five minutes."
"Probably won't leave on time anyway," Lestrade said. "When was the last time you were on a train that left on time?"
Mycroft turned to look at him. "Two thousand and seven, when I was forced to accompany a party aboard the Royal Train with Her Majesty."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that figures. Well, for us mere mortals, trains generally don't run on time. More so when Betty's taking up the rails."
Mycroft gave a tiny, almost undetectable twitch at the nickname, but any possible come back was drowned out by Sherlock's arrival, complete with suitcases and bags (most of which Watson seemed to be carrying).
Lestrade jumped up and helped Watson stow the baggage, noticing the slight sheen of sweat on Watson's brow, despite the crisp cold winter weather.
"All right?" he asked.
Watson nodded. "Just…well, you can probably imagine. Sherlock doesn't usually have to worry about things like trains leaving at certain times. He seriously wanted to take a cab all the way."
Lestrade grinned. "I've got beers, if that would help?" he said, in a low conspiratorial voice.
"You have no idea," Watson smiled back.
Lestrade dropped back into his seat, reaching underneath for his rucksack, which contained a battered paperback, his laptop and a couple of cans. He passed one over to Watson, not bothering to offer one to either Sherlock or Mycroft, knowing they would refuse. But he did also pull out a half bottle of red wine and hold it out to Mycroft. "Bought you a present," he said.
Mycroft couldn't help but allow a small smile to flit across his lips. "You shouldn't have, Gregory."
Lestrade also found a plastic cup and handed it over, shrugging. "I know it's not your usual crystal…but you're slumming it now," he grinned.
The hand that slid over his thigh told him that the gesture was appreciated.
Sherlock looked pointedly at the bottle. "Goodness, starting on the alcohol already, Mycroft? You become more like Mummy every day."
"I'm holiday, Sherlock. Everything in moderation. Some of us can trust ourselves," the pointed look wasn't lost on anyone.
"Yeah, holiday – festive season, so let's all get along," Watson said, cracking open his beer and holding it up. "To a happy Christmas."
Lestrade followed suit, first sucking the froth off the top of his can, before it spilt. "Happy Christmas."
Sherlock looked out of the window as the train slowly pulled out of the station, clearly not intending to join in and Mycroft inclined his head. "Happy Christmas indeed."
Lestrade rolled his eyes at Watson and smiled, taking a long pull of beer and stretching back out into his easy sprawl, legs sticking out into the aisle to give Watson some space.
"Who are Brentford playing?" Watson asked, seeing that Lestrade was checking the fixtures.
Sherlock seemed content with staring out of the window and tapping on his phone at intervals, Mycroft was reading the Times from cover to cover, and also periodically checked his Blackberry. So Lestrade and Watson chatted about the sport, the weather, and various other current affairs.
"Ever been before?" Watson asked at one point, after a short silence.
"Hmm?"
"To see Mrs Holmes, at Christmas."
"Oh, no. I usually work, to be honest. I always feel bad at making anyone who might have plans cover Christmas Day. I mean, people with kids, or who want to travel to see their folks. And it's not like Myc can ever be sure when he's going to get a full day without some part of the world demanding his attention."
"Yeah, it must put a bit of a dent in your plans sometimes. Don't know how you cope. How did he swing getting this time off?"
Lestrade smiled. "Anthea threatened him. I don't even know what with – but he's insisted she have the day off for so many years I guess she was getting her own back."
"She's a resourceful woman," Watson observed. "I certainly wouldn't argue with her."
"Me neither," Lestrade laughed.
"Glad to hear it," Mycroft said in a soft voice, not looking up from his newspaper.
Lestrade laughed, and Watson realised he'd never seen the man so relaxed. It was nice to feel like he'd have someone normal to talk to, if Christmas with 'Mummy' turned out to be anything like as bad as Sherlock had made it sound.
When they arrived at the small, quiet station in the middle of nowhere, a gentle snowfall was covering the ground lightly, just enough to turn everything white. A car was waiting for them, and an elderly man clambered out, his scarf done up tightly around his neck, leather gloves on. Watson hoped he hadn't been there long, and immediately helped him stow the various suitcases and bags in the boot.
Sherlock and Mycroft were bickering about something, and Lestrade gave Watson a look. "Think it'll be like this the whole time?"
Watson pulled a face. "I've got a nasty feeling it could be. Unless Mummy has some sort of magic powers over them?"
"We can only hope," Lestrade said.
They piled into the big old car, Mycroft in the front, talking to the driver, who he obviously knew, and the other three in the back.
"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade said, noting Sherlock's glum expression. "It can't be that bad, spending Christmas with your family."
