Bloodstream [Part 4] - fanfic
Title: Bloodstream [Part 4]
Summary: Greg Lestrade hadn't expected to come to the attention of a Vampire Lord. Then again he hadn't expected that he would murder a vampire either. Initially posted here for the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade
Pairing: Mystrade
Rating: M
Warnings: slavery, dub-con/non-con, vampires, blood play.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Part 4
Silence spoke.
Ironic. Perhaps. Then again it really was just another form of communication that could transcend any verbal action. Greg wasn’t an idiot and that quiet, the sound of Mycroft heading down the stairs, the collection of items and then the front door opening and closing. All the unspoken things seemed to scream at Greg in that moment. He shut his eyes, screwing up his face as he tried to sort them out.
Tried to push aside the ones that asked if he was suicidal and wanted his family death.
In the end, he focused on what Mycroft hadn’t said when he had asked about his covens thoughts on him still breathing. Stringing it together he knew that logically Mycroft must be the head of it, weren’t all Vampire Lords the head of their family? Except maybe not. He wasn’t sure, but maybe the true head of Mycroft’s coven was also the head of the clan. The way that Mycroft spoke was as if he had something to answer to, someone to answer to.
Which meant that Mycroft wasn’t the head and was then an acting Lord. He had never heard of such a thing but it wasn’t as if vampires published their politics to the humans. They kept everything behind closed doors. The other option was that if Mycroft was the actual Lord but he felt some loyalty to his parents, just like how Greg always felt worried around his mother-in-law.
(had she moved in with Maggie to help? An empty house sprung to mind - no, no push it aside, don’t think)
Clan is like school: impersonal, lower, not as important, like cousins, only not, lesser. He still didn’t have a perfect picture but it was starting to solidify. Started to form. Mycroft was clearly under pressure from taking him off death row. Was that the reason for the increased workload? No, he didn’t think so. If it had of been Mycroft would’ve been stricter with him, would have been around more. But it would certainly add to the stress.
‘Why’ his mind asked. Why would you do that? Mycroft had to have known what he was doing. Had to realise that there was no way in hell that he would sit comfortably with the idea of slavery. Had to know he was planning to escape somehow - his stomach knotted together at the thought.
He had to realise this. As much as he knew he hadn’t given across any outright intentions and had played the role of grudging acceptance a man like Mycroft would keep the possibility of his escape in his mind. He had to. It was just a matter of if Mycroft actually thought he would. It is one thing to say something or to think something but a completely different story to take action, take charge.
And when he did do it and if he failed - the deal he struck with Mycroft could be off. He could be killed, not worth the effort. He also know had to take into consideration what would occur if his escape plan became public. If few knew about it that may lessen any punishment but if Greg embarrassed Mycroft … his mind shifted back to Cinna’s and how tense Mycroft had been. Not clearly so but he had saw it in the quick eye movements towards him and that assessing eye. He was so high and would have so far to fall.
Why.
Why the fuck had he gotten into this. He didn’t regret his actions, and hell it was a small favour he was alive and could still potentially get his family out of it all but … he was meant to wake up each morning, be beside his wife, go get the kids ready, drive them to school, go to work, solve human crime, bring justice and uphold the law come home to find Maggie cooking dinner, help them with the homework, chat to his darling wife, relax, sleep and repeat. That was his life, where he was meant to be.
It wasn’t here: a fortysomething feed to a powerful vampire and sex toy because he murdered someone - Hugo, his mind whispered placing the name to the sneering asshole, who had it coming but it now thinking on it, thinking on the bloody head decapitated from the body in one fatal blow and the corpse lying there while people screamed it made him want to throw up. He had the capacity to kill, something he always likened to the bloodsuckers despite knowing all to well that other, darker side of humanity. And it wasn’t meant to be on the run. Neither fit where he should be and where he wanted to be. Where his heart longed to be.
“Fucking vampires,” he muttered into the pillow.
