The Enigma Variations. Chapter Fourteen/?: The Macau Variation
Title: The Enigma Variations. Chapter Fourteen/?: The Macau Variation.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 7,600 this chapter; 58,000 to date
Warnings: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall, S2Ep3; dark!fic, explicit sex, graphic violence, dub con, reference to sensory integration/tactile defensiveness syndrome.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al,
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John finds he still has one thing left to live for. A dark!John fic.
And it only takes a moment
To step outside and let the rain
Kiss your pain away
And surrender it to the sun
Cause the world is still spinning around
So seize the day
Cause you have come so far
Lost all track of time
Felt the energy of a million stars
You will feel love again
You will feel love again
After the rain
Lyrics to A Million Stars (Listen below), BT Feat. Kristy Hawkshaw. All rights reserved.
The Galaxy Macau Resort, Cotai Strip, Macau Special Administrative Region, People's Republic of China
In 2011, gaming revenues of Las Vegas were $7 billion.
In that same year, Macau amassed $33.5 billion.
Money-lending syndicates, called "junkets", rogue banks based in Hong Kong, Dubai, and the Caymans, and the Chinese tongs, all jostled for position: a place by the river to haul in as much of the golden flow as possible.
Mycroft's analysis of Moran's computer had led him to form the theory that Moriarty was cleansing his ill-gotten gains in this loosely regulated fantasyland. Moran’s computer had yielded up a faint trail that led here, to one of the newest and flashiest of the mega-casino resorts - The Galaxy.
* * *
The Galaxy Casino had numerous security rooms both above and below the casino floor. From the rooms above, one could watch gamblers and dealers through one-way glass panels in the floor, as gods on Olympus loomed over the interesting doings of mortals. These rooms were ultra-secure and dimly lit. They were equipped with motion-sensitive cameras, telescopic lenses and a vast array of state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.
In other words, Mycroft Holmes was in his element.
In the near-darkness, Lestrade and Mycroft scanned targeted tables. Their intent was to detect, if possible, the use of the trigger devices - such as Moran had been caught using at Crockford's- by shadowy teams that they theorized were under Moriarty's control.
Lestrade was accustomed to long hours on stakeout and was well able to endure the mind-numbing task of scanning the swarms of gamblers. He watched, relaxed and still. However, he could not avoid noting that the ordinarily glacially composed Mycroft Holmes was restless.
"Look," Lestrade said, "what do you think of those two?" He beckoned for Mycroft to look. Below, two men jostled each other, spilling drinks, making a minor production of their collision. Mycroft looked down intently, moving closer. Their shoulders brushed.
"Hmmm," Mycroft intoned. This sent a whisper of a tingle up the back of Lestrade's neck. He focused harder on the scene below. "I think . . .not," Mycroft declared. "But -- do you want to --?" Mycroft glanced down at Lestrade.
"---want to . . .what?" Lestrade asked, confused. They were both speaking very softly. Which, Lestrade realised, was unnecessary. They had been assured these rooms were fully soundproofed. There was a long pause.
"Have them picked up," Mycroft finally said. Neither of them was looking below now. Lestrade found he didn't care for the dim light, he couldn't really make out Mycroft's expression. "Can't be too careful," Mycroft added.
". . . can't be too careful," Lestrade agreed. "Let's call it." He called it down and they observed the silent pantomime as security tried to remove the men from the casino floor with a minimum of disruption. Still, their body language seemed genuinely indignant. Probably, these men were not who they were seeking. In a few moments the radio crackled: "Negative."
Mycroft immediately withdrew to an observation window at the far end of the room. He turned his back on Lestrade and watched the activity below for a long time. His restlessness had vanished; he was quite still. He did not look at Lestrade again.
* * *
The officers of the Galaxy's security team invited Mycroft and Lestrade to dinner in one of the lavish restaurants in the vast casino complex. They were all former Hong Kong detectives, plucked at the height of their careers to this burgeoning city, a Chinese gold rush funneling the vast river of illicit wealth through the casinos.
Mycroft and Lestrade were enjoying an exquisite banquet of Hong Kong- style cuisine washed down by free-flowing wine and liquor. The room was an ornate fantasy of red and gold, the colours of luck. For art, there were huge televisions in baroque gold frames flashing a different painting - Monet, Van Gogh -- every few minutes.
Their hosts, though outwardly respectful, were quietly amused by Mycroft and Lestrade's mission.
"Macau is a perfect storm for money-laundering," Lestrade was saying earnestly. " Any currency can be changed for casino chips here. Gold and gems change hands under the table. Questionable assets become gambling wins."
"Macau has signed the most recent accords. Every effort is made to prevent money laundering in the reputable casinos," their chief, Wen Ho, declared smoothly.
