Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 5/6 + Epilogue
TITLE: Haunted 5/6 + 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
Part Four
As the sun began to disappear behind the trees Watson stuck his head around the door. "Going to do some tea, and Christmas cake, if you want some," he smiled. "Although Mrs Holmes is insisting her boys make it...something about tradition. So you might want to supervise if you fancy drinking something palatable."
Lestrade gave a small smile - he'd suffered Sherlock's tea once before. He was pretty sure that he'd purposefully made it so disgusting Lestrade would never ask again. That or it had been some sort of punishment for daring to ask in the first place.
He put down his book and stretched as he stood, muscles aching and sore. He padded across the hallway and down to the kitchen, hearing slightly raised voices above the sound of the tinny portable radio before he had even got there.
"Sherlock, please! Mummy did ask nicely," Mycroft was saying.
Lestrade stopped in the doorway, looking at Mycroft, with his hand out, clearly demanding something from Sherlock.
"So you do it," Sherlock answered, moodily.
"Can't do the simplest of things," Mycroft muttered, removing a jar from Sherlock's grasp with a snatch.
''Cause if there's one thing that she don't need,
It's another hungry mouth to feed, in the ghetto.'
"Mess up the simplest of bloody tasks," the hand was too fast for him, the backhander stinging across his cheek.
"And why must you make such a mess? You may wish to live in a pigsty, Sherlock, but no one else does!"
'People, don't you understand,
The child needs a helping hand,
Or he'll grow to be an angry young man some day.'
Then the hand shoved him backwards, hard, and he flailed his arms, trying to save himself. He hadn't meant to rip the button off, but he knew it was a bad mistake. His right hand smashed a glass on top of the drinks cabinet as he fell and he felt something bite into his flesh. He rolled, clutching his forearm.
"Jesus, look at the mess," the man was standing over him, dragging him to his feet by his collar, choking him. Blood was running down his arm, through his fingers as he held the wound.
His fingers unconsciously found the slight lump of scar tissue and he pressed against it.
"Have some respect for other people's property," Mycroft scolded, gathering up the tea things. "It's hardly much to ask, for the few days you're expected to act like a normal human being in the company of your family."
'So he starts to roam the streets at night
And he learns how to steal
And he learns how to fight
In the ghetto'
"I'll teach you respect," the man hissed, twisting the fabric of his t-shirt, increasing the pressure around his neck. "Teach you to take care of other people's property, you dirty whore."
"Just stand there, and be quiet, you can carry the tray in a moment," Mycroft put the teapot down with more force than necessary, throwing a scowl at Sherlock, who looked completely unrepentant.
"Now stay there, and this'll keep you quiet." The hard cock pushed into his mouth, hard, a hand pulling his hair, fingers tight in the thick dark waves.
'Then one night in desperation
A young man breaks away
He buys a gun, steals a car,
Tries to run, but he don't get far…'
He was overcome by the images - the sound of Mycroft's voice, so filled with scorn; the familiar sharp movements, the superiority in the tone. He turned and headed blindly back along the corridor.
He ran along the streets, away from the car, the blood hot on his arm, his thin shirt nowhere near enough to keep out the cold. Nowhere was safe – nowhere ever would be safe from the man. He'd stopped being in control of his own life the moment the sleek black car had pulled up by the kerb all that time ago. He could feel tears on his face, and knew people were looking at him – ordinary people, out doing their Christmas shopping – kids and families, laden down with bags of presents, sparkling lights in the shop windows. He hated it all, he hated anyone who could ignore what was happening to him and people like him, hated anyone who had ever bought another person, or threatened them or picked on anyone weaker than themselves. The door of a pub opened, spilling the smell of smoke and beer and warmth out onto the street with a few drinkers. The music blaring from the speakers inside also drifted out, into the cold night air.
'As a crowd gathers 'round an angry young man
Face down on the street with a gun in his hand
In the ghetto.'