"Something you clearly wouldn't know," Sherlock spat back – and Lestrade assumed he had lost whatever argument he and Mycroft had been having. He let the comment wash over him though – Sherlock could be vicious when he wanted, but Lestrade was used to it, and didn't let it bother him.
The car crept between two tall gateposts, the ornate metalwork just clear in the dusky light. Then there was a short stretch of drive surrounded by foliage and bushes before an open section of lawns, rolling away into the darkness. The house itself was lit warmly, the yellow of the lights reflecting back off the snow, making it look like something from a Christmas card.
As the car rolled to a stop the front door opened and a figure was silhouetted on the step.
Mycroft was out of the car quickly, walking towards her, arms spread.
"Mummy," he said, leaning down slightly and giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Happy Christmas."
"And to you. Look at you both – my dear boys, here for Christmas again! I'm so glad you could come," she stepped down and met Sherlock halfway between the car and the house. "And my little one – look at you, Sherlock, it's been so long since I've seen you!" She wrapped him in a hug and he tentatively put his arms around her in return.
"Now, you must introduce me to your friends. Mycroft, Sherlock," she beckoned them in close.
Lestrade felt as if he were lining up for inspection or something, but stepped forward, his hand out. "Mrs Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said, and found himself being regarded with a very familiar expression – he could certainly tell where Sherlock got his looks from.
"Mummy, this is Gregory," Mycroft said.
"Pleased to meet you," Mrs Holmes said, and offered her hand in return.
Watson then stepped up, and Lestrade caught Mycroft's eye and smiled. He couldn't pretend he hadn't been slightly nervous – Mycroft had explained that his mother was a little old fashioned, and Lestrade had overheard a few of the telephone conversations which had led up to their holiday – including one in which Mycroft had had to insist they definitely wanted to share a bed, and he didn't care what the housekeeper thought about it.
Mycroft smiled back, so Lestrade assumed he had passed the first hurdle.
He turned and grabbed his own large sports bag and Mycroft's suitcase from the boot of the car, ready to head inside and out of the biting cold.
The hallway was large, a grand wooden staircase leading up out of it, and numerous doors. On various tables and stands were what looked like expensive vases and various other ornaments, and the head of a badger hung on a plaque near a grandfather clock. It was all a bit dark and old-fashioned for Lestrade's taste, but somehow exactly how he'd imagined it, through Mycroft's descriptions.
"Put those bags down, Gregory," Mrs Holmes said. "There's tea freshly made in the drawing room – and some biscuits, too."
Sherlock gave Mycroft a pointed look. "Just remember the diet, Mycroft," he said in a low voice, earning himself a narrow-eyed glare in return.
Lestrade just shook his head, knowing he'd have to – once again – reassure Mycroft that he was definitely not fat when they were alone, later. He put the bags neatly near the bottom of the stairs, catching Watson's eye as he did the same, then followed Sherlock and Mycroft toward a door opposite the stairs. He stood back to let Watson in first, noticing out of the corner of his eye a roaring fire in the hearth, and looking forward to thawing his freezing hands by it.
The room had a few large armchairs and sofa, surrounding a low coffee table, laden with china and teapots, along with an old-fashioned cake stand, the fire at one end, casting a flickering light over the scene. In the corner stood a Christmas tree, decorated in twinkling white lights and red baubles and tinsel. It gave the room and old fashioned feel, and Lestrade smiled.
Around the walls were bookshelves, low sideboards and lamps, casting a cosy warm glow.
Lestrade glanced around, his gaze resting on a large painting which covered the entire chimneybreast.
He felt as if he'd stepped into a vacuum. All the breath in his lungs disappeared – the blood seemed to drain from his face. He almost gasped.
'Stupid boy – be quiet!' the voice barked. 'Did I tell you to move? Did I?'
He stood, head bowed, not daring to even look up. He didn't know what he'd done wrong – he very rarely did.
'Did I?' a strong hand grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, the heel of the hand pressed too hard against his throat.
'N…no,' he could barely speak, the pressure was too great.
'No what?' The voice had dropped to a vicious whisper.
'No, Sir,' he croaked, feeling the grip bruising his flesh.
The pressure was abruptly released, but the back of the hand struck him with a stinging blow – one or two of the gold rings hitting his cheekbone, sharp pain blossoming.
Everyone was sitting down, laughing, talking, the sound washing over him. He forced himself to step forward, unable to drag his attention from the painting. The severe gaze, staring down at him, seeing into his very soul, blue eyes in a stern, chubby, face tracking his every move.
He wanted to leave, he wanted to say no, but that wasn't an option. That wasn't the deal. He blinked away the tears, terrified that his hitching breath could be noticed, terrified of making any sound. He clenched his hands together in front of him, feeling a tear escape, run a tickling trail down his cheek and stop at the corner of his mouth. He dared to flick out the tip of his tongue, gathering the salty liquid, praying it wouldn't be spotted.
