Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 3/6 + Epilogue
TITLE: Haunted 3/6 + 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
Part Two
He heard the first movement downstairs long before the sun rose. He presumed it was the cook or her husband, preparing the food and fires for the day ahead. His eyes were gritty and sore, and he was tired, but sleep refused to come. He lay, wrapped in the duvet, holding it close around himself and waited, trying not to think about the day ahead. As soon as the sun touched the whispy clouds, casting a soft pink glow over their edges, he dragged himself out of bed. He'd snatched bare minutes of broken sleep, nightmares and memories plaguing his mind, tangling and intermingling, only broken by the clock downstairs dutifully chiming out the hours. He dug around in his bag and pulled out his jogging gear, dressing quickly before carrying his trainers to the bathroom and swiftly using it. He crept down the stairs, not wanting to see anyone, and found his way to the back door. The cook smiled at him as he went through the kitchen.
"Morning, Sir, Merry Christmas to you."
He forced a smile. "And to you."
Once outside his breath billowed around him, the cold immediately pinching at his face. He began walking, his feet crunching loudly on the thick frost. He stretched for the bare minimum, not wanting to be still, wanting to move and run and clear his head. He had no idea where he was going, but headed for the road, certain he could find paths and tracks to follow. He set a punishing pace, the cold air burning in his lungs and throat, making his eyes water as the wind hit them. He could feel the moisture of his breath condensing and threatening to freeze on his face. The going was rough as he ran down a muddy track – the frozen ground now as hard as iron. He pushed on, taking in the stark landscape, almost monochrome with the ice and soil, the odd tree standing out, skeletal against the sky. His hands were cold, and he wished he'd remembered gloves, but he pulled his sleeves over his knuckles and kept going. He ran through fields, vaulting stiles and gates in his path whenever he could, hating having to stop to negotiate the few he couldn't. Finally he came upon a small spinney, and with his leg and chest muscles burning he stopped, leaning over, panting for breath. He flopped to the ground, tucking his feet under the bottom rung of a gate, linking his fingers behind his head and started sit-ups, counting them out loud as he did so, ignoring the muscles in his stomach as they screamed for mercy, revelling in the pain and the effort, pushing himself harder and harder.
He could remember when he was a new recruit – training to be on the force. He'd been so proud – so determined. He'd started running then, revelling in the freedom it gave him, the chance to get away from everyone and think. He'd been fitter then than ever before in his life – he'd found a place to belong, a family, of sorts. And he was determined to be the best he could, and make his superiors proud.
Now he just wanted the pain, wanted the burning, wanted it to blank everything else out.
His muscles shook as he managed the last sit-up. He allowed himself a few moments to catch his breath, then turned, his hands pushing into the crisp grass, and began doing push ups, grunting with the effort, feeling the cold of the earth rob his hands of heat and then feeling. He wished for the same for the rest of his body and mind - he would welcome the complete numbness now. Eventually he couldn't push his arms straight – the muscles shook, then he dropped onto the cold ground, eyes squeezed closed.
He staggered to his feet, leaning on the gate, then set off again, a slow trot at first, but continually upping the pace. He completed a circuit of the woods, meeting only one lone dog walker, and then thought he'd probably been out for too long already, and didn't know how long it would take him to get back to the house.
Mycroft slipped silently from his bed and walked along the corridor. His hand paused over the door handle, and he moved it to knock on the wood instead.
There was no answer, so he twisted the doorknob, not entering, but calling out in a soft voice. "Greg? It's me – can I come in?"
The lack of answer worried him, so he stepped into the room. The bed was empty, covers twisted and pushed aside. He took swift steps into the room, quickly cataloguing the bag – still there, still packed, the pills and water, untouched on the bedside table. He pulled his dressing gown further around him, looking for any indication of where Lestrade could have gone. The clothes he had worn the day before – dark blue jeans and a heavy woollen jumper with a zip at the neck – were still on the back of the chair. The bag had been moved – clothes inside it no longer neatly folded, as if something had been pulled from it, with no regard to the other packing.
He turned and headed out of the room, down the stairs. Once downstairs he glanced into the Drawing Room and Library, then the Dining Room, even though he thought it very unlikely anyone would go there. Finally he headed to the kitchen.