"No one can stop the flow of money through Macau," said another officer, a short, stocky man named Jimmy Han. Mycroft had learned that Jimmy Han was the only officer not from Hong Kong. Han was from Shanghai. "It is, what do you say - the golden goose. So, you say you suspect a few cheats, trick devices - it is impossible that they could succeed. Not on a large scale. A pebble thrown in the river. Everything here is computerized. We would know."
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a look. Mycroft believed that Moriarty was also capable of manipulating the casino's computer - a feat vastly more challenging that breaking into the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, or even the Tower of London. A challenge worthy of Moriarty's talents. Even Mycroft could acknowledge that.
When his thoughts drifted down such paths, he always felt a sharp sort of pain that had at first puzzled him, but which he finally had concluded was the feeling of missing his brother's unmatched brilliance. Missing Sherlock, in fact. He drank some wine. Then he drank some more. He now regretted never having developed Sherlock's trick of deletion. He tried to erase from his mind the echo of John Watson's parting words in London.
On one thing, he and John agreed.
It was time for Moriarty to pay.
* * *
Mycroft Holmes' ancestors had, regrettably, participated in such barbaric Imperialistic pursuits as African big-game hunting. There was a trophy room in the Holmes estate. As a child, the staring heads on the wall had terrified him. But Mycroft had loved one book that he had appropriated from the room: an obscure old hunting guide's memoir, filled with sepia photographs that appalled him. But it contained thrilling tales of adventure.
Today, as an agent of the British government wielding diverse covert powers, Mycroft found it instructive to contemplate certain advice given by the author of that antique volume. In particular, advice concerning the appropriate means of hunting the Big Five of African game: African Elephant, Black Rhinoceros, Cape Buffalo, Lion, and Leopard. All but one of the Big Five were known for aggression: likely to stand their ground, and charge any attacker. The leopard was different.
The leopard’s success is due to its opportunistic hunting behaviour and notorious ability for stealth. The leopard consumes any prey that it can hunt down. Of the Big Five, it is the most difficult to hunt: a leopard will evade detection when it senses danger. Baiting is the method most likely to catch a leopard. A prey species is used as bait. The leopard will only approach under cover of night. The hunter must be prepared to take his shot in complete darkness.
The great game which had begun in London as a sort of psychopathic game of chess had become much more primitive. But no less deadly. A big game hunt, with none of the modern advantages accorded to the hunter. This hunt was kill or be killed. Hunting the most elusive of prey required the proper bait to draw it out of hiding.
The most attractive bait, Mycroft now believed, was to be found here, in Macau.
* * *
Mycroft watched Lestrade chatting quietly with a tall, elegant officer, Sun Li. Mycroft wondered if she had chosen to sit with Lestrade herself, or had been ordered to do so. Lestrade was asking Officer Li why she had left the Hong Kong force.
"I grew weary of cleaning up the mess. Never ending," she said very calmly. Her musical voice belied the steel in her eyes. "Hard to close cases. Not like your Scotland Yard," she said.
"We do all right," Lestrade said. He had decided to maintain his undercover look even in Macau, and so was not dressed in a dark suit like the others. He wore a black shirt and his hair worn slicked back. He carried it well, Mycroft found himself observing idly. Very well indeed. Like his departed brother but less neurotic, he liked to think, Mycroft was always observing.
Tonight, Mycroft observed that Lestrade he seemed very comfortable with this woman. They leaned in toward each other to speak over the din of this lively restaurant. Mycroft found that he didn't quite like this. Lestrade, he had noticed, was exceptionally easy to talk to. Mycroft was well aware of his own skill set, but he didn't count easy bonhomie amongst them. His own work, the ordering of covert minions, devising and foiling secret plans, did not lend itself to camaraderie. With anyone. It hadn't for years.
He regarded Lestrade with what he supposed must be a sort of envy. Despite the unrelenting pressures of his duties at the Yard, there was still a core of Lestrade that had apparently resisted becoming bitter. A burnout case. Lestrade was not that. Not yet. Mycroft found himself hoping very much that he never would be, before admonishing himself sternly to attend to the matter at hand.
It was entirely possible that one of the officers at this very table, perhaps even the so-elegant Miss Li, was part of Moriarty's web. "And how do you measure success? For your -- employer? What are their expectations?" Mycroft put in smoothly, face impassive.
Sun Li looked momentarily irritated with Mycroft. He wondered if this as because of his insinuation, or because he had disturbed the flow of her tete-a-tete with Lestrade. He considered smoking a cigarette. He needed it. He had a case in the pocket of his jacket. He recalled that Lestrade had conquered a fiendishly stubborn cigarette habit and had complained about the ever-present cigarette smoke in Macau. He fingered his cigarette case and then left it.
