Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 2/6 + Epilogue
TITLE: Haunted 2/6 + 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 Christmas. 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.
Part One
The smell of cooking was wafting up the stairs, and Lestrade felt his stomach roiling. Normally he would have been hungry, but now tension ran through every muscle in his body, his throat feeling as if it were closing up. He stood, having no clue how long he'd been away from the others, but feeling as if he should put in an appearance, before they started really worrying. He took two of the pills, despite not having a headache, hoping they had some calming effect on him, then padded silently to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes and dark stubble about summed up how he felt. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he hoped he could put it down to the headache.
'Jesus, Frenchie, look at you.'
He shied away from Danny's touch, but Danny wasn't that easy to put off.
'Come 'ere, let me at least get a wet flannel on that eye. Christ, looks like you've gone a couple of rounds with Ali. Which bastard did this?'
''S okay,' he said, jumping slightly as the cold wet flannel was pressed against his black eye. 'Just got a bit rough.'
'A bit? You should be more careful. Who d'you think's gonna want you looking like this - it'll lose you tricks. How's your teeth, not missing none of them?'
He shook his head.
'Thank fuck for that. You gotta take care of yourself, Frenchie, cos no other bastard'll do it for you. You can't let one punter ruin you for the week. Hope he paid well.'
Lestrade nodded, knowing that Danny was right - but also knowing he didn't have a choice. Saying 'no' just wasn't an option. He dug in his pocket and removed the folded notes, holding them out.
Danny counted them and grunted, 'Well, it's something. Don't make it okay though, Frenchie. You still gotta have boundaries, or you can lose yourself to this shit.'
He turned away, drying his face on a fluffy, warm, towel, taking a deep, shuddering breath and steeling himself for what was to come.
He slipped back into the drawing room, giving Mycroft a small smile and nodding at Watson. He focused on the fire, determined not to look up at the painting.
"Gregory, dear, are you feeling better? You've certainly got a bit more colour in your face now, hasn't he Mycroft?"
Lestrade sat on the edge of the sofa, next to Mycroft, and forced himself not to react when Mycroft's hand found his and gave it a squeeze.
"Yes, thank you. A lot better," he said, desperately hoping his voice didn't sound as odd to everyone else as it did to his own ears.
"Good - those little pills are wonderful. Now, it isn't long until dinner, but you must have a cup of tea, if you'd like one? Daddy used to say that a nice cup of tea solved most problems, didn't he boys?" she smiled.
Lestrade forced himself to smile. "Thank you, that'd be great."
Mycroft immediately moved to pour the teapot, making it just how Lestrade liked it. Lestrade focussed on his actions, battling internally for control. He accepted the cup, holding it tightly, flashing a small smile at Mycroft.
He sipped the tea, not tasting it. The conversation carried on around him, and although he tried to keep track of it all he could think of was the painting, staring down at him. He kept his gaze fixed down, his shoulders hunched, wishing he were anywhere else. Wishing he'd never agreed to come.
"Gregory?" A hand on his arm made him jump.
"Sorry, yeah - yes?" He had no idea how long he'd zoned out for, or what he'd missed.
"Your tea will be getting cold," Mycroft said softly. "Mummy was just asking how long you'd worked at Scotland Yard."
"Oh, um, ten years, now. Started out with the Kidnap Unit, then moved to murder a few years later."
"And that's how you met my boys, isn't it?" she beamed. "They're so clever, both of them."
'Can't answer the simplest questions. Too stupid to even try! No wonder you're earning a living on the streets, what employer would have you? Hopeless in school I presume. My sons are intelligent – both excelling in their studies. Any father would be proud of them. How can your father be proud of you?'
He didn't know if he was allowed to answer, so he looked up, trying to work it out.
'Well?' The slap was hard, snapping his head to one side.
'He's dead,' he mumbled.
'What?' The voice – and anger – was rising.
'He's dead, Sir,' he said, realising his mistake, forcing his resentment down.
'Dead? Thank heaven for small mercies. At least he doesn't have to know you make a living on your knees. Although I doubt he was much better – the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?'
The dinner seemed excellent – Lestrade tried to take an interest in the conversations, but his mind constantly wandered – and he pushed most of the food around on his plate, eating just enough to seem polite, tasting nothing, not feeling any hunger.