"Good morning, Mister Holmes," the cook smiled, and reached for a kiss on the cheek, as she always did. "And Happy Christmas to you."
"Happy Christmas to you, too," Mycroft said – manners overruling even his urgent need to know where Lestrade was. "I was wondering if you'd seen G…Mr Lestrade," he asked, hoping he didn't sound as worried as he felt.
"Yes, he was up with the lark this morning, Mister Holmes. Wearing his keep fit clothes, although I think he should have been better bundled up – vicious cold it is this morning."
Mycroft felt a little of the tension in his chest relax – Lestrade often ran when he had a particularly difficult case. It would hopefully do him good, and presumably meant he was feeling a bit better, too. "Right, yes, thank you," he smiled.
"Breakfast is laid out, Sir, as soon as you'd like," she said. "Just give the word and I'll have some bacon put on, and the other hot food."
"Thank you," Mycroft smiled. He could remember when he was a young boy, back home from boarding school, and Cook spoiled him rotten.
A noise made him turn, and he saw Sherlock trailing into the kitchen, clad in only his ratty old dressing gown. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, Sherlock, could you not have found something more…" he waved a hand. "Suitable?"
Sherlock gave him a blank stare. "I'm surprised you've come downstairs improperly dressed yourself," he said, deadpan. "Your standards must be slipping."
"Master Sherlock," Cook interrupted, and got a kiss on her cheek from Sherlock, although his gaze never left Mycroft. "Happy Christmas to you."
Sherlock waved a hand, not returning the greeting.
"Where's Lestrade?" he asked.
Mycroft felt the tension returning. "He's gone for a jog," he answered, turning to leave the room.
"You should have gone with him," Sherlock said, and when Mycroft spun to answer, Sherlock stared pointedly at his stomach.
Mycroft left without a word, not in the mood to deal with Sherlock's childish insults, and headed upstairs to dress for the day, passing Watson on the stairs.
He washed and dressed, putting on a smart suit ready for church, and went downstairs to wait for everyone else to make themselves ready.
His mother walked into the dining room and glanced over them all, then pinned Mycroft with a glare. "Is Gregory not joining us for church?" she asked, obviously not happy with the prospect.
"I...didn't tell him, and he's gone out for a run. I've no idea how long he'll be," Mycroft answered. "I'm sorry, I..."
His Mother waved a hand, dismissing the excuse. "It really isn't on. But can't be helped. If he returns he shall just have to miss breakfast and hurry into his smart clothes."
Mycroft nodded. It hadn't occurred to him the night before that Lestrade might head out early - or to explain to him the usual sequence of events for the household on Christmas day.
They walked along the frosty lanes to the nearby church, greeting other families and locals as they went. Their Mother, knew everyone, and they frequently stopped to be introduced before finally making it inside the church.
Mycroft hated singing, but he joined in, and was glad that Watson did too, although no amount of glaring and nudging from his mother cold persuade Sherlock to do the same.
As they walked back to the house, nearly an hour later, once they had once again run the gauntlet of locals, and been forced to make small talk with the vicar, Mycroft scanned the ground for signs of Lestrade's trainers. There was nothing - not even scuffs in the frost on the driveway.
Once he had changed and headed back downstairs he became caught up in the usual family rituals, his attention constantly drawn to the windows, waiting to see Lestrade heading back to the house. His wandering attention wasn't going unnoticed, he knew, and he fought to keep some sort of control.
"Will Gregory be joining us for lunch?" his mother asked, sounding slightly peeved.
"I believe so," Mycroft answered, his gaze wandering back to the window and the bleak white landscape beyond. "I expect he's lost track of time." He gave her the sort of smile he usually reserved for foreign diplomats.
"Well, really, Mycroft," she admonished. "It's hardly the thing, on Christmas morning."
She lifted her teacup to her lips, still managing to scowl.
"He, um – Gregory – he hasn't had an easy…life," he finished, glaring at Sherlock, who was giving him a surprised look.
"Oh dear," his mother answered, not sounding particularly worried.
"Really, Mycroft, airing Lestrade's dirty linen in public, not the done thing, is it?" Sherlock put on a shocked expression.
Mycroft shot him an angry look.
