Fic: Haunted. Lestrade/Mycroft. NC17 6/6 + Epilogue
TITLE: Haunted 6/6 + 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
Part Five
His Father. He'd been a good man – hard working, provided for his family, only wanted the best for his sons. He'd spent his money on their beautiful house, on excellent schooling for both of them. And Sherlock repaid him by ignoring him, annoying him and refusing the opportunities afforded him. Mycroft, however, had done his best to follow the family line, to take on a good, responsible job and show everyone that the Holmes name was still worth something.
He could still remember the first day he went to the office. New suit, new umbrella, new briefcase. Following his father through the corridors. He had felt nervous, but his Father had given him confidence to walk with his head held high.
At the end of his first week his Father had taken him to his club – a mythical place as far as Mycroft had been concerned up until then. He stepped inside the door, and, as his Father had warned him in advance, he had stayed silent, looking around, catching glimpses of further corridors, all dark panelling and deep carpets. The seats were upholstered in dark red leather, and the smell of smoke was hanging heavily in the air. He had visited himself, a few times, and once just after his Father had died, but he never frequented the place like his Father had. He didn't like the way people thought that social aspect of the job and the business side could be mixed and mingled, that one could or should influence the other.
He thought of the fear in Lestrade's expression, the mutterings and mumblings when he clearly didn’t know where he was or who he was talking to. He had no idea how Lestrade could ever have met his Father, let alone now be reacting so badly. But it was obviously something horrific.
He knew that Lestrade had grown up in children's homes, but also knew he didn't like talking about it, so had never pried. Of course he had glanced at Lestrade's files – he'd had to, for security purposes. A Care record until he was sixteen, then nothing for some years until he had joined the police force. His police record was excellent – the odd incident early on, but that could be put down to the impetuosity of youth. For the past ten years – his time at Scotland Yard – his record had been good, with brief moments of excellence. None of it pointed toward any reason for his Father to have had any contact with the young policeman.
Then he thought of Lestrade, on his knees, hands reaching for his belt. And another memory struck him. An older man, after he'd been working for the Government for some months, asking him if he shared the same 'interests' as his Father. He hadn't understood, at first. But it had been made clear to him that his Father enjoyed sexual relations with others – which seemed to be the norm, amongst the people he worked with, as far as Mycroft had been able to work out. He had balked at the thought of it, refusing to believe it could be true. Even in his darkest thoughts he had only ever imagined seedy backstreet brothels, garishly made-up women involved in vulgar acts. Now he imagined a young man, with large brown eyes and thick unruly hair. He realized he hadn't breathed for some time and sucked in a breath, reaching for the chair and sinking into it. He couldn't believe it. It couldn't be true. There had to be another explanation – another million explanations.
His Father was a good man. His lover was not a prostitute.
He thought of the night before, Lestrade's fear, jumpiness, what seemed to be utter unhappiness. And now the thought that deep in Lestrade's subconscious it wasn't him he was seeing at all – it was his Father. And then Lestrade had…the mouth on his cock, because Lestrade had been terrified, and not known what else to do. He felt sick. He had taken advantage, because he hadn't put two and two together, he hadn't taken enough notice of the person most important to him in the world, because he'd wanted to gloss over everything and pretend to his Mother that everything was okay.
The fear hadn't been that of someone who was just being plagued by bad memories, it was pure fear. It was all encompassing, blinding Lestrade to what was really happening around him, taking over his mind and his actions. Mycroft didn't know a lot about prostitution, but he presumed that whilst the memories may be unpleasant, they wouldn't be causing the level of distress Lestrade was feeling. So there had to be something else. Something more. Something worse.
He knew his hands were shaking, and he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about the situation without talking to Lestrade. And that was the thing he was currently forbidden to do. He sat in the darkness, for once not having a clue how to proceed. He could prevent wars in far off lands. But he didn't know how to save his relationship with a man only a few metres away.
Watson poured out the tea and added some milk, holding it out to Lestrade.
"Try and drink some, it'll help warm you up," he said gently.
Lestrade took the mug and cradled it, gently blowing across the liquid.
"So…tell me about their Father," Watson said, settling back into his seat, a mug of tea for himself sitting on the bedside table.
Lestrade stared into the milky tea.
"How did you meet him – through the Met.?" Watson prompted.
Lestrade shook his head. "No, before…when…I was sixteen." Then he pulled a face. "Fifteen. Nearly sixteen."