His hand found the arm of a chair, and he sank down onto it, sitting on the edge, his hands clasped together because he knew they would be shaking. He tried to breathe, to drag oxygen into his lungs, but the room was too hot, the smells were too strong. He felt bile rising in his throat, and swallowed it back down, mouth dry. He stared at the dark wood of the table, trying to focus, trying to function. Trying to drag himself into the present as the past pulled him inexorably back.
'Are they proud of you? Proud of what you've become?' The hand wrapped around the back of his neck kept his face pressed to the smooth wood. He was struggling to breathe – the gag in his mouth was sodden, the taste of washing powder strong in his mouth. The blood and snot in his nostrils made it impossible to do anything but try to suck in precious air around it.
'Not going to answer, you dirty whore?'
He couldn't move to shake his head, but he tried anyway. The pressure was let up very slightly, and he tried again, only for his face to be smashed into the desk again. He didn't understand, he didn't know what he could ever do that was the right answer.
"..ory?" A hand slid onto his knee and he jumped away, holding out his hand to protect himself, his heart beating wildly, before looking up to see Mycroft's worried face. Worried blue eyes. "Gregory? Would you like some tea? Are you…okay?"
He stared, eyes wide, trying to find the answer, trying to remember where he was. "No, I…no, thank you. I'm sorry, I…"
"You look white as a sheet, dear," Mrs Holmes had paused, teacup halfway to her lips. He stared at her, trying to piece together his shattered thoughts.
"I…It's a bit of a migraine," he managed, knowing he had to find some explanation. "I think, perhaps I should…" he made a vague gesture to the door, knowing he just had to get out, however he could.
"Oh, my poor dear. Daddy used to suffer from terrible migraines, didn't he, Mycroft?" She made a vague gesture up to the wall, where the man stared down upon them.
"Yes," Mycroft answered, sounding distracted, frowning at Lestrade. Brows pinched, lips a hard line. Lestrade couldn't help but let his eyes flick up to the painting again. The same frown. The same lips. "You do look a little pale, Gregory," the hand reached out again, and Lestrade could feel his eyes widening, his breathing speeding up. He shrank back, wanting to do nothing but curl up, away from everyone.
"Mycroft, show him up to your room. Gregory, you poor boy – you must lie down quietly – you should have said something sooner," she smiled benevolently. "There's plenty of time before dinner – go and rest."
'So, Boy? What do you have to say for yourself?'
He hated this – hated the questions. 'I…I don't know, Sir.'
'You're sorry!' the palm of the hand this time, hard on his cheek. 'I can see you need a lesson today.' And the handkerchief was removed from the pocket, shaken out, the crisp folds falling away. The material was rough on the corners of his mouth, and he couldn't help but let out a small grunt of pain as the knot was yanked tight behind his head, catching his hair.
He nodded, unable to find words.
"Come on," Mycroft reached out to help him up, but he ignored the hand, leaning on the arm of the chair, his muscles feeling like jelly, as if he'd just run a marathon. "This way," Mycroft picked up the bags in the hallway and waited as Lestrade began to climb the stairs, his muscles slow to respond, his limbs feeling as if there were lead weights tied to them.
When he reached the top of the stairs Mycroft led the way to the right, pushing open a door, heading into the room.
Lestrade let his hand trail over the wall, half supporting himself, fingers bumping over the wooden panelling.
He was on his knees, unbalanced, one hand found the edge of the drinks table, fingers gripping the wood to hold himself up. Every thrust smacked his skull back against the wall, the wood of the dado rail digging into him as he gagged and choked. Fingers twisted through his hair, forcing his head back. He could feel spit on his chin, sliding down onto his t-shirt, and he tried to swallow, tried to breathe.
"Here, lie down," Lestrade wanted to shake off the hand on his shoulder, the thumb pressing into his collarbone, but he couldn't, he was virtually paralysed with fear. He allowed himself to be propelled toward the bed, and sank down onto it as Mycroft walked away. A minute later he was back, a glass of water in his hands. "Here."
Lestrade took the water, his hand visibly shaking. He quickly wrapped his other hand around it, resting them on his legs. "Thank you," he mumbled.
'Pardon, Boy?'
'Thank you, Sir,' he mumbled, lips swollen.
'Better.'
He didn't dare look up. He'd learnt the hard way that it would do him no good to move before he was told to.
"Shall I stay? Are you okay? I can turn the lights off," Mycroft hitched up his trousers and hunkered down in front of Lestrade, looking up at him, reaching to cover his hands.
"No, I mean, I'll just…have a rest," he said quietly. "I'll be fine." He moved to put the glass down, dislodging Mycroft's touch.
"You do look dreadfully pale," Mycroft moved to touch Lestrade's cheek as he stood.