"He grew up in care, Mother. He hasn't ever really had a family Christmas before – I just think…it's all a little overwhelming for him."
Watson was looking interested, if a little surprised, Sherlock kept up his complete indifference, and his mother, finally, was looking as if she might even forgive Lestrade for his current absence.
Finally he saw a figure, dressed in familiar grey and dark blue, jogging up the path. His heart felt as if it skipped a beat, and he could see Lestrade was worn out – feet trudging, although he was still jogging, still moving. A few minutes later there was the sound of footsteps in the halls, and then a heavy tread on the stairs. He looked up to find himself pinned between the glare of his mother and the cold calculating gaze of Sherlock.
Lestrade knew he'd pushed too hard. His legs were shaky with fatigue and he still had a long way to go. He knew he'd be okay if he could just make it through the next few days, and get back to London. Away from the house, from the pictures. Back to his life – his life now, his work. And Mycroft. He had to hold it together, and he had to somehow get over the memories and remind himself that Mycroft was a kind, loving man. Who signed away lives on a daily basis. But he couldn't think about that – he had to remember the Mycroft he knew, the one who was kind and slightly awkward and far too British and stuffy sometimes. Just like the man had been, until…and how did he know what Mycroft got up to, when he was late home or away for days? The stress of Mycroft's job was obvious – how did he know what other release valves he had? He didn't suppose the harmless old woman in the house knew her husband had been beating up rentboys and fucking their mouths whilst shouting abuse at them, either. He pushed harder, choking back new tears. He just had to hold it together. He'd managed this far; he'd managed for years. This was just a few days. He'd managed more than two years of strangers using him any way they pleased, and he'd always found a way of getting through it, of ignoring his surroundings and focussing. Just like he did when there was a body at his feet and a ruined life and he had to catch the killer and not dwell on the victim. He could do it. He didn't have a choice.
He was almost dead on his feet by the time the gateposts came into sight. He made his way to the back door, catching his breath, his chest aching, muscles trembling as he finally entered the house, the heat like a furnace after the freezing air. He pulled himself up the stairs and grabbed the towel from his room, heading straight to the shower.
The water was too hot on his chilled skin, making his freezing hands and feet burn and tingle. He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his palms, then lathered up his hair and body, quickly, economically. But he remained under the hot spray, hoping the water would help his tired muscles.
Eventually he turned off the water and dragged a towel over his hair, then wrapped it around his waist. He gathered his clothes and padded down the hallway to his room. When he pushed the door open he froze.
Mycroft turned from where he had been gazing out of the window.
"Ah, good morning. And happy Christmas. I hope you're feeling better?"
Lestrade gave a jerky nod, and before Mycroft had got two steps toward him he quickly walked to the bed – putting it firmly between them, and dropped the bundle of clothes.
"I...I feel terrible, that all this is causing you such distress," Mycroft began, approaching Lestrade. "I never meant it to be unpleasant for you. I imagined you'd enjoy spending a real family Christmas here - you are, after all, part of the family now."
Lestrade nodded, unable to organise his thoughts enough to say anything.
"Perhaps I should have explained our traditions slightly better - it was a little thoughtless of you to disappear for such a time on Christmas morning, though. Mummy does like it if we all eat breakfast together, she was disappointed."
Lestrade stood, paralysed, as Mycroft stepped forward, arms open, and wrapped him in a hug. He didn't move, didn't return it, just kept one arm up, in front of him, close to his chest, the other clinging onto the towel. He felt lips in his hair, pressing a kiss above his ear and he fought for control - to regulate his breathing and prevent himself from trying to break free of the hold. It was Mycroft, no one else - the man had never done this, never held him gently. Nothing he'd ever done had been gentle.
Mycroft released the hold, and Lestrade found himself staring at their feet - Mycroft's in smart shoes, his own bare. "Now, if you dress we shall go down and sit with everyone, before lunch, okay?"
"Yes, Sir," Lestrade mumbled.
Mycroft frowned. "Pardon?"
Lestrade realised his mistake and squeezed his eyes closed for a second. "Yes, sure, I'll just..." he waved a hand at his bag.
"Good," Mycroft beamed.