And then pushed himself up, not bothering with clothes and heading to his room. Anthea was gone and with her laptop and phone. The desktop computer was out of reach but he had his map: an entire map of London. He reached his room and pulled it out, going over the route. What tube stations he could take, where Pents was.
He’d need some cash - pickpocket on the way to the gym on Monday. Maybe he could even convince Anthea to let him go for a walk tomorrow morning, get some coffee or go to Church, anything that could get him out in the street and pickpocketing.
God, he was thankful for his slightly wilder youth.
He’d need about a hundred quid to get to Dover. Maggie could get the rest. He’d also need to call her quickly. Peter would be at school … but she could fake an appointment.
And then of course how he stopped the truck … well once again his teenage days might come in handy and his years as a cop. He had heard stories, had even punctured tyres. He stifled a laugh. To think all of that was going to help him today.
He folded away the map and lay on the bed, back facing the cool air, body going dead while his mind slowly drifted into darkness.
He never noticed Mycroft coming in, standing at his door, and watching him before departing at one o’clock in the morning.
-
Waking up Greg was pleased to note that while his back was still a delightful red there wasn’t any burn ache. Sure it was rather warm but it didn’t hurt him, which was the most important thing. However that wasn’t what surprised him. When he went down to breakfast on Sunday the first thing he saw was Mycroft, not only drinking blood out of a teacup, looking perfectly British while reading the paper, but not in a suit but an Oxford and casual linen pants. And bare foot.
“Morning,” said Mycroft without looking up.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked, going to his fridge and opening it, surveying the contents.
“Mmmm, yes. Alas time off to recharge is needed.”
“Right.”
He continued staring at the fridge contents. If he was at home he would make pancakes on a Sunday - or rather Ellie and Peter would. He knew there was self-raising flour and sugar in the pantry and with the milk and butter it would be easy to make. But it felt ridiculous making an entire batter of pancake mixture.
The newspaper ruffled behind him.
“Is this what you do every morning? Stare at the fridge?”
His tone was not impatient but held a wry amusement and that was frankly just weird.
“Well, it isn’t as if I have just one choice,” pointed out Greg, turning to catch Mycroft’s eye.
“True.”
There was a beat and then Mycroft said. “What do you want to eat? You’re clearly thinking of something,”
“Pancakes,” he said instantly, “I normally eat that on a …”
He felt something cold grow and twist, and turned back to the fridge, blinked hard, eyes flicking from the butter to the milk to the endless jars of jam which he should probably throw out because he didn’t even like jam. Maybe he could do that this afternoon. Clean.
“Your children make them for you,” said Mycroft.
He turned, voice taking a harsher tone. “How did you get that?”
“It was an easy deduction,” said Mycroft, voice soft and gentle.
“Easy?” Of course it was, of course.
There was a beat where Mycroft placed down his paper, folding it carefully, precisely, neatly on the kitchen table.
“I’m not blind to where your current thoughts are - it’s been just under a week,” said Mycroft, “Make a new routine, Gregory. Or if you can’t, just make them.”
Only been a week since he became a slave, nearly a fortnight since this entire nightmare began, the thought pounding in his mind.
Greg would’ve liked it if at the end of that Mycroft had rose and left the room to do whatever he did. Leave him be but his Master stayed where he was and Greg thought against telling him to leave because Mycroft wouldn’t do that. Not today. He never saw Mycroft down here and as his Master had deliberately chosen to remain down here …
He sighed, closing the fridge door, going to sit down opposite Mycroft. He slumped here, resting his head in his hands, and staring at the table, the tiny wood lines, the different shades.
“It’s a waste,” he said finally.
“Mmmm, if it helps Anthea has always been a fan of pancakes,” said Mycroft.
He glanced up. “What?”
“I can’t imagine why - they aren’t very appealing however,” Mycroft smiled in an indulgent fashion. “Save the batter for her and she’ll be forever grateful to you,”
“I take it she doesn’t have them often,” he said slowly.