No cigarette.
"Here at Galaxy, what is expected is that the money keeps flowing. If our guests feel too . . oppressed . . by security, the money will not flow." She smiled, as if to suggest the foolishness of their errand here in Macau. "And so, by doing little, we are considered a great success."
Lestrade looked like he was trying to decide if Sun Li was being ironic, but then she flung back her long hair. This was a gesture that Mycroft recognized as a time-honored and universal flirting technique. It appeared that Sun Li had decided to unleash her considerable assets in Lestrade's direction. Lestrade was certainly not pulling away.
Now she was offering Lestrade a tidbit from her own plate.
Lestrade politely declined.
Mycroft stood to excuse himself. He walked away from the table out of sight of the officers. He pulled out his mobile. He worked it, then watched for the result.
Sun Li was staring at her mobile in confusion. She stood up, making profuse apologies for her rudeness: a security malfunction in the casino required her immediate attention. Mycroft surreptitiously rejoined the group, suppressing a really inappropriate smile, just as the men all stood politely to wish her good night. Sun Li flashed a rather smoudering glance at Lestrade and held out her hand, and Lestrade shook it. Her fellow officers had no qualms at all about watching her go until she disappeared in the crowds.
Lestrade felt the sharp corner of a little card that Sun Li had pressed into his hand when she shook it. He didn't open it, though. He looked across the table.
It appeared that he and Mycroft were the only ones that weren't watching Officer Li's departure with rapt attention.
Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, then raised his glass in a silent toast. Lestrade's heart skipped a beat as he crumpled the card and threw it away under the table, then raised his glass in return.
* * *
After dinner, the officers promised that they would be shown "the real Macau," a classic bar, Tommy Tang's. Mycroft and Lestrade were driven down the Cotai Strip, a cacophony of rainbow-hued flashing lights. It dwarfed Las Vegas, from what Lestrade had been told. He had never been to Las Vegas. His soon-to-be ex-wife, Janet, had wanted to go. She had always been drawn to flashing lights, parties, games. But it had never seemed to be the right time. Probably, it never had been, for them.
He had once, with Colin, spent a weekend in Blackpool. They lost all their money the first night, and had to hitch it all the way back to London.
They passed a long, enigmatic sign. The City of Dreams Will Soon Be A Reality, it announced alluringly. Dreams. He couldn't recall, really, the last time he had permitted himself any.
He glanced at Mycroft, who was staring out the window with apparent fascination, although his thoughts seemed far away, Lestrade thought. He had a fleeting wish that they were actually on holiday. The flashing lights and raw, aggressive glamour here were filling him with a strange, restless energy.
It felt like anything might happen.
* * *
Old Town Macau.
The architecture shrank. No longer titanic but a jumble of mixed European and Chinese buildings jammed together in mazelike streets. It was near midnight.
"Macau was a trading outpost of the Portuguese," the chief, Wen Ho, said. He thumped on the driver's shoulder and the car pulled over. "We should walk. This is old Macau. Not to be missed."
There were not many tourists out this time of night, but the narrow streets were teeming with people, street vendors, pedalcars, groups of businessmen like themselves, out on a bar prowl. The group walked a few blocks, taking in the sights. A surprisingly huge European cathedral dome loomed overhead, a counterpoint to the glittering Cotai Strip.
They turned a corner, and Lestrade noticed that Mycroft wasn't there.
Lestrade swung around, backtracked, shoving his way through the crowds, increasingly uneasy. Mycroft's height should render him easily visible.
"Mycroft!" he shouted. No one turned.
But out of the corner of his eye he saw a fast, violent movement and he lunged toward it.
* * *
Mycroft was grappling with a small wiry man in a dark hooded track suit. He was trying to drag Mycroft into a dark doorway.
Lestrade caught the glint of a blade and something inside snapped. In an adrenaline-sparked haze he was ripping him away from Mycroft, pounding the man's face with his fist. The man tried to scramble away, kicking viciously, but Lestrade wouldn't let go, and then they were both down in the street.
The man thrashed, hit back. Lestrade bashed his head against the pavement. Mycroft was here now, holding him down. Lestrade emptied his pockets while the man groaned and spat blood, dazed. His fist throbbed and he wondered if he'd broken a knuckle or two.
"Who sent you," Lestrade growled, scanning the pile. Five watches. A small roll of cash. Two iPods. A common pickpocket, then. One of the watches he recognised as Mycroft's.
"Are you all right," he panted, a little breathless. Mycroft's face was bleeding a little, nothing serious, and this made Lestrade want to bash the pