Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 4/6 + Epilogue
TITLE: Haunted 4/6 + 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
Part Three
Lestrade sat in the Library, reading an old novel he'd found on the shelves. He could hear people chattering in the Drawing Room, but was content to stay where he was - the Library was gloomy, with dark wood shelves lining every wall, but it meant that there wasn't a single picture in the room. Lestrade had curled up on one of the leather chairs and turned on the small heater, happy on his own.
When the door opened he jumped slightly, and then swallowed when he saw Mycroft. He had been trying his best to act normally - to keep control off his emotions. But he knew it resulted in him being rather distant. He tried to smile.
"People are turning in for the night," Mycroft said. "I wondered if...well, should I sleep in the Blue room again? Or..."
Lestrade felt the fear inside him rising again. He tried to clamp down on it. "No, It's...no."
The smile on Mycroft's face told him he'd done the right thing, and he tried to mirror it, but he cold feel his heart racing. He told himself he just had to get through a couple more days, and then he'd be back in London and away from his demons.
"Are you..?" Mycroft gestured upwards, to indicate the bedrooms.
"You go up, I just want to finish the chapter," Lestrade said.
Mycroft moved closer and Lestrade stamped down the urge to push him away, instead clenching his teeth and gripping the pages of the book as Mycroft bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
Once Mycroft had left the room he closed his eyes. Mycroft wasn't the main the paintings, he wasn't the man who had made his life hell. He was kind, loving, affectionate, in his overly stuffy way. But in his mind the two men merged and switched, Mycroft's smile on the man's face, his frown creasing the man's brow. Lestrade closed the book, knowing he wasn't going to get anything else read. He uncurled his aching legs and leant forward on his knees, staring at the floor. He could do it. He could go upstairs and pretend nothing was wrong. He'd had years of practice, after all, he thought bitterly. Years of letting men think he was enjoying himself, years of telling them what they wanted to hear. He could find the place in himself again, the place he'd retreated to so many times, when he didn't have a choice but to get on with the task, whether it was being fucked by a fat sweaty businessman or dealing with a broken, mutilated body at his feet.
Mycroft was folding some clothes and tidying the bedding - fussing, Lestrade thought - when he walked into the room after using the bathroom and studiously ignoring the photo at the top of the stairs. Lestrade moved to his side of the bed, quickly undressing, feeling particularly vulnerable in his nakedness, but knowing anything else would be odd. Mycroft climbed into the bed, and Lestrade followed, knowing his hands were shaking slightly and hating himself for not being in control.
As soon as he slipped under the covers Mycroft's arms were reaching for him, and it took every ounce of self-control not to shy away.
“I'm sorry you've felt so rotten," Mycroft said. "I really should have thought."
Lestrade managed to shake his head, although the movement was small and tense. "Not your fault. I didn't know...I thought it would be okay too," he said truthfully.
One of Mycroft's hands was rubbing slow circles on his stomach, and he concentrated on the movement, because the man had never done anything that was gentle or soothing.
"Well tomorrow is just for relaxing," Mycroft smiled. "No real plans, although Mummy does like it if we visit Daddy's grave - I think we all miss him especially around this time of year."
Lestrade forced himself to breathe and not to react. In, out, in, out.
But Mycroft's observational skills were every bit as good as Sherlock's - frequently better.
"What...oh, God, I'm sorry, Greg, I'm sorry, how insensitive."
Lestrade felt the arms closed around him in a squeeze. He put his hands up on reflex, laying them against Mycroft's stomach, ready to wrestle himself free.
"Little bastard. Think it was clever, do you, taking the wallet? Picking my pocket like some common thief? You're lucky I haven't had your 'friend' dealt with. Last time was nothing - a scuffle in the street. Next time I'll let them break his legs - or worse."
The hands were tight on his biceps, shaking him roughly.
"I haven't..." he started.
"Don't lie to me!" the spit flew from the man's mouth. "Who else would it have been?"
"I wouldn't do…" He was cut off again as the man moved abruptly, grabbing his wrists and dragging them in front of him. He didn't fight, but instead of the usual tie or belt being used to secure his wrists the man took both in one hand, then performed a quick, rough, pat down of the pockets of his jeans.
"Lying, stealing piece of shit," the man shouted.
The hand moved so fast he couldn't struggle away – a sharp slap to his face, then his right hand grabbed, twisted behind him. He tried to escape, but the pressure was too great, and when his finger was grabbed and bent fiercely the crack was audible. It took a few seconds for the white hot nauseating pain to hit him, and as he was pushed away he gasped, bringing his hand to his chest and cradling it.
"Now stand there and be quiet."
He gulped down his shuddering breaths, wanting to curl up, to protect his rapidly swelling hand, to get away from the monster, who was now sitting behind the desk, watching him.
The silence stretched on, and he knew he just had to stay still and quiet, and hope the man's anger subsided.
"Come here," Mycroft slid his arms around Lestrade, pulling him closer and pressing a kiss to his forehead. He rubbed a hand over Lestrade's bicep and then up onto his shoulder, gently kneading the tense muscles.
When he finally got up he took his time, straightening his suit, then walking slowly across the room.
"Learnt your lesson?"
There was nothing he could do but nod, trying to protect his injured hand, hoping if he did the right thing he'd be allowed to leave.
"Good." And the hands reached out, pushing down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees.
He fumbled with the belt and the button on the waistband, his left hand uncoordinated and clumsy.
"Come on, come on you idiot."
He finally got the button undone and freed the man's cock. He didn't look up, there was no point. He just licked his dry lips and began sucking.
He moved, the actions automatic. One hand down, finding Mycroft's penis and wrapping his fist around it, his head dipping, pressing his mouth against Mycroft's chest; dry kisses on the smooth skin and soft hair.
"Greg...Gregory, you don't have to..." and Mycroft's breath caught as Lestrade's hand moved slightly, adding pressure under the head of his rapidly stiffening cock.
Lestrade moved further down, then slid his lips over Mycroft's erection, moving his head and fist in time, using his tongue to swipe over the tip.
The hands were rough in his hair, fingers entangled in the strands, forcing him to take more, deeper. He breathed through his nose, deep breaths to relax and control his gag reflex. He didn't care, he just wanted to be good so it was over, and he could leave.
He swallowed, then opened his throat, taking it in until his lips and nose were buried in the hair, and he could hear the slight grunts of pleasure, then fingers pushed into his hair, stroking, gently guiding.
Once he had used the bathroom Watson hesitated slightly, then gently knocked on the door of Sherlock's room. There was an answering noise and he pushed the door open, peering around it.
Sherlock was sitting in bed, laptop on his knees.
Watson pulled the chair from by the window over to the bed and sat down heavily. "Any idea what's wrong with Lestrade?" he asked, getting straight to the point.
"Hmm? No," Sherlock answered, not even looking up from his screen.
Watson sighed. "He seems…withdrawn. Tired, nervous…it's not like him."
"Family," Sherlock stated. "Or lack thereof."
"I don’t know if…" Watson rubbed his face. "Do you think that's it? I mean…he seems…Mycroft is almost ignoring him. He can't…why would he do that, if Lestrade's…hurting?"
Sherlock glanced up at him. "What can he do? Lestrade's past is unchangeable."
"It's not…it's not what you do, when someone you love is suffering," Watson said.
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and Watson sighed.
"You'd…I don't know…look after them, not ignore them…You'd want to try and make sure they were okay every second of the day."
"Mycroft has been worrying. This morning he was distracted, looking out of the window. I don't believe he knew where Lestrade had gone."
"But…Lestrade would have told him, when he got up – Mycroft would have seen him wearing his jogging gear."
Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft slept in the blue room last night. Lestrade slept in their room alone."
Watson's eyes widened. "But…"
"I presume it had something to do with Lestrade's distressed state yesterday, which seemed to coincide with our arrival here. As Mycroft implied, there is a possibility his childhood is affecting his view on the current situation."
"And…there's something about Mycroft, not just about being here. Lestrade looked terrified, Sherlock – when they were coming back downstairs for lunch. I've never seen him look like that before."