Sherlock and his mother were discussing something about science, Mycroft listening in, and even Watson putting forth opinions and ideas. He hadn't heard enough to guess what exactly they were talking about – and he doubted he'd understand even if he had. It just made him feel more isolated – more out of place, his own education hard won, and now surrounded by people who all sailed through university, collecting qualifications as if they were free toys from breakfast cereal packets.
On the wall of the dining room was another picture – a photograph of the family. Once he would have taken a certain amount of delight in seeing a very young Mycroft and Sherlock – Sherlock barely more than a toddler in the image, his hair a riot of curls. Now he couldn't even look at it. If there had been any doubt in his mind that the man in the painting was the man he'd suffered abuse from for two long years, it was removed with the photograph. He was exactly as Lestrade remembered – hawkish eyes, never missing a thing, the same superior air, the way of looking down his nose at everything. Overweight, but not massively, just enough to give him slight jowls and pudgy fingers. Still strong, though - deceptively so. He shuddered slightly.
That evening everyone retired to the Drawing Room again. Lestrade sat for a few minutes, one leg tucked underneath himself, the sleeves of his jumpers pulled over his hands. The fire was still roaring away in the hearth, but nothing could shift the cold he felt inside. His fingers unconsciously found the two-inch scar on his left arm. He could just feel the slight knot in the skin, even through the material of his top. He rubbed at it, a small nervous movement, tracing it over and over. He could feel the gazes that Mycroft and Watson were casting his way, and in the end he stood.
"I'm, er, going to turn in – still feeling a bit…woozy," he gave Watson a small smile. "I'll see you the morning – thanks for a lovely dinner, Mrs Holmes."
"Oh, it was nothing, dear," she smiled. "You get off and have an early night – I'm sure it'll do you the world of good."
He nodded, catching Mycroft's eye and trying to express some form of apology in his gaze, knowing that he was the one dragging the atmosphere down. Mycroft just gave a small nod. "I shall be up shortly," he stated.
Lestrade climbed the stairs, feet dragging. He felt totally wrung out – the effort of keeping his thoughts and emotions in check for hours had left him utterly knackered. He glanced up at another picture, this one hanging at the top of the stairs, in pride of place. And he reeled backwards – almost falling back down the stairs.
Mycroft and his father – obviously at Mycroft's graduation. But what struck him were the identical expressions on their faces. The slightly haughty, serious expression, the mirroring of positions – Mycroft in his robes, holding a scroll in one hand, the other tucked into the front of his gown. His father, dressed in a three-piece suit, hand resting just inside the jacket. Both of them looking down slightly at the camera, their poses commanding, imperious.
Lestrade managed to find the wall, to guide himself along the corridor, shutting the bathroom door behind him and making it to the toilet before throwing up, his muscles heaving, long after his stomach was empty. He wiped a shaking hand across his mouth, slumping back onto the floor, his back against the side of the bath.
'Won't be able to do this forever, will you? Won't keep your looks. What'll you do then, eh?'
'Don't know, Sir,' he mumbled.
'Too stupid to think that far ahead, I suppose.'
'Yes, Sir,' he answered. There wasn't any point in arguing.
A strong hand slid through his dark wavy hair, grabbing it, pulling his head back. He bit back a hiss of pain.
'You're lucky, aren't you, that you've got someone like me? Willing to pay for what little talent you have.'
He wasn't really sure it was a question, but it was better to answer it than ignore it. 'Yes, Sir.'
'Say it – say you're lucky.'
'I'm…lucky, Sir,' he ground out.
He nodded, approving. 'Now on your knees.'
He hugged his legs up to his chest, hiding his face in his arms as he tried to choke down the tears, the sobs that were wrenching from his lungs.
'I'm so lucky to have you,' the voice was soft, a smile evident in the tone.
'Lucky to have you too, Myc,' he stroked the leg he could reach, turning his head where it was resting on Mycroft's stomach. Except it wasn't Mycroft's face, not any more. He jumped, trying to push himself away, but the hand which had been resting on his chest moved fast as lightening, wrapping around his throat, and the fingers which had been gently stroking through his hair twisted cruelly.