Lestrade shied away from the touch, just stopping himself from throwing up an arm to ward off the contact. "I'll be okay," he said again, at least as much to convince himself as to convince Mycroft.
Mycroft sighed.
"You should go back down – your Mum will be missing you," Lestrade said quietly, turning away.
"I…I'll come back up, to check you're okay," Mycroft said, then paused for a few seconds before turning and leaving the room, pulling the door closed.
Lestrade's hands gripped the edge of the mattress; knuckles white, and tried to control his shaky breaths.
The door closed almost silently, and he finally allowed himself to sniff, a sob breaking free from his throat as he moved. It had been worse today – he'd hoped that the sunny summer's day would bring out the best in the man – hoped he'd get off lightly. But he'd been in a foul mood. Lestrade could still taste blood and semen in his mouth. He picked himself up, the muscles in his neck stiff and sore, his jaw throbbing, and stumbled to the water jug. His hands shook as he poured some into the heavy crystal glass, and he drank it greedily, feeling the water overflow from his mouth and drip down his shirt. He refilled it as soon as he'd drunk, gasping for air, and swallowed it all down again. He put the glass back, hoping it wouldn't be noticed until he was out again, then dropped back to the floor. Everything told him to get out and run, but he knew he couldn't escape. He hadn't been told he could go, and to disobey would be dangerous. He heard footsteps outside in the hallway and dropped his gaze back to the rich, thick carpet, not daring to look up as the door swung open again.
He rolled onto his side, bunching the cover up in his fists, burying his face in it, and let the tears flow, the gasping sobs muffled in the heavy fabric. He couldn't believe the nightmare he'd walked into. All he had wanted was a pleasant Christmas, with Mycroft being able to relax, away from work. And now he was ruining it – he was spoiling everything. He took a deep, shuddering gasp, trying to swallow back the tears and emotion. He had to be strong. He was a different person now – he was a professional, a police officer. He had a good relationship…and the thought made more tears well up in his eyes, spilling over, running hot and sticky over his skin, leaving salted trails, wetting the pillow beneath his cheek. He curled up, as tight as he could, fists and jaw clenched, trying to regain control. He heard a noise and his eyes snapped open, staring into the gloom. He could hear the slight muffle of voices, and presumed his room was above the Drawing Room. He lay, unmoving, staring into the darkness, seeing only his memories as they played through his head.
'Here,' he smiled, holding out the package wrapped in a newspaper, watching the expression on Danny's face.
'You…you didn't 'ave to do that, Frenchie.' But he'd smiled, and taken the package. 'I didn't…'
Lestrade waved a hand. 'You're doing the washing up then.'
The gift had been ripped open, to reveal The Clash's new record. Lestrade knew that Danny loved the band, and their record player was sadly underused – their collection only numbering a few tatty old specimens.
'Thanks, Frenchie,' Danny had stood up, and hugged him.
He had hugged back, determined that today – their one day of freedom from work and the world in general, would be good.
They had eaten chicken and vegetables, neither of them really any good in the kitchen, but both determined to try their best and make the most of what they had.
That evening, lounging on their sofa together, blankets pulled over them to ward off the cold, because neither of them had money for the meter, watching an old film on the black and white television, Lestrade had been sure it was the best Christmas of his life.
There was a gentle knock on his door and he jumped, but didn't respond, feeling himself shaking with fear. Then the door opened, a shaft of light spilling into the room. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when it was Watson's figure that appeared.
"Lestrade? Mycroft was worried. Are you awake?" he said softly.
"Yeah," Lestrade answered, his voice sounding croaky and broken.
"Mrs Holmes found these - painkillers. You should probably take a couple, see if it makes a difference," Watson approached the bed.
"Yeah, thanks," he sat up, pushing a hand through his hair, trying to act normally - trying to be normal, when he felt anything but.
"Co-codamol. Have you had them before? They're fairly strong. You're not allergic to anything, are you?"
Lestrade shook his head and took the offered bottle. "I've had them before, they'll be fine."
"Right, good. And how are you feeling now? Bit worrying the headache came on that suddenly - is that normal for you? Do you get migraines often?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Not very, but they're usually sudden," he lied. "Feeling a bit better, thanks."
"Well take a couple of those - they might make you a bit sleepy, bit woozy. But they should do the trick. And give us a shout if you need anything."
Lestrade nodded, taking a deep breath, determined to push away the thoughts fighting to be heard in his mind.
Watson left the room again and Lestrade reached for the bedside lamp, flicking it on. He looked down at the bottle in his hand. It rattled slightly, but was heavy with pills. For a moment the thought of taking them all leapt into his head, but he pushed it away. He was strong enough to cope. He had to be.
TBC...
Part Two