Sherlock made a small noise. "What would you suggest?"
Watson rubbed a hand over his eyes, leaning forward, resting elbows on knees.
"Do you think…could Mycroft…Look, I don't know how to say this, really, but do you think Mycroft could be…abusing Lestrade?"
Sherlock stilled, hands frozen over the keyboard, eyes staring at the screen. It was as if Watson could see the little egg timer symbol hanging in his brain. Finally he moved – first his eyeballs swivelling to capture Watson in a cold stare, then the rest of his head following.
"How?"
It wasn't what Watson expected. He'd thought there would be at least a protest.
"There is no point in denying it when it is clear that Mycroft has the temperament to send people to their deaths with no more than an email. I have little experience with personal relationships, and even less idea of how he might conduct himself when with Lestrade. I would think it possible that he could hold any number of things over Lestrade – although I doubt physical violence would be one of them. Emotional and financial abuse, or control, would certainly seem to be possible, however."
Watson shook his head. He didn't want to believe it.
"However, they are both back in the same room tonight," Sherlock continued. "And past behaviour suggests nothing untoward. Nor do I believe Lestrade's personality type is consistent with someone who would allow such things to happen."
"So you think…he told me his parents died…I mean, he told me it was his Father."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. In France. Quite brutal. It was in the summer, not around Christmas, but one can presume that any celebrations which traditionally revolve around the family could be harder to cope with, for people who are emotionally inclined to such things."
"It just doesn't seem…right. He said he was looking forward to all this."
"People who lack the ability to control their emotions are often very poor judges of what will and will not affect them."
Watson sighed and stood up. "Yeah. I suppose…I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well."
He trudged back to his own room, glancing down the corridor and then slowing as he heard a slight noise. He felt his cheeks flush as he realized what it was, and hurriedly walked away, closing his door behind him.
"Oh, Greg…" Mycroft groaned as his entire cock was engulfed in the wet heat. He reached out to touch anything, trying to run a hand over Lestrade's back, and finally settling for his fingertips gently rubbing through the soft hair. His leg muscles twitched as the tongue swirled around the underside of the head, lips dragging over too-sensitive flesh. He groaned again as Lestrade's fingers found his balls, gently stroking over them, squeezing gently, just how he liked it.
Lestrade kept his eyes closed, the visions in his mind flip flopping between the bastard standing over him, forcing him, giving out satisfied grunts every time he gagged, and the smell of Mycroft, now surrounding him, the gentle touches and tickle of fingers at the nape of his neck.
He felt the testicles drawing up, and the cock in his mouth getting even larger and harder, so he squeezed his hand tightly and increased the pace, letting his teeth just graze over the shaft.
The semen was slightly cool on his tongue, and he swallowed before the taste really hit him, milking the erection, sucking away the last traces.
"Mmmmmm," Mycroft reached down, shifting slightly, trying to urge Lestrade back up into his arms.
Lestrade moved away as Mycroft rolled onto his side, feeling gentle hands rub against his arms and then reach for him, gently pulling him up the bed. He lay next to Mycroft, watching the smile on his face, feeling the repetitive stroking of fingers over his arm. His mind was at war with his senses. Nothing about Mycroft was the same as the man, except the odd expression, the gestures, the tone of his voice when angry. And Mycroft had never been angry with him. He'd never been anything but the perfect partner.
"Should I return the favour?" Mycroft smiled. He slid his hand down Lestrade's stomach and stopped abruptly when his fingers found the flaccid penis. He allowed a frown to cross his face for just a moment, then looked into Lestrade's eyes – or would have, if they had been open.
"'S okay," Lestrade muttered, moving away from the touch.
"It…" Mycroft breathed deeply, trying to collect himself after the orgasm had scattered his thoughts to the wind. "Are you…what's wrong?"
"Nothing, just…tired, I guess," Lestrade tried to roll over, but a hand on his stomach stopped him. Soft lips pressed against his shoulder, a huff of warm breath gusting across his skin.
"Tell me what's wrong, mon trésor?" Mycroft said softly.
Lestrade shifted, causing Mycroft's hand to fall to the mattress. "Didn't sleep well last night. I'm fine. I'll be okay in the morning."