"Fifteen? What…how did you..?"
Lestrade shook his head at first, and he started to speak, but thought better of it, struggling for the words.
"I…he…" he stopped again. "He picked me up," he said in barely more than a whisper. "I was…on the street, and he picked me up. And…and I thought it was…thought he…all he wanted me to do was stand there, and be quiet, in the corner of his office. And I thought…it was easy money. But the next time, it…he was a bastard. And I couldn't do anything. He…"
Watson was frowning, obviously struggling to keep up. "So…hang on, you…" and his eyes opened wide. "You were…but…how can. Hang on. He picked you up. From the streets. For…"
"Sex," Lestrade said bluntly, because having Watson dig around for the right word was more painful than just saying it.
Watson blew out a breath. "Wow. Sorry, I just mean…given, well, now, it's hard to think…"
"Yeah," Lestrade agreed.
"Right."
A silence descended on the room, and Lestrade could see Watson's brain working overtime. Some of Sherlock had rubbed off on the Doctor, but unlike Sherlock you could read every emotion on Watson's face. He wished he couldn’t. He sipped some of the tea, burrowing further back into the covers, wishing he could be anywhere else.
"So…" Watson finally said.
Lestrade took a shaky breath. "I need to tell Myc," he said in a low voice. "I need to…he…it isn’t his fault. Isn't him…I…"
"I agree," Watson said. "But first, just finish your tea, warm up – then, if you want, I can fetch Mycroft. And I can stay too, if you want. Or if you'd rather have some privacy, I can go away. But just…don't rush. Just…we've got time, okay?"
Lestrade didn't move, his eyes staring, unseeing at the carpet.
"Why did I…as soon as I saw the picture…he and Myc look…" he took a shaky breath. "What the fuck's wrong with me? How could I?"
Watson frowned. "Because you know Mycroft, and you know…he's not like that."
"Didn't when we…" Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face. "Jesus. All the…don't you think it's fucked up?" He looked up, into Watson's eyes.
Watson swallowed. "It…you can't help who you fall for. As long as he's always respected you, and you…enjoy each other's company. I mean, I know it'll take a while, but Mycroft hasn't changed, just…just your knowledge about his family."
Lestrade's fingers found the scar on his arm and he rubbed it, only stopping to lift his mug to his lips.
Then there was a gentle knock on the door.
Watson stood and walked to it, opening it a small way.
"Is…would…could I speak to Gregory – if…if it's okay, with him?" Mycroft's voice was soft, hesitant.
Watson turned to look at Lestrade, a questioning expression on his face. Lestrade froze for a second, then nodded.
Watson stepped back and allowed Mycroft in, then pushed the door closed again.
"Shall I stay?" he asked, pointedly looking at Lestrade for the answer.
Lestrade nodded again, then watched as Mycroft hesitantly sat on the chair, pulling it away slightly, giving him more space, whilst Watson perched on the windowsill, watching over them both.
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said. "I…I've ruined Christmas…everything. I…"
Mycroft shook his head. "No, no…I…I understand you…met Da…my Father. And he behaved…improperly."
Lestrade knew he should have guessed that Mycroft would work it out. Any scraps of evidence taken in and woven together to get the big picture, in true Holmes style.
"Yes," he said, almost choking on the word as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him.
"I…he…he must have…hurt you?" Mycroft looked down as he said it, but then seemed to make himself look into Lestrade's gaze.
Lestrade nodded, feeling the tears beginning to fill his eyes.
"I'm sorry. I had no…no idea," Mycroft finished in a whisper, knowing it was partly a lie. He had virtually been told, but he had chosen not to act, chosen to ignore the evidence presented to him, because he didn't want to believe it. Chosen to ignore it because it didn't affect him, and he'd thought it was better to leave things as they were than to cause trouble within the family. He could never have imagined the trouble he had stored up for himself, but he felt as if somehow he deserved it – karma.
Lestrade's cup was empty, but he still held onto it, staring at the flowery pattern.
"I didn't…it's the picture," he said. "I didn't know…Didn't know it was your Father. And then, when we got here…" He wiped away the tears roughly with the heel of his hand.
Mycroft couldn't help himself – he reached out and touched Lestrade's foot, rubbing his hand over the bare skin, the need to touch and reassure Lestrade overriding his fear of making things worse. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said, heartened when Lestrade didn't flinch away.