“No, she doesn’t,”
He was struck by the image of Anthea tearing apart a pancake while leaning over her laptop - just like Ellie would.
-
He didn’t end up having pancakes. Instead he made himself some toast: two pieces smeared with butter, enjoying how it soaked into the bread. Mycroft had returned to reading the paper but allowed him the Sports Section when asked which he skimmed over vaguely, chewing mechanically. It was rather domestic he supposed, well, up until the point when he decided he wanted some coffee and Mycroft stopped him with a cutting tone.
“You want me to take off my shirt?” he repeated.
“Your burns,” said Mycroft in a dismissive tone.
“Oh,” he said and compiled with the order.
His Master rose, touching his back with feather light fingers, asking if it was hurting. His gut clenched as those cold precise fingers reached the top of his sweat pants and lingering, mind jumping, but just as they were there, teasing and solid, they were gone.
“The red should be gone by tomorrow,” said Mycroft as he redressed.
“Good,”
“Pleasure - how would you feel like taking a walk?” asked Mycroft, as he gazed to the window and Greg followed his gaze, noting the weak sunlight streaming in.
“Whatever you want,”
-
The problem he realised as they left Mycroft’s home was that Greg had no common interests to branch off into conversation. When he had first met Maggie they had hit it off at a football game - Greg had travelled down South when he turned twenty one with a group of mates, saving up and paying for the territory fee with two jobs on top of university and had met her while buying hot chips at half time.
The food outlet had been crowded and he had gotten the last lot quickly through weaving but as he held it he had caught her eye, and that little frustrated eye roll and sigh she did. In a blink of an eye he was there, offering the chips for a kiss.
She had rolled her eyes and walked off.
He had followed.
It was stupid but they soon found themselves bonding over football, eating through the chips and when the game started again he had ditched his mates, sitting with her. They had football, they had music, they had television. They talked fast and long and then didn’t see each other again for another two years when upon applying for a position in the police force had been posted down south in Dorset where she lived, running into her at ten o’clock at night at the local Tesco’s.
The rest was history as cliché as the saying went.
But that pulled him back to his dilemma as they walked through London - he had no idea what the man liked, held an interest in. He never seemed to watch television and all his books seemed ancient, he hadn’t heard a hint of music. He could ask about his family but yesterday he had been given a fairly good indication that that was not a subject open.
Not that it mattered. He’d be gone soon (hopefully).
“I do apologise that I haven’t been around,” said Mycroft quietly as they neared Kensington Gardens.
He blinked. “That’s fine,”
“Mmm, I’m sure,” said Mycroft, “Still foisting it off to Anthea …”
“Perfectly fine besides what else could you have done - hold my hand?” he said while thinking ‘but what haven’t you been doing.’
“Such a missed opportunity,” said Mycroft wryly.
Greg forced a grin. “Yeah, I go to sleep every night crying about it,”
Those serious eyes latched onto him, and he saw the flash of pity.
“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,” said Greg, trying to restore the almost light atmosphere.
It fell flat.
“Maybe after my sire and mother visit,” said Mycroft.
Greg cocked his head to the side, stopping briefly mid stride before catching up again.
“They are rather keen to meet you as you can understand,” explained Mycroft.
“To see if I’ll murder you,” said Greg.
Mycroft let out a loud ‘ha’, eyes glittering with mirth.
“That and to see if I’ve gone mad,” said Mycroft, “I don’t need to stress to you that the both of us will need to be on best behaviour,”
“Even you?” he shot back.
“Especially me,”
-
He ended up lounging on an old chaise lounge in Mycroft’s study. He was reading the sci-fi book Ellie had been in love with - aliens invading Earth, a rebellion, one of the alien boys falling in love with the human girl blah blah - he was already mapping out the book in his mind, seeing where it was going and while some of the side characters were brilliant like the old Captain of the rebels those moments were far and in between, he knew it was going to end in an misunderstanding of some kind, that the aliens had the better idea of how to live.