"I…you shouldn't have…" Mycroft slid his hand over the smooth taut skin between Lestrade's ribcage and his hip. "You didn't need to do that." The guilt in Mycroft's tone was plain to hear, and it tore at Lestrade, because he knew the line was getting too blurred in his head, and none of it was Mycroft's fault.
"I wanted to," he answered, his voice almost catching, his mind in turmoil. And he desperately wished it were true – wished he'd wanted to do it like he'd used to, not because his brain told him that it was the only way to distract the man from causing him pain.
He felt Mycroft shifting next to him, and closed his eyes, willing the other man to sleep. He hated the questions because he knew he couldn't tell Mycroft the truth, and every lie turned anther little piece of him back to the boy he had been, denying himself true feelings, turning a little more of his soul to stone.
Eventually Mycroft did sleep, after almost an hour of Lestrade dreading every intake of breath, in case it came back out as a question. Lestrade lay awake though, staring into the darkness. The white bottle of pills was the only thing visible in the gloom, a beacon, beckoning him. He knew he could take them all, and end his pain, end the torment, end everything. And leave behind all the questions, all the glances, all the confusion. He didn't think even Sherlock would be able to figure it out.
His mind bombarded him with scenes, and he wasn't sure if he were dreaming or remembering, half the time.
The warm body behind him shifted, a slight noise of a half formed word, then relaxed again. He tentatively covered the hand on his chest with his own, worried he might wake the owner.
It was the middle of winter, and neither of them had the money to feed the pathetic gas heater, so this was how they spent their nights, once they both finished working. Huddled together, under blankets, sharing the warmth. It was as close as Lestrade had ever been to a relationship - of course there was no sex, but there was so much more. Safety, friendship, and in a funny way, love. Sex was just a commodity to them now, but knowing they had each other, looking out for one another, sharing the chores and the money, Lestrade felt like an equal for the first time in his life. And he felt like he had a friend.
He closed his eyes not long before dawn, and awoke with a start as Mycroft rolled over, muttering something incomprehensible and pushing the covers off himself slightly.
Lestrade watched him for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline running around his system from awaking so suddenly. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, but he knew he had no chance of dropping off again now, his hands virtually shaking from the rush of having awoken so suddenly. He very carefully slid from under the covers, picking up his running gear and heading out to the bathroom.
Watson awoke to the sound of the gurgling pipes and saw the first glimmer of dawn showing through the curtains. He sat up, rubbing his face. He'd got some sleep, but a large part of his night had been spent with thoughts running around his head, getting him nowhere but more confused.
He walked out of his room, heading for the bathroom just in time to see Lestrade at the top of the stairs, dressed in his running clothes again.
"Lestrade?"
The man jumped, and Watson was surprised at just how terrible he looked - the bags under his eyes were dark, his hair a mess and creases from the bedclothes still marking one cheek.
"Mind if I join you?" Watson asked. "Could do with running off some of that lunch yesterday." he patted his stomach.
"I'm going now," Lestrade answered.
"I'll be two seconds," Watson said, determined not to be put off now he had Lestrade on his own with no chance of distractions.
He used the toilet, splashed water on his face and struggled into tracksuit bottoms and trainers, running down the stairs as he pulled on his t-shirt and jumper. Lestrade was already outside, stretching, and Watson silently joined him, only managing to warm up about half his muscles before Lestrade grunted "ready?" and set off.
At first Watson fell into step beside Lestrade, their breath huge plumes of white in the crisp morning air. But as Lestrade turned off the road and onto a track leading across the fields Watson struggled. The cold air made his chest ache and throat burn. He was losing ground to Lestrade fast. He pushed on, not knowing whether he should waste breath shouting, or if he should just keep going for as long as he could. He found he didn't really have much choice, as his lack of any recent exercise was quickly showing, and he barely had the energy to drag himself along. He was amazed that Lestrade was this fit. Finally, as Lestrade vaulted over a gate he gave in.
"Lestrade! Wait up!"