He pulled the heavy front door open and ran, not feeling the snow rapidly soaking through his woollen socks, or the cold pinching at his skin, he headed blindly across the garden, into the mess of greenhouses and outbuildings, away from the house, the man, the memories. His breaths came in sobs, ragged and broken and tears left slick tracks of cold and salt behind on his cheeks. Finally there was a doorway, dark and inviting and he headed inside, stumbling over old machinery and mowers, sacks of fertiliser and compost. He sagged against the wall in the corner, sliding down it, ignoring the rough brickwork snagging his shirt and then scratching his skin. He hugged his knees, making himself as small as possible, determined he wouldn't be found, determined to get away this time.
Movement caught Watson's eye and he glanced out of the window, seeing a figure he was sure was Lestrade, heading out into the night. He was immediately worried. "Ah, Mrs Holmes, I'm sorry, I just need to..." he gestured to the door and left, grabbing his coat and shoving his feet into his boots, tying them as fast as he could and heading out of the still-open front door. He looked around, trying to see any sign of where Lestrade might have gone.
There were footprints, just visible in the light spilling from the small hallway window and Watson set off at a brisk jog, but wary of the slippery path. He squinted as he moved further from the house, trying to pick out the vague shadows in the snow, wishing his eyesight would adapt faster. He walked down the side of the greenhouses, his movements loud as the snow creaked beneath his feet. When he reached the sheds at the end he stopped, looking for movement. A crow was calling loudly from a nearby tree and he wanted to hush it as he listened, trying to see if anything was out of place. He moved again, the rustle of his clothes loud to his own ears. He looked down toward the fields, then back to the walled kitchen garden, trying to decide which way to go. Then he heard it – a sound out of place, a soft noise, like a radio muffled through walls. He moved, stopping every few paces, trying to ascertain the direction, and finally ducked into a pitch-black lean-to. He couldn't see a thing, but he could hear a low muttering, interspersed by sniffs and broken, choked, breaths.
He nearly fell over something, making a noise, and Lestrade fell silent for a second, as if startled.
"Lestrade?" Watson said, into the darkness.
His eyes were beginning to make use of the tiny amount of light left, and he could just make out the light colour of Lestrade's shirt, tucked far into the corner. He groped his way forward, trying to avoid knocking anything else over.
"Lestrade? It's John. Lestrade?" he reached out, trying to find Lestrade's shoulder. His fingers brushed against thin cotton, and the reaction was immediate – Lestrade made himself somehow smaller, forcing himself back into the corner further.
"No, no, please," he muttered, the anguish plain in his tone. "Please," it was a whispered sob, and Watson withdrew his hand, rubbing it through his own hair, totally unsure of what to do.
"I…Lestrade? It's John – John Watson. Please, come on back to the house. Come and…we can talk." He reached out again, trying for reassurance, putting the palm of his hand on Lestrade's shoulder.
He felt the tremor run through Lestrade. "Please don't, please, I don't…please…"
The whispers were heartbreaking. Watson withdrew again.
"Lestrade – I'm going to fetch Mycroft. He'll…just…I'll be back, in just a minute," he said, turning and as soon as he was out of the small shed, running for the house.
He burst in the back door and was relieved to see a somewhat startled Mycroft, cutting the Christmas cake.
"Mycroft, Lestrade," he panted, gesturing outside. "You've got to come, it's Lestrade."
It took Mycroft no more than a few seconds to go from shocked through confused to direct action, walking briskly to grab his Wellingtons and Barbour jacket. He followed Watson out into the cold, and Watson headed back to the small shed, wishing he'd thought to bring a torch. He squinted into the darkness again.
"Lestrade?" He couldn't make out the smudge of light coloured cloth this time, but his vision had been ruined by the bright lights of the house, so he wasn't altogether surprised.
"Gregory?" Mycroft said from behind him, and Watson began to wonder if he hadn't bee hallucinating the first time he had been out there.
"He was just..." he stepped forward, barking his shin on the same piece of equipment that had got him last time. "He was…" he even reached out, to find nothing but thin air where he knew Lestrade had been.
"You mean…where can he have gone? Why did you leave him?" Mycroft asked, his voice rising.
"He wouldn't let me near him!" Watson answered, turning. And then he saw a pool of light on the snow outside.