Lestrade watched Mycroft, the expressions playing across his face, the gentle movement of one hand over his skin, the slight tremor in the other.
"You must know, whatever he did…I would never…" Mycroft stopped, thinking of the night before, closing his eyes briefly.
Lestrade saw the fleeting grimace and shrank back, pulling his foot out from under Mycroft's touch.
"He used…my mouth. He hated any…talking, answering back. He…wanted obedience, and he…made me suck him off. And if I didn't…he…" he paused, mouth dry, voice wavering, because he was so terrified that no one would believe him. No one would believe the man they loved could ever do such things to a kid. They'd think he was just making trouble, stirring, exaggerating, and he had no proof, nothing he could say or do to show he wasn't lying. "He punished me…and…I don't know what it was, just…he tied my wrists and shoved me on the desk and…asked me if it's what I wanted, like that, and…" he trailed off, shaking his head, almost feeling the same pain again.
"He…raped you?" Mycroft replied, and instead of surprise Lestrade heard disbelief.
Lestrade hid his face in his arms, feeling his own breath hot and moist in the small space he'd created. He was on the verge of crying, but he held it back with shuddering breaths, because he was sure it was over. He was broken in their eyes. Broken, used, tainted. He took another breath, wishing for the control to trust that he could speak again without breaking down.
"I don't mean…I believe you," Mycroft said. "I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…he…He had a temper, I know. I saw him…but never with us, never…Mummy wouldn't allow him to…I heard him speak to others, though, staff and…and I know he was…unpredictable."
Finally Lestrade lifted his head again. "He didn't…he thought it was disgusting, the sex. Buggery. He hated the idea. He used…something. I don't know…it was at a club, his club, he…I couldn't get out, when he…"
Mycroft nodded, knowing it were all true. Realising that the club where no one spoke, where members were permitted to do anything, had hidden secrets in those passages and offices away from the main rooms.
"And when…he said he'd hurt Danny, if I ever refused. And I did, once…and he…" Lestrade struggled, past ragged breaths.
"Who was Danny?" Mycroft asked softly. "Your…partner?"
Lestrade shook his head. "My friend. We both…he let me share his bedsit. When I was on the streets. And…he was very kind. Very…he didn't deserve…" He chewed his lip, assaulted by the memories. "You know, the worst…the worst thing, worse than…all the pain, the…fucking, the shouting, the hitting…worse than everything. When I…got home and found Danny, dead, on the sofa…with…" he could feel the tears spilling over, running down his cheeks, and he sniffed. "With a needle still…and…he was just staring, and…the worse thing was that deep down, I was glad, because without him, I could get away, and…it would all be over, because he couldn't threaten Danny any more. And I turned around and left, and didn't stop, left London, left everything…and he was my only friend, my only…and I just left him."
He wiped at his face with the duvet, but couldn't stop the tears as he remembered the lifeless body, slumped on the sofa, belt still around his arm, needle hanging from his flesh. He remembered staring, and his brain going from disbelief to shock to a sudden realisation that the one thing the man held over him was gone – that he never had to go back to the club, back into the car. And he'd turned and walked out, leaving the door open. He'd walked through the streets, using the money in his pocket from his last trick to buy a one way train ticket at Paddington, and then called the police, just minutes before his train left, to tell them that there was a body at Danny's address. Then he'd hung up and left London, left it all behind him.
Mycroft fell to his knees, putting a hand on Lestrade's foot again, desperately needing to take him in his arms and hug him tightly, to tell him everything would be okay, and that they could make it better. But he knew he could do none of those things. So he stopped short, one hand on Lestrade's foot, the other on his bicep, and rested his forehead against Lestrade's leg.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said. "Please, please believe me. I…if there were anything I could do, anything at all, then you just have to say the word. But…I wish I could change it, I wish…" he shook his head, rolling his forehead against Lestrade's shin.
Lestrade hesitantly reached out and touched Mycroft's hair, letting the tips of his fingers run through the thin strands, feeling the familiar softness.
He remembered calm evenings, lying on the sofa, Mycroft's head resting on his lap, stroking his fingers through Mycroft's hair. Snatched moments of intimacy as they both got on with their busy lives – hugs and kisses in the kitchen, shared showers in the mornings, lazy weekends in bed. A world away from the slaps and punches in the dark office.