Just like how the vampires apparently did.
He found himself glancing up at Mycroft when this thought crawled its way into his gut, latching on and refusing to leave. It combined with the idea of Mycroft’s sire and mother coming - the head of his coven and presumably clan. What sort of people would they be? Dark haired, hard calculating eyes, lean bodies, large wings, painfully angry with him for murdering Hugo.
He could only pray that they didn’t come on Tuesday - or Monday because that would take Mycroft away from work and make it exceptionally more difficult to get away. Hopefully Mycroft would give him the heads up.
Mycroft was working on some papers, half on the computer, half on actual paper, the idea of a relaxing Sunday gone. The scratch, scratch of the pen and the tap, tap of the keyboard was so loud against their breathing and the turn of a page.
Mycroft’s phone rang, and he got up, listening carefully and speaking in short commands. He left the room and by the sounds of it was explaining something rather difficult that resulted in a lot of clarifications.
The computer was untouched.
He dropped his book, listening carefully as he heard Mycroft wander downstairs and shot over to the desk, heart spiking. He didn’t sit down, just crouched as his eyes flickered onto the screen. Everything was logged in. He bought up his Master’s email inbox, typing in a search word of Lestrade. A number of emails turned up and he scanned through them before coming across Ellie’s name, ignoring any of the other emails.
The email was from a Mister Alistair Moore who at Mycroft’s request had agreed to take on Ellie despite his already full harem. So much for being safe, he thought bitterly, still looking for information. As predicted Ellie was leaving Pents on Tuesday in the first group, heading up North to York which should arrive at one - Moore seemed irritated about it, something about. He counted back the hours and figured he’d need to leave the house at seven to reach Pents.
From then on he went onto the Internet to look up a route. He’d need to intercept the transport bus before it had time to deviate onto either the A1 or the M1. If he waited past then and he was wrong … he closed his eyes, biting the inside of his mouth, bitter blood welling in his mouth, as he waited for street view to load a few roads prior to that deviation. Come on. He glanced up at the door abruptly as he heard Mycroft coming back up the stairs.
He closed the window, clicking back onto whatever file Mycroft had opened and moved quickly to the lounge. He just reached it, sitting down when Mycroft entered and his eyes latched onto Greg immediately, his gazing zeroing in on his mouth. His tongue ran alongside the bite, pressing against it that released a stinging pain. He swallowed, schooling his features.
He needed a diversion, something that could explain why he was sitting up, why his heart was racing. Mycroft had to be aware of all that.
He cleared his throat. “Um, question.”
Mycroft nodded.
“When you first …”
Think, think, think.
“… you said I was going to be used for sex.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose for a second and he took a few steps forward, eyes never leaving Lestrade. “You will be, make no doubt about that,”
“When?”
“Time,” said Mycroft, dragging out the word like a lover’s hand trailing over hot skin, “all in good time,”
“That isn’t an answer,”
“No, it really isn’t,”
Mycroft moved back to his desk and sitting down, eyes flicking to the screen for a moment before landing back on him. Greg’s heart skipped and he swallowed deeply; it felt so heavy and wrong and please, let it be that I haven’t given anything away, please.
“Then answer me,” ordered Greg, overriding the panic, his voice dropping a decibel lower.
Mycroft’s expression turned glacial.
“When you give up the notion that you can get away, pet,” he said, each word sharp and infected with something old and ancient.
Fire burned in Greg and he straightened, pushing back for all that he was as he met Mycroft’s gaze: ice met fire. Mycroft was going to have to wait a long time then because that wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m that obvious.”
False cheerfulness bled mixed iron strength accompanied with a grim smirk.
“Yes,” said Mycroft, “Gregory, I’m asking you very politely not to attempt it and to rid yourself of any thoughts about it. It’s tedious and you won’t like the consequences.”