"This way," Sherlock called, his voice flat, emotionless. "The prints in the snow are quite clear. And Lestrade doesn't seem to be wearing any shoes."
Both of them were outside in seconds, staring down at the rounded, scuffed marks in the thin layer of snow. Sherlock followed the trail with the beam of the torch, striding out across the lawn.
Once they got in amongst the trees at the bottom of the garden it became harder to find marks, as the snow was only visible in patches, most of it having been intercepted by the trees and hedges which loomed over them.
Watson stopped, looking around, peering between trees into the darkness of the small wooded area. "Christ, he could be anywhere," he said.
"There, Sherlock, move the torch back," Mycroft called, moving toward some old stone gateposts which flanked the track they stood on.
The torch beam swung back, and Watson could see the huddled figure, pushed into the shrubbery, almost hidden from view, tight against the stonework.
"Gregory?" Mycroft's voice was soft, pleading.
Lestrade wasn't moving, his head bowed to his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, curling himself into a tight ball.
"Lestrade?" Watson took a step toward him, hesitated, and turned to Mycroft.
Mycroft crouched down, one hand steadying himself on the gatepost. He hesitated slightly, then reached out, gently stroking his fingertips across Lestrade's forearm. Lestrade shrank away, shaking his head, although not lifting it from where he had tucked it against his knees.
"Please, no," he muttered, barely audible, muffled by limbs and clothing.
"Gregory, it's me, I just want to..."
Lestrade looked up, and Watson hoped that Mycroft had made a breakthrough. Until he saw the expression of fear and utter misery on Lestrade's face.
"Please, don't hurt Danny, Sir," he said, his voice wavering. "Please don't hurt him." He was whispering by the end, eyes wide and pleading, tear tracks visible as shining paths on his skin in the torchlight.
"Danny?" Mycroft sounded confused.
Lestrade dropped his head forward again, hiding his face. "Don't hurt him, don't hurt him," he continued.
"Greg, please, come back to the house," Mycroft reached out again, but Lestrade moved quickly to dislodge his hand and burrowed further back into the foliage.
"I don't want to...please, Sir," he bit back a sob.
"I..." Mycroft looked up at Watson, and the anguish was clear to see. "I don't know what he's talking about," he said, quietly.
Watson knelt down in the snow, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't feel threatened by both of them.
"Lestrade? Come on, come back to the warm, we can talk - all of us."
"Please, don't hurt him, don't hurt him," Lestrade mumbled. "Don't hurt Danny, don't..."
"Greg, it's...there's nothing to be afraid of," Mycroft said. "Come into the house - Mummy will be worried about you."
"Don't care about the money," Lestrade said. "I'll do anything, just don't hurt Danny, don't hurt him again."
"Again?" Watson mouthed to Mycroft, but it was obvious Mycroft didn't have an answer.
"Lestrade?" Watson reached out and touched on of the soaking wet socks, knowing Lestrade's feet must be freezing.
Lestrade looked up again, his eyes wide when he saw Watson.
"Come on, we just want to get you warm inside," he smiled.
"Please, Greg?" Mycroft smiled too.
"He's clearly experiencing a psychotic episode," Sherlock's bored voice floated from behind them. "I would suggest we call a doctor who can provide appropriate medication."
"Shut up, Sherlock, you're not helping," Mycroft said, glaring at Sherlock, who was observing from a short distance, illuminating them all with the torch beam.
Lestrade shied away at the tone. "Don't hurt him, please, don't hurt him," he said, increasingly agitated.
"Greg- I wasn't…No one is hurting Danny, Greg. Greg, please, look at me – look at me," Mycroft reached out yet again.
Lestrade lifted his head. "Yes, Sir," he said, very softly. He looked up at Mycroft, then slowly moved, uncurling and getting to his knees, arms still wrapped around his chest, as if trying to hold in the little heat his shirt afforded.
Mycroft almost breathed a sigh of relief and stood, holding out his hands to help Lestrade up.
Lestrade shuffled slightly on his knees, pushing up ridges of snow as he did so. Then he reached out with shaky hands and gently tugged at Mycroft's belt, his other hand pulling down the zip of Mycroft's fly.