He slid his hand down onto Mycroft's cheek, pulling Mycroft's chin up to look at him. He studied the blue eyes, the sorrow in their depths. "I know that…you aren't him," he said softly. "But…I can't…in my head…"
"What can I do?" Mycroft asked, moving his hand to Lestrade's knee. "Tell me what I can do, please?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Just…be you," he answered, truthfully.
Mycroft hesitated, then got to one knee, stiffly. "Do you mind…I…"
Lestrade shifted slightly, giving Mycroft room to sit beside him.
Watson coughed slightly, and moved.
"Lestrade, shall I…" he inclined his head to the door. "Will you be okay?"
Lestrade nodded, and watched Watson leave the room.
Once outside the door Watson rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head as if to try and shake the thoughts inside into some sort of order.
He couldn't believe what he'd heard – perhaps wouldn't have, if he hadn't witnessed Lestrade's spiral downwards into his breakdown. Watson was amazed he'd managed to hold himself together as long as he had, really. The shock was unthinkable – to visit your partner's home for a family Christmas, and have years of abuse ambush you, along with the realisation that the abuser would virtually have been your father-in-Law.
He took slow steps down the stairs, and wasn't surprised when a door was pulled open with a flourish.
"Well?" Sherlock demanded.
"He…I…where's your Mother?" Watson asked.
"Kitchen, preparing food. What happened?"
"I think…you should probably talk to Mycroft –" Watson grabbed Sherlock's arm as he tried to head upstairs. "Not now. When Mycroft and Lestrade have finished talking. They need some…time," he finished, hoping that was all it would take.
Sherlock looked at him with the sort of expression that made him feel as if Sherlock could read every thought he'd ever had – or was going to have.
"Lestrade…and Mycroft. Clearly this is not just about them though. The change in Lestrade was dramatic, when we entered the house…no, the Drawing Room." Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glanced through the door. "And his behaviour is that of someone who's been abused. The body language, flinching away from touch. The…way he reacted to Mycroft outside."
Sherlock looked back into the Drawing Room, then up the stairs. "Our Father. This has something to do with Daddy, and Lestrade."
Watson could only nod.
"I don't…how…I don't understand how that can…" Sherlock looked upward again. "Lestrade. He's always shown particular empathy when dealing with cases involving sexual attack, or sex workers. He was…Does Mycroft…"
Watson nodded, not entirely knowing what the question was going to be, but fairly certain that the answer was 'yes'.
"Daddy?" Sherlock said, but it wasn't really a question. "I never…how didn't I realise? Why didn't I see?"
"Sherlock, he was your Father – no one would think…"
"I should have! I should have seen the evidence. My own Father, and I didn't…"
Watson just laid a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Don't…just…"
Sherlock turned and stalked into the room, staring up at the picture.
Mycroft gently put an arm around Lestrade, his hand resting on the covers at Lestrade's hip – he made sure it wasn't restricting or confining in any way.
"I'm sorry, for what he did to you. For never realising. It…I had no idea, no idea at all. Even when here, you…I should have seen, should have realised."
"You couldn't," Lestrade answered in a low voice. "No one would ever think…"
Mycroft sighed. He could tell things about people with barely a glance – he could work out people's pasts and futures, their hopes and dreams – people he barely even knew. And here, next to him, was the man he knew best in the world, had not only kept his past a secret, but continued to do so even when it was so inextricably linked with his present and future.
Mycroft wondered whether, if Lestrade had managed to cope until the next day, when they were due to go home, if he would ever truly have known. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Lestrade beside him, the familiar smell of his soap and shampoo, the way his own scent mingled with that of their washing powder. He wondered how on Earth he could have been so blind to the suffering, so uncaring. He wondered how Lestrade could bear to sit with him, now, knowing he was the same flesh and blood as the man who had abused him.
"If…you must tell me, if I ever make you feel uncomfortable. If I ever…"
Lestrade nodded.
"Shall we…if you go to our room, I can fetch some food?" Mycroft offered. "You should eat – after…there's all sorts downstairs."
"Yeah." Lestrade let Mycroft move first, then stood up on aching limbs, pulling Watson's bedding straight.
Mycroft gathered up the wet jeans and shirt. "I'll put these to dry, too," he said, and opened the door for Lestrade.
He watched as Lestrade moved carefully, obviously stiff from his run earlier in the day, added to the tension of the situation.
"Make yourself comfy," Mycroft said. "I shall be back up in a minute."