His head shot up, needing to open his eyes, to cleanse the image from his mind – but it was burned there. After all he'd done, after everything he'd achieved, to get away from his younger self, to leave behind every aspect of that life, he had failed in the most spectacular way. He could remember every time that Mycroft had held his wrists, or pressed him up against the wall, every tug on his clothing to pull him close, every possessive gesture…and none of them seemed the same now. Every time he had sensed Mycroft's jealousy, or saw his anger – it wasn't Mycroft now. It was the man whose expressions he shared. Lestrade was terrified of finding out what else they shared.
And it was all his fault – somehow his twisted mind had managed to fall for the replica of the man who had almost ruined his life. He supposed that said a lot about him, that he worked with a man who belittled him at every chance, and slept with a man who was the image of the most sadistic person he'd ever met.
He wanted to run – to get up, get out of the house and run and never stop. Leave everything behind. Leave Gregory bloody Lestrade behind, and become someone else. Someone who wasn't making such a fucking mess of their life. He wiped his sleeve over his face, smearing the tears over his cheeks.
'No,' he shook his head, turning away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He heard the purr of the car, as it followed him. He didn't look around.
'What makes you think you have the option to refuse?' a voice called out, calm, assured.
'Get fucked, Mister,' he called, turning up another road. The car remained next to him.
'Ah, such eloquence. Perhaps it would help if I told you that I could have you arrested – I could have you charged with all the unsolved crimes in London, if I chose to.'
'Yeah, if you like,' he kept walking, refusing to look around, staring down at the pavement instead. 'Probably have you done and all, if I got 'em to look in on that club at the right moment.'
'Ah, we turn to threats. Well, if that's the way you wish to play it, Boy, then I can quite easily arrange for your…friend, Daniel, to meet with an unfortunate…accident.'
He hoped the man hadn't noticed that he'd nearly turned to look at him then – how did he know about Danny? He felt a coldness gripping his insides.
'We can look after ourselves, Mister. Toff like you can't harm us. Not here, not on our patch. Ain't the same as when it's just you an' me.'
The car had smoothly slid away, and he'd stopped to watch it. As soon as it turned the corner he ran, ran back to their spot, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Danny sitting on the wall, swinging his legs and drinking a can of Coke.
'All right, Frenchie?' he'd grinned, and he'd sat down next to him, stealing a swig of drink. The toff was all mouth, he was sure. Bloke like that might play the bully when they were alone, but it was a different game, out in public, on the street.
He arrived home late that evening, in a good mood. He had a bag of steaming fish and chips in one hand, bought cheap because it was the final pieces of the day, and the owner had wanted rid of them. He was whistling the tune that had been playing on the radio in the chippy, and called for Danny to eat before it got cold.
Then he saw the bloodstained t-shirt on the floor. He almost took the bathroom door off its hinges as he crashed through it, finding Danny inside, trying to stop his bleeding nose, one eye almost swollen closed.
'What the fuck?'
'Dunno, couple of 'em just jumped me, at the end of the road. Bastards. Like they was waiting for me. Didn't even try an' take my cash, just fuckin' gave me a pasting.'
He could barely breathe, his chest tightening, cold clenching at his heart. He pushed back out of the tiny room, stumbled as far as the kitchen sink and threw up.
He felt tears welling in his eyes again – the memories so fresh he felt as if he were reliving the moments.
The car slid up to the curb and the man sat in it, motionless, not even looking at him. He dropped off the wall and walked to it, hating himself, hating the man inside, hating Danny for being so kind to him, for making him care.
He slumped into the passenger seat.
'Glad to see that you got my message,' the man said, shifting the car into gear.
He dragged himself to his feet, using the bathroom quickly and crossing the landing without looking at the photograph. He stripped down to his boxers and huddled himself in the bed, the cover held tightly in his fists, as far to one side of the mattress as he could. His eyes were wide in the darkness.
He was still wide-awake when he heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. His body tensed. He heard the soft scuff of feet on the carpet, the sound of water. Each noise a step closer to the inevitable. Every fibre of Lestrade's being wanted to run, to get out, get away. But he couldn't. He could barely breathe.
Finally the door swung open, the wedge of bright light splashing across the ceiling and the far wall, then dimming as the door was pushed closed. Mycroft obviously didn't need the light on to know his way around. The rustle of clothing, the sound of him breathing, the rush and thump of his own heart beating – all the sounds seemed unbelievably loud to him.