"What are...no!" Mycroft grabbed Lestrade's wrists, halting the movement.
Lestrade turned his head down and away, shoulders hunched, clearly waiting for a blow to fall. Just as abruptly Mycroft let go of him, taking a stumbling step backward. Lestrade automatically put his hands behind his back, still apart from the tremors running through him.
"No, I...Gregory?" the words tumbled out of him, and it wasn't entirely clear to Watson if he was shocked by the actions, or just shocked by them being performed in front of an audience.
He took Mycroft's arm and steadied him. "I think you and Sherlock should go back to the house - I'll stay here and talk to Lestrade. I don't think you're helping."
Mycroft looked at him with such clear anguish in his expression that Watson's resolve almost wavered - but he was sure he could make more progress on his own, so he stared Mycroft down.
"Go. The most important thing is to get him calmed down and back in the warm. That's not going to happen when he's this confused."
Mycroft hesitated, then shrugged off his coat, holding it out to Watson. "Try to...to keep him warm," he said.
Watson knelt down again, sure not to make any sudden moves. "It's okay," he said gently. "No one's going to hurt you or Danny. You're fine, yeah?"
Lestrade didn't move, his breathing shaky.
"Relax, everything's okay, you're safe," Watson said, shivering himself and knowing Lestrade must be freezing. "Look, I've got a coat here - why don't you have it? It'll be warmer. It's yours if you want it." He put it on the ground between them.
Lestrade glanced at it, but didn't move. The silence stretched.
"What do you want for it?"
Watson had to strain to hear the words. "Nothing. It's for you."
It was freezing cold, an icy wind blowing through the streets. He'd always thought that in London - a city crammed full of people and buildings - that he'd never have a problem finding somewhere warm to sleep. But he'd been on the streets for months now, and when he managed to make enough money to get a hostel space it was often too late to get in anywhere. He was becoming adept at finding the best spots to sleep, though. He could always find cardboard and sometimes other packaging and making himself as comfortable as possible.
"Hey," a voice said, and he shrank back, not wanting to talk to anyone. "Hey, seen you around a few times. You must be fuckin' freezing."
He turned away, but it didn't deter the man.
"Look, nothing to be worried about, right? I've seen you up near the bridge - I work that spot sometimes. Name's Danny." when the man sat down beside him he could see that he wasn't that much older, and he did recognise the face.
"So what's your name?"
"Lestrade," he said quietly.
"La Strad? What's that then, foreign?"
He nodded. "French."
"Yeah? Well, Frenchie, I got a room, not far from here. If you want you can kip on my sofa. Ain't a good night to be out. They say it'll snow later."
He looked up, not really believing what he was hearing. "Really? I haven't...I mean, if you want money..."
"No, mate. I been where you are, that's all. Come on, I'm freezin' my bits off now."
He followed Danny a few streets, then through a front door and up some grubby steps. The room was basic - a bed, with a ratty sofa at the end of it, a small sink and worktop on one wall and a window looking out over the street. But it was warmer than the doorway he'd been in, and Danny gave him some toast too.
"New to all this, ain't you?" Danny asked, as he stuffed the hot toast into his mouth.
He nodded.
"You don't have to listen to nothing I say, but I been at it a while, and I can help you out, if you want."
He nodded, hesitantly, because he didn't feel like he had a choice.
"Not now though, work's over, eh? I got another blanket somewhere, hang on."
The sofa wasn't long enough and was lumpy in places, but as far as he was concerned it could have been a four-poster in the Ritz.
He reached out and curled his fingers around the edge of the jacket, then paused, waiting to see what reaction he got. When Watson didn't move he pulled it to his chest, hugging it.
"Put it on," Watson urged.
Lestrade looked at him, then finally put the coat around his shoulders, but didn't slide his arms into the sleeves. It was warmer, and he relaxed very slightly.
"Good," Watson smiled. "That's good."
Lestrade sat back on his feet, staring at the snow. The coat smelt of aftershave and soap and warmth.
"Smells like Mycroft," he said, reaching up and pulled the collar toward his nose, inhaling.
"Is...is that..."