TBC
Summary: Greg Lestrade hadn't expected to come to the attention of a Vampire Lord. Then again he hadn't expected that he would murder a vampire either. Initially posted here for the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade
Pairing: Mystrade
Rating: M
Warnings: slavery, dub-con/non-con, vampires, blood play.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Part 4
Silence spoke.
Ironic. Perhaps. Then again it really was just another form of communication that could transcend any verbal action. Greg wasn’t an idiot and that quiet, the sound of Mycroft heading down the stairs, the collection of items and then the front door opening and closing. All the unspoken things seemed to scream at Greg in that moment. He shut his eyes, screwing up his face as he tried to sort them out.
Tried to push aside the ones that asked if he was suicidal and wanted his family death.
In the end, he focused on what Mycroft hadn’t said when he had asked about his covens thoughts on him still breathing. Stringing it together he knew that logically Mycroft must be the head of it, weren’t all Vampire Lords the head of their family? Except maybe not. He wasn’t sure, but maybe the true head of Mycroft’s coven was also the head of the clan. The way that Mycroft spoke was as if he had something to answer to, someone to answer to.
Which meant that Mycroft wasn’t the head and was then an acting Lord. He had never heard of such a thing but it wasn’t as if vampires published their politics to the humans. They kept everything behind closed doors. The other option was that if Mycroft was the actual Lord but he felt some loyalty to his parents, just like how Greg always felt worried around his mother-in-law.
(had she moved in with Maggie to help? An empty house sprung to mind - no, no push it aside, don’t think)
Clan is like school: impersonal, lower, not as important, like cousins, only not, lesser. He still didn’t have a perfect picture but it was starting to solidify. Started to form. Mycroft was clearly under pressure from taking him off death row. Was that the reason for the increased workload? No, he didn’t think so. If it had of been Mycroft would’ve been stricter with him, would have been around more. But it would certainly add to the stress.
‘Why’ his mind asked. Why would you do that? Mycroft had to have known what he was doing. Had to realise that there was no way in hell that he would sit comfortably with the idea of slavery. Had to know he was planning to escape somehow - his stomach knotted together at the thought.
He had to realise this. As much as he knew he hadn’t given across any outright intentions and had played the role of grudging acceptance a man like Mycroft would keep the possibility of his escape in his mind. He had to. It was just a matter of if Mycroft actually thought he would. It is one thing to say something or to think something but a completely different story to take action, take charge.
And when he did do it and if he failed - the deal he struck with Mycroft could be off. He could be killed, not worth the effort. He also know had to take into consideration what would occur if his escape plan became public. If few knew about it that may lessen any punishment but if Greg embarrassed Mycroft … his mind shifted back to Cinna’s and how tense Mycroft had been. Not clearly so but he had saw it in the quick eye movements towards him and that assessing eye. He was so high and would have so far to fall.
Why.
Why the fuck had he gotten into this. He didn’t regret his actions, and hell it was a small favour he was alive and could still potentially get his family out of it all but … he was meant to wake up each morning, be beside his wife, go get the kids ready, drive them to school, go to work, solve human crime, bring justice and uphold the law come home to find Maggie cooking dinner, help them with the homework, chat to his darling wife, relax, sleep and repeat. That was his life, where he was meant to be.
It wasn’t here: a fortysomething feed to a powerful vampire and sex toy because he murdered someone - Hugo, his mind whispered placing the name to the sneering asshole, who had it coming but it now thinking on it, thinking on the bloody head decapitated from the body in one fatal blow and the corpse lying there while people screamed it made him want to throw up. He had the capacity to kill, something he always likened to the bloodsuckers despite knowing all to well that other, darker side of humanity. And it wasn’t meant to be on the run. Neither fit where he should be and where he wanted to be. Where his heart longed to be.
“Fucking vampires,” he muttered into the pillow.