Then the mattress dipped, and for the first time he squeezed his eyes closed, as if he could will himself away.
"Greg?" the voice was so soft, almost a whisper. He had no idea what to do – pretend to be asleep, or acknowledge him. Then a hand slid over his hip and around his waist. Hot breath on his neck. He jumped slightly at the touch. "How are you feeling?"
Lips nuzzled into the hair behind his ear, and he tried to force himself to relax – it was Mycroft, who'd never done him any harm, never been anything but gracious and loving and kind toward him. "Okay," he managed to say.
"Still have that migraine?" The backs of Mycroft's fingers were stroking down his spine.
"Yeah," his voice seemed hoarse.
"Mummy's worried about you," he continued. "She hopes you'll feel better in the morning – she seems to like you."
He could feel Mycroft's hand sliding up, over his stomach and to his chest. His warm body moving closer, shifting until Mycroft was wrapped around him, chest to his back, spooned together.
He focussed on breathing; on counting each drag of air in, each exhale through his nose. He couldn't move, couldn't escape.
"Are you cold?" Mycroft murmured. "You feel like you're shivering."
It took him a few seconds to swallow and make an attempt to control his voice. "'M okay."
Mycroft shifted again, and Lestrade couldn't help but jump again. The hand on his chest shifted, sliding around and gently kneading his shoulder muscles, then the back of his neck.
'Is this what you want?' The pain was ripping through him, each thrust worse than the last. 'You'd rather this? When you say no to me, and go and whore yourself to other men – selling your body, this is what you'd rather do?'
He had no idea what the man was using on him – just that it was cold, hard and big. The wood and leather of the desk was cool under his chest and stomach. His wrists were tied too tightly, and his arms forced upward, almost vertical, feeling as if his shoulders could pop at any minute. The man was reaching through his arms, keeping them in place, and resting his weight on the hand at the back of his neck, forcing his face into the desk. He was completely helpless.
'IS IT?' the man was shouting, and he could feel the slight flecks of spit on his skin of his bare back.
'N…no, Sir,' his breathing was ragged, punctuated by sounds that the pain ripped from him.
'So you won't even think of saying 'no' to me again?'
'No, Sir,' and he'd say anything now, to make the pain stop. There was one last, vicious thrust, and suddenly the object was removed – and it hurt just as much, but then it was over, and he could feel the muscles in his legs cramping, they'd been tensed for so long. And he was released from all holds, his bound wrists grabbed as he was dragged back off the desk, his damp sweaty skin catching on the smooth polish of the wood. He fell – crumpled – to the floor, his breath hitching in pain as his arse hit the carpet. Before he could get his breath back he heard the sound of a zip, close to his head.
He had to move, his breathing ragged, his limbs shaking. He swung his legs out of the bed, sitting up, the cover pooling around the small of his back.
"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, resting his head in his hand, digging his fingers and thumb into his eyes, pushing away the moisture. "I…I just…" he let out a huff of breath, trying to calm himself enough to make a coherent sentence. "I just need to be…alone. I…I'm sorry."
He could swear he felt the heat as Mycroft's hand hovered over his back – almost touching him, but then withdrew.
"What's the matter?" Mycroft was moving now, the mattress shifting under him, the covers pulling away slightly. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet, approaching him. His tone unbearably concerned.
"Nothing, nothing, just…" and he could feel a sob welling up inside him, so he clamped it down, clenching his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed.
"Should I fetch John? Please – Greg?" There was a new sound – the drag of chair legs over carpet, and Mycroft was sitting, a few feet from him. Lestrade didn't look up, just focussed on the bare feet sticking out from the pale blue pyjama bottoms.
"No, I'm sorry," it came out as a whisper. "I'll be fine."
"I…I'll go and sleep in the Blue Room. It's just at the end of the corridor, the last door on this side. Please, fetch me if you need me – you will, won't you?"
Lestrade nodded.
"And…" Mycroft's hand hovered for a second, as if he desperately wanted to reach out. But he didn’t, the hand instead reaching up, out of Lestrade's vision, presumably to rub his face or push through his hair. "I didn't mean this to be stressful for you – I should have thought."
Lestrade remained still and quiet, not trusting his voice to answer.
Mycroft waited for a moment, then stood and made his way out of the room.
Lestrade let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and let the tears flow silently.
TBC...
Part Three