Mycroft quickly hung the wet clothing in the airing cupboard, then headed to the kitchen. He gathered some leftovers and cut some bread, wondering if he should heat up some of the soup that had been left in the fridge. Then he sensed someone behind him and turned to see Sherlock leaning inside the door, arms folded across his chest.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said.
Mycroft nodded.
"I understand Daddy used him for sex, probably, given his current age, and the likely timing of the abuse, when he was a teenager, shortly after he had left care."
He nodded again, silently. He knew Watson wouldn't have gone into any detail – but he also knew Sherlock was perfectly capable of working it out for himself.
"No wonder you need to watch what you eat. I hope all this isn't for you," he gestured to the food Mycroft had on the worktop. "After all, you'd look even more like Daddy if you put on any more weight."
Mycroft turned away from him, leaning on the counter. "We're…aware of that," he said haltingly.
There was a long silence, and Sherlock finally moved, leaning next to Mycroft, his back to the worktop. "Will he…recover?" he asked.
Mycroft gave a small shrug.
Sherlock nodded slowly. "He is…a resilient individual."
"But this is…" Mycroft shook his head.
Sherlock nodded again and walked away.
Mycroft stood still for a minute, then carried on putting a selection of cuts of meat and some salad with the bread. He also found the pot of mayonnaise and put it on the tray, then headed back upstairs. He knocked on the door and heard Lestrade acknowledge, so pushed it open.
"Here. There's some duck, and chicken, bread, salad, coleslaw, and a few mince pies for afterward," he smiled, putting the tray down.
"Thanks," Lestrade looked over the food, then picked up a piece of the meat and ate it.
"I…Sherlock knows," Mycroft said. "He…"
"Of course," Lestrade answered.
"He won't say anything," Mycroft looked at Lestrade's expression. "He doesn't…he just won't."
Lestrade nodded, picking at the salad.
"Tonight, shall I sleep in the blue room?" Mycroft looked at the bed and was immediately ambushed by the thought of what had happened the night before.
Lestrade stilled, watching him carefully. "Last night…I wasn't…I wasn't just thinking about him. Don't…just because I was…when you touched me, your fingers in my hair…I did know it was you."
Mycroft nodded in a jerky movement.
"And…you should stay, in here, tonight. It won't…happen again. Not now."
"If you don't want me to, I won't be…" Mycroft began.
"No, stay. Please, stay," Lestrade looked up at him. "I won't let him do this to us."
Mycroft nodded again, a small smile on his lips.
Lestrade didn't eat a lot, but Mycroft was satisfied that it was enough and cleared away the tray, stopping to apologise to his mother when he was downstairs. Then he headed back to the bedroom, where Lestrade was sitting on the bed, cross-legged, wearing just his boxers.
Mycroft changed into his pyjamas and used the bathroom, then slid under the covers, sitting up against the headboard. He smiled when Lestrade sat with him, their shoulders touching. He reached down and covered Lestrade's hand with his own, then turned and pressed a soft kiss against Lestrade's temple, smiling when Lestrade relaxed against him slightly.
"Tomorrow we shall be at home," Mycroft murmured.
Lestrade shifted slightly, slouching down the bed, the covers pooled around his waist. Mycroft moved too, sliding his arm around Lestrade loosely, pressing his lips into Lestrade's silvery hair as it rested against his shoulder. Lestrade's fingers slid between two of the buttons on his pyjama top, and Mycroft smiled as the fingertips just brushed the hair on his abdomen. He gently stroked his fingers down Lestrade's bicep, trying to make every movement soft, gentle and slow.
Lestrade's breathing deepened and his weight increased as he relaxed against Mycroft.
Mycroft continued to run his fingers over Lestrade's arm, and when, some hours later, Lestrade stirred, muttering something under his breath, his legs jerking with small, sharp movement, Mycroft lifted his other hand and stroked it over Lestrade's hand.
"Shhh," he said softly. "You're safe, you're safe."
He remembered past nightmares, where he'd tried to hold Lestrade tightly, to soothe away the fear, and now understood why it had never worked.
Mycroft blinked awake, grimacing as his neck protested at the awkward angle it had taken in sleep. He looked down to see two dark chocolate-brown eyes looking back at him.
Lestrade gave a small smile. "Morning."
"Good morning," he smiled back. "Sleep well?"
Lestrade nodded. "Yes, finally."
Epilogue