For some reason Lestrade expected him to leave, but he didn't, just walked back to the window, looking out over the garden below. And why shouldn't he, Lestrade thought - they'd been dressing in front of each other for years now - it would have been more unusual if Mycroft had left. But now Lestrade's nakedness made him feel utterly vulnerable. He quickly rubbed himself down with the towel and grabbed a selection of clothes, slipping on his boxers and jeans and feeling slightly safer.
Watson glanced up as he crossed the hallway, and saw Lestrade and Mycroft walking down the stairs. He spotted their linked hands and smiled, glad that Lestrade had apparently overcome whatever had been bothering him the day before. Then he caught sight of the look in Lestrade's eyes - he'd seen similar expressions before, on the battlefields of Afghanistan, when injured soldiers feared for their lives. He swallowed, glancing at Mycroft, who looked his usual calm self, and when he glanced back at Lestrade the look was gone, Lestrade now looking downwards, his dark eyes just holding the slight sadness they always seemed to. Watson frowned, and when he returned to the Drawing Room, where Lestrade and Mycroft were now sitting on the sofa, he kept a close eye on Lestrade.
The DI was unusually quiet - a stark contrast with how he had been on the train on their journey to the house. Watson wondered what had changed - he had thought Lestrade was genuinely looking forward to the chance to spend time with Mycroft, but now he looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. He had curled up on the end of the sofa, one leg tucked underneath him, shoulders hunched, and his right hand was constantly worrying a place on his forearm. Watson looked at Mycroft, who was in conversation with his mother - he seemed perfectly normal, almost oblivious to Lestrade's obvious discomfort. A horrible thought began to form in Watson's mind - he had seen people acting like Lestrade before - the body language, the need to get away from others, the denial of anything being wrong. But in the main it had been army wives, cowed to their husbands' wishes, terrified of putting a foot wrong, for fear of reprisal. He couldn't imagine that Mycroft would ever dare threaten Lestrade - and nor could he believe Lestrade would ever stand for it, but it would, he thought, explain a lot. He'd met more than one squaddy who was fearless on the battlefield, yet completely under control of a fearsome wife at home, too ashamed to leave or admit the problem to friends, too terrified of violence or a life of loneliness to confront it. He vowed to get a chance to talk to Lestrade on his own.
But first they had to get through lunch - which was wonderful. Watson couldn't remember ever having goose before, and enjoyed it - as Mycroft obviously did. Sherlock and Lestrade both picked half-heartedly at theirs, and Watson remembered Lestrade not really eating much the night before either. In fact, the more he looked at the man, the worse state he seemed to be in. Bloodshot eyes, with dark circles under them, hair even more disordered than usual. If Watson didn't know better he'd say Lestrade was coming to the tail end of a difficult murder case - not enjoying a family holiday.
Watson tried to make up for the lack of conversation from Lestrade, but was careful not to drag Lestrade into the conversation with any clumsy direct questions, too. He did wonder why Sherlock - not famous for his tact - hadn't said anything. Usually he would be the first person to drag a sensitive topic out into the open - usually to the detriment of whoever was suffering.
When dinner was over Lestrade helped carry the dishes and utensils out to the kitchen and load the dishwasher. Watson hoped to get a word with him alone, but there was never the opportunity, with people coming and going, fetching and carrying tea and coffee as well as stacking and sorting through the dirty crockery. It was apparent that Cook and now done her duties, and was off until the twenty-seventh - leaving them all to fend for themselves on Boxing Day, eating leftovers and things she'd left for them in the fridge.
As they settled to watch the Queen's speech on television Watson noted Lestrade helping himself to a large mug of black coffee, wrapping his hands around it and curling up on the end of the sofa again. It was clear his attention wasn't on her Majesty, as he stared downward, seemingly at nothing. Watson managed to catch Sherlock's eye and give a pointed look toward the DI, but Sherlock gave the barest minimum of shrugs and raised his eyebrows in a silent message that he was as clueless as Watson was.
At the end of the speech Mycroft stood, brushing invisible dust from his perfect suit. "A walk, then?" he said, and it was obviously another tradition as his mother and Sherlock both immediately set about readying themselves.
Sherlock's mother managed to ensnare both her sons and walk arm in arm with them, so Watson took the chance to drop back and walk next to Lestrade, who was trudging along, gaze firmly on the ground in front of him.