And then pushed himself up, not bothering with clothes and heading to his room. Anthea was gone and with her laptop and phone. The desktop computer was out of reach but he had his map: an entire map of London. He reached his room and pulled it out, going over the route. What tube stations he could take, where Pents was.
He’d need some cash - pickpocket on the way to the gym on Monday. Maybe he could even convince Anthea to let him go for a walk tomorrow morning, get some coffee or go to Church, anything that could get him out in the street and pickpocketing.
God, he was thankful for his slightly wilder youth.
He’d need about a hundred quid to get to Dover. Maggie could get the rest. He’d also need to call her quickly. Peter would be at school … but she could fake an appointment.
And then of course how he stopped the truck … well once again his teenage days might come in handy and his years as a cop. He had heard stories, had even punctured tyres. He stifled a laugh. To think all of that was going to help him today.
He folded away the map and lay on the bed, back facing the cool air, body going dead while his mind slowly drifted into darkness.
He never noticed Mycroft coming in, standing at his door, and watching him before departing at one o’clock in the morning.
-
Waking up Greg was pleased to note that while his back was still a delightful red there wasn’t any burn ache. Sure it was rather warm but it didn’t hurt him, which was the most important thing. However that wasn’t what surprised him. When he went down to breakfast on Sunday the first thing he saw was Mycroft, not only drinking blood out of a teacup, looking perfectly British while reading the paper, but not in a suit but an Oxford and casual linen pants. And bare foot.
“Morning,” said Mycroft without looking up.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked, going to his fridge and opening it, surveying the contents.
“Mmmm, yes. Alas time off to recharge is needed.”
“Right.”
He continued staring at the fridge contents. If he was at home he would make pancakes on a Sunday - or rather Ellie and Peter would. He knew there was self-raising flour and sugar in the pantry and with the milk and butter it would be easy to make. But it felt ridiculous making an entire batter of pancake mixture.
The newspaper ruffled behind him.
“Is this what you do every morning? Stare at the fridge?”
His tone was not impatient but held a wry amusement and that was frankly just weird.
“Well, it isn’t as if I have just one choice,” pointed out Greg, turning to catch Mycroft’s eye.
“True.”
There was a beat and then Mycroft said. “What do you want to eat? You’re clearly thinking of something,”
“Pancakes,” he said instantly, “I normally eat that on a …”
He felt something cold grow and twist, and turned back to the fridge, blinked hard, eyes flicking from the butter to the milk to the endless jars of jam which he should probably throw out because he didn’t even like jam. Maybe he could do that this afternoon. Clean.
“Your children make them for you,” said Mycroft.
He turned, voice taking a harsher tone. “How did you get that?”
“It was an easy deduction,” said Mycroft, voice soft and gentle.
“Easy?” Of course it was, of course.
There was a beat where Mycroft placed down his paper, folding it carefully, precisely, neatly on the kitchen table.
“I’m not blind to where your current thoughts are - it’s been just under a week,” said Mycroft, “Make a new routine, Gregory. Or if you can’t, just make them.”
Only been a week since he became a slave, nearly a fortnight since this entire nightmare began, the thought pounding in his mind.
Greg would’ve liked it if at the end of that Mycroft had rose and left the room to do whatever he did. Leave him be but his Master stayed where he was and Greg thought against telling him to leave because Mycroft wouldn’t do that. Not today. He never saw Mycroft down here and as his Master had deliberately chosen to remain down here …
He sighed, closing the fridge door, going to sit down opposite Mycroft. He slumped here, resting his head in his hands, and staring at the table, the tiny wood lines, the different shades.
“It’s a waste,” he said finally.
“Mmmm, if it helps Anthea has always been a fan of pancakes,” said Mycroft.
He glanced up. “What?”
“I can’t imagine why - they aren’t very appealing however,” Mycroft smiled in an indulgent fashion. “Save the batter for her and she’ll be forever grateful to you,”
“I take it she doesn’t have them often,” he said slowly.