But the man was gone, and Watson clambered over the gate wearily, dropping to the ground and jarring his ankle. He trudged forward, and finally, at the other side of the field, found Lestrade, feet tucked under the lowest bar of the gate, doing sit ups.
"Jesus," Watson gasped, sagging against the metal bars, panting hard. "Didn't you hear me?"
Lestrade didn't answer, and Watson could see by the grimace on his face that he was feeling the exertion too. He grunted out each breath as he touched his elbows to knees; sweat dripping from his face, despite the cold.
"Shit," Watson panted. "What are you running from, Lestrade?"
The brown eyes flicked up to glance at him, before focussing back in front of him. "Nothing."
"Could have fooled me."
Lestrade struggled to complete a sit-up, finally staying upright, arms draped over his knees. "Just don't want to be here. Want to go back to London and forget about all of this."
Watson looked down at him, the sagged shoulders, chest heaving for breath. Then Lestrade hooked his hand in his t-shirt and wiped it over his face, and Watson wasn't sure it was just to rid it of sweat or if there were a few tears there as well.
"Well, not long to go now," he said, hoping it would offer some solace. "Then back to normality. Or what passes for it, around our way."
Lestrade gave a little huff of breath, and without being able to see his face Watson was unsure if it were laughter or agreement.
Watson stayed silent until his breathing had finally returned to normal, watching Lestrade closely. The other man hadn't moved from his position sitting on the floor.
"Ready to go back?" Watson asked, moving and feeling his muscles were already too cold.
Lestrade nodded and stood, and Watson could see he was suffering too - and then realised he must have run the same pace - if not more brutal - the day before. He winced in sympathy, then began jogging, slowly. He heard Lestrade's footfalls behind him and gave a small smile. He knew it would be fine, as soon as they were all safely back in London and away from the Holmes', family house, Sherlock experimenting, Mycroft running the country and Lestrade busy at work. Holidays, he knew as a doctor, were the most stressful time of the year.
As they turned into the gates, on the final stretch to the house, with its warmth and food and relaxation Watson turned to Lestrade. "If you want to talk, or just...get away from it a little just say, won't you?"
Lestrade gave a small nod, and Watson hoped he really would, and wasn't just humouring him.
Lestrade clambered out of the shower and slung a towel around his hips, feeling that he'd been cheated out of his time alone. He understood that Watson was just showing concern, and a part of him appreciated it - he liked the doctor, and enjoyed his company, so felt bad at treating him so rudely. But he also knew it wasn't something he could explain.
Just another day, and they'd be heading back to London, back to work, back to something like normal. He'd coped before, he could do it again.
He escaped to the library after breakfast, curling up in the armchair and reading his book. Watson joined him for a while, flicking through some medical journals he'd brought with him, then browsing the shelves. It was an amicable silence, and Lestrade appreciated it more than he could have appreciated any words.
Lunch was an assembly of left-overs and things Cook had prepared in the days before, and Lestrade picked at them, eating some, but not really feeling particularly hungry. He could feel the glances that Mrs Holmes was shooting at him, and had no idea if they were to do with his lack of appetite or his scruffy appearance. He'd decided against shaving again that morning, preferring to hide behind his stubble, and knowing Mycroft was less likely to try to grab a quick kiss if his face was suitably scratchy.
After lunch Mycroft produced a Scrabble set and Lestrade happened to catch Watson's eye and would usually have laughed at the look of horror in his expression. Lestrade struggled to think of anything worse than Mycroft and Sherlock competing at such a game. He refused the play, despite the cajoling, and was amazed when Watson finally gave in.
He watched for a short while, the words on the board going down with astonishing speed for three out of the four turns, and Watson struggling each time. He dreaded to think what it would have been like if he'd tried to play, given that the Doctor was having such trouble. He didn't understand half the words on the board as it was. And the expression of concentration on Mycroft's face - the frown and flash of annoyance whenever Sherlock did particularly well - reminded him far too strongly of the painting above them, watching over proceedings.
He made his excuses and headed back to the library, wanting to finish the book he was reading before they left the next day. He took a last glance at the painting as he walked out of the room and shuddered a little.
TBC...
Part Five