"Any more headaches?" he asked.
"What? No." Lestrade shook his head. "Fine now, thanks."
"I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you don't seem to be...enjoying yourself much," Watson said, quietly to ensure the Holmeses ahead couldn't overhear.
The smile that crossed Lestrade's face was more a wry twist of the lips than a real grin.
"I hope you don't...Mycroft said, at breakfast, that maybe you were...well, it was because you weren't really used to...all the family stuff.”
Watson tried to catch the expression on Lestrade's face, but a good deal of his attention was taken up not tripping over the frozen earth or trailing brambles.
"Did he?"
It wasn't really a question, more an acceptance, Watson thought. "Is everything...look, tell me if I'm out of line here, but is everything okay, between you two? I mean, I'm not trying to pry - just, if you need it, you can talk to me, y'know?"
Lestrade didn't look up. "It's fine - I mean, we're fine. Thanks. It's me, not him."
Watson frowned a little. "This might sound stupid, but he's not...well, um...it's just, I've seen blokes before, in the army, suffering domestic abuse and..."
Lestrade's eyes widened and he looked at Watson. "No, God, no, he'd never...no, it's not him. Like I said, it's just...he's right, I never thought being here would...I haven't had a family Christmas since I was six. And it brings back a lot of...it's not the same, when you're in care, not matter how hard people try."
Watson nodded, although it worried him how quickly Lestrade was jumping to Mycroft's defence. "It must have been very difficult."
"It wasn't terrible, but it...as a kid it was pretty hard to understand."
"How did you end up there? I mean, you don't have to tell me. Sorry, that was a bit blunt."
Lestrade shrugged. "Two dead parents and no relatives who wanted to take me on. Well, one lot tried, but it didn't work out. And no one knew what to do with an angry little kid who hated everyone." He didn't look up, and his hands remained firmly wedged into his pockets, leaving his shoulders hunched.
Watson raised his eyebrows. "Right. Wow. It must have been terrible for you. Was it a car crash or something?"
Lestrade didn't answer for a moment, and Watson cursed himself for being so pushy. But finally Lestrade sucked in a breath and shook his head. "No, no accident. My Dad took a sledgehammer to my Mum's head. Then he slit his own throat."
Watson could feel his eyes widen, but Lestrade didn't look up.
"He...shit. I'm sorry...I..."
Lestrade silenced him with a wave of his hand. "I'd assumed Sherlock had told you, although God knows how he worked it out."
"No, he...just sometimes he does seem to understand you shouldn't just blurt out stuff about people's private lives," Watson answered. "Not often, I grant you."
"I don't really mind. Doesn't change anything, if people know."
"I can see why...well, it must be odd after all this time, to suddenly be somewhere like this, all these rituals," Watson said. "Must bring back some memories you'd maybe rather let lie."
Watson couldn't read the expression on Lestrade's face.
Lestrade wondered how long the walk was going to be - he was dog tired from the lack of sleep the night before and the long run he had been on that morning. He appreciated Watson's company though, and felt himself relaxing slightly as they talked.
"How are Brentford doing?" he asked, smiling. He knew Sherlock neither knew nor cared about football, and enjoyed the banter he got from Watson - the doctor didn't think Arsenal were a proper English team anymore, whereas Lestrade argued that he'd rather they won something than fielded all English players, with frequent hints that as a Brentford supporter Watson wouldn't understand the joys of winning, never having experienced it.
Watson rolled his eyes. "Fine, thank you."
"You are welcome to come along to a proper game anytime you want," Lestrade offered. "I can get a spare ticket."
"I'd rather watch Man United," Watson replied, and was pleased by the look of horror on Lestrade's face.
"That was very harsh, Doctor," he said.
Watson grinned. "Nice here, isn't it?" he said, changing the subject. "Beats sitting at home watching 'It's a Wonderful Life' again.
"Prefer 'A Muppet Chrstmas Carol, myself," Lestrade answered. He looked around – he couldn't deny the scenery was beautiful, but he couldn't help but yearn for the London streets.
As they finally headed back to the house Lestrade didn't know if he was glad to stop and rest, or wished he could stay out for longer, away from the oppressive feeling in the house.
TBC...
Part Four