“No, she doesn’t,”
He was struck by the image of Anthea tearing apart a pancake while leaning over her laptop - just like Ellie would.
-
He didn’t end up having pancakes. Instead he made himself some toast: two pieces smeared with butter, enjoying how it soaked into the bread. Mycroft had returned to reading the paper but allowed him the Sports Section when asked which he skimmed over vaguely, chewing mechanically. It was rather domestic he supposed, well, up until the point when he decided he wanted some coffee and Mycroft stopped him with a cutting tone.
“You want me to take off my shirt?” he repeated.
“Your burns,” said Mycroft in a dismissive tone.
“Oh,” he said and compiled with the order.
His Master rose, touching his back with feather light fingers, asking if it was hurting. His gut clenched as those cold precise fingers reached the top of his sweat pants and lingering, mind jumping, but just as they were there, teasing and solid, they were gone.
“The red should be gone by tomorrow,” said Mycroft as he redressed.
“Good,”
“Pleasure - how would you feel like taking a walk?” asked Mycroft, as he gazed to the window and Greg followed his gaze, noting the weak sunlight streaming in.
“Whatever you want,”
-
The problem he realised as they left Mycroft’s home was that Greg had no common interests to branch off into conversation. When he had first met Maggie they had hit it off at a football game - Greg had travelled down South when he turned twenty one with a group of mates, saving up and paying for the territory fee with two jobs on top of university and had met her while buying hot chips at half time.
The food outlet had been crowded and he had gotten the last lot quickly through weaving but as he held it he had caught her eye, and that little frustrated eye roll and sigh she did. In a blink of an eye he was there, offering the chips for a kiss.
She had rolled her eyes and walked off.
He had followed.
It was stupid but they soon found themselves bonding over football, eating through the chips and when the game started again he had ditched his mates, sitting with her. They had football, they had music, they had television. They talked fast and long and then didn’t see each other again for another two years when upon applying for a position in the police force had been posted down south in Dorset where she lived, running into her at ten o’clock at night at the local Tesco’s.
The rest was history as cliché as the saying went.
But that pulled him back to his dilemma as they walked through London - he had no idea what the man liked, held an interest in. He never seemed to watch television and all his books seemed ancient, he hadn’t heard a hint of music. He could ask about his family but yesterday he had been given a fairly good indication that that was not a subject open.
Not that it mattered. He’d be gone soon (hopefully).
“I do apologise that I haven’t been around,” said Mycroft quietly as they neared Kensington Gardens.
He blinked. “That’s fine,”
“Mmm, I’m sure,” said Mycroft, “Still foisting it off to Anthea …”
“Perfectly fine besides what else could you have done - hold my hand?” he said while thinking ‘but what haven’t you been doing.’
“Such a missed opportunity,” said Mycroft wryly.
Greg forced a grin. “Yeah, I go to sleep every night crying about it,”
Those serious eyes latched onto him, and he saw the flash of pity.
“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,” said Greg, trying to restore the almost light atmosphere.
It fell flat.
“Maybe after my sire and mother visit,” said Mycroft.
Greg cocked his head to the side, stopping briefly mid stride before catching up again.
“They are rather keen to meet you as you can understand,” explained Mycroft.
“To see if I’ll murder you,” said Greg.
Mycroft let out a loud ‘ha’, eyes glittering with mirth.
“That and to see if I’ve gone mad,” said Mycroft, “I don’t need to stress to you that the both of us will need to be on best behaviour,”
“Even you?” he shot back.
“Especially me,”
-
He ended up lounging on an old chaise lounge in Mycroft’s study. He was reading the sci-fi book Ellie had been in love with - aliens invading Earth, a rebellion, one of the alien boys falling in love with the human girl blah blah - he was already mapping out the book in his mind, seeing where it was going and while some of the side characters were brilliant like the old Captain of the rebels those moments were far and in between, he knew it was going to end in an misunderstanding of some kind, that the aliens had the better idea of how to live.