Lestrade pulled the coat tighter around himself, wishing it really was Mycroft wrapped around him. He closed his eyes, letting his head rock forward. "I don't know what to do," he said quietly. "I..." he shook his head.
Watson wanted to reach out, but he stopped himself. "Lestrade - Greg, do you know who I am?"
Lestrade nodded. "John."
Watson paused for a second, thinking about the noises he had heard the night before – Mycroft's voice slightly hoarse and filled with lust, panting Lestrade's name. And nothing from Lestrade. "Can you tell me something - it's important. Has Mycroft been hurting you?"
He looked up at Watson. "No...no, Myc wouldn't...No."
Watson nodded, the relief on his face evident. "Will you come back inside with me? I can keep Mycroft and Sherlock away. I just want to get you somewhere warmer. Will you come?"
He nodded, trying to stand, his feet numb with cold, his muscles tense from shivering. Watson grabbed his arm to stop him stumbling and he pulled away instinctively before stopping himself and gripping Watson's forearm in return.
"Come on," Watson took a step, still holding Lestrade's arm. "We'll get you in the warm, then we can decide what to do."
Lestrade moved stiffly, his muscles cold, extremities numb he could feel his socks freezing into the snow as he moved, but Watson kept him going, and before long they were back in the house. Surrounded by the smell of food and wood smoke and furniture polish. Lestrade hesitated, but Watson urged him on, ignoring the open doors downstairs and getting him up the stairs, steering him into the smaller spare room Watson had been using.
"Right, I'm going to fetch you some dry clothes - stay in there." Watson closed the door.
Lestrade stood in the middle of the room, the familiar deep aching pain already beginning in his fingers and toes as they began to warm up. He held the coat around himself, feeling extremely vulnerable. He heard the low mumble of voices outside in the hallway and instinctively moved away from the door. He jumped when it opened, but relaxed when he saw it was Watson with an armful of clothes.
"Here, get these on," Watson passed him some tracksuit trousers and a jumper. "You want me to wait outside?"
Lestrade shook his head, and slipped off his wet gear, pulling the fresh clothing on, silently glad that Watson had at least turned his back to offer him privacy..
"Now get in under the cover. I asked Mycroft to bring up some tea and leave it outside the door. How do you feel now?"
Lestrade obeyed Watson's orders, and sat n the bed, the duvet pulled around him.
"Cold. Stupid. Worried," he answered honestly. He hugged his arms around his knees again, resting his head on them. "I don't know…"
Watson pulled up the chair and sat down next to the bed. "Just…tell me what you can. I'm sure it'll help."
Lestrade didn't move. He just sat, his thoughts turning over in his head. He knew he had to come up with some explanation, and if he could tell anyone it was Watson. He wished it didn't have to be here, in the family home, but he didn't see there was another option.
He moved, resting his chin on his arms, pulling the duvet tighter around his shoulders, looking down at the carpet, not at Watson.
"I knew…I knew their father," he said quietly. "I mean…" he paused, wondering how he could explain. "I didn't know…didn't know he was. I knew him, and the pictures, here…it was their Father."
"Right," Watson said, sounding thoughtful and a little confused. "So…I mean, he died…well, Sherlock gave me the impression he died years ago."
Lestrade nodded. "I don't…Mycroft's said, yeah, maybe fifteen…I don't know."
There was a knock on the door, and Watson jumped up, opening it a crack and seeing Mycroft standing awkwardly outside, a pot of tea and two mugs, milk and sugar on a tray. He slid out from the door and took the tray from Mycroft, putting it down and gesturing for him to walk along the corridor a bit.
"Your father," Watson began, unsure of how to phrase it. "I understand he passed away some time ago?"
"Nineteen-ninety two," Mycroft answered, frowning. "Why?"
"It…I think the reason that Lestrade is reacting to you has to do with your father. You do look similar, if you think about it," Watson pointed to the picture on the wall by them.
"My…but…" Mycroft stared.
"I don't know anything else," Watson said, putting a hand on Mycroft's arm. "But he's talking…I'll let you know."
Mycroft gave a small nod. "I…yes, thank you."
Watson walked away, picking up the tea and heading back into his room.
TBC...
Part 6