Just like how the vampires apparently did.
He found himself glancing up at Mycroft when this thought crawled its way into his gut, latching on and refusing to leave. It combined with the idea of Mycroft’s sire and mother coming - the head of his coven and presumably clan. What sort of people would they be? Dark haired, hard calculating eyes, lean bodies, large wings, painfully angry with him for murdering Hugo.
He could only pray that they didn’t come on Tuesday - or Monday because that would take Mycroft away from work and make it exceptionally more difficult to get away. Hopefully Mycroft would give him the heads up.
Mycroft was working on some papers, half on the computer, half on actual paper, the idea of a relaxing Sunday gone. The scratch, scratch of the pen and the tap, tap of the keyboard was so loud against their breathing and the turn of a page.
Mycroft’s phone rang, and he got up, listening carefully and speaking in short commands. He left the room and by the sounds of it was explaining something rather difficult that resulted in a lot of clarifications.
The computer was untouched.
He dropped his book, listening carefully as he heard Mycroft wander downstairs and shot over to the desk, heart spiking. He didn’t sit down, just crouched as his eyes flickered onto the screen. Everything was logged in. He bought up his Master’s email inbox, typing in a search word of Lestrade. A number of emails turned up and he scanned through them before coming across Ellie’s name, ignoring any of the other emails.
The email was from a Mister Alistair Moore who at Mycroft’s request had agreed to take on Ellie despite his already full harem. So much for being safe, he thought bitterly, still looking for information. As predicted Ellie was leaving Pents on Tuesday in the first group, heading up North to York which should arrive at one - Moore seemed irritated about it, something about. He counted back the hours and figured he’d need to leave the house at seven to reach Pents.
From then on he went onto the Internet to look up a route. He’d need to intercept the transport bus before it had time to deviate onto either the A1 or the M1. If he waited past then and he was wrong … he closed his eyes, biting the inside of his mouth, bitter blood welling in his mouth, as he waited for street view to load a few roads prior to that deviation. Come on. He glanced up at the door abruptly as he heard Mycroft coming back up the stairs.
He closed the window, clicking back onto whatever file Mycroft had opened and moved quickly to the lounge. He just reached it, sitting down when Mycroft entered and his eyes latched onto Greg immediately, his gazing zeroing in on his mouth. His tongue ran alongside the bite, pressing against it that released a stinging pain. He swallowed, schooling his features.
He needed a diversion, something that could explain why he was sitting up, why his heart was racing. Mycroft had to be aware of all that.
He cleared his throat. “Um, question.”
Mycroft nodded.
“When you first …”
Think, think, think.
“… you said I was going to be used for sex.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose for a second and he took a few steps forward, eyes never leaving Lestrade. “You will be, make no doubt about that,”
“When?”
“Time,” said Mycroft, dragging out the word like a lover’s hand trailing over hot skin, “all in good time,”
“That isn’t an answer,”
“No, it really isn’t,”
Mycroft moved back to his desk and sitting down, eyes flicking to the screen for a moment before landing back on him. Greg’s heart skipped and he swallowed deeply; it felt so heavy and wrong and please, let it be that I haven’t given anything away, please.
“Then answer me,” ordered Greg, overriding the panic, his voice dropping a decibel lower.
Mycroft’s expression turned glacial.
“When you give up the notion that you can get away, pet,” he said, each word sharp and infected with something old and ancient.
Fire burned in Greg and he straightened, pushing back for all that he was as he met Mycroft’s gaze: ice met fire. Mycroft was going to have to wait a long time then because that wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m that obvious.”
False cheerfulness bled mixed iron strength accompanied with a grim smirk.
“Yes,” said Mycroft, “Gregory, I’m asking you very politely not to attempt it and to rid yourself of any thoughts about it. It’s tedious and you won’t like the consequences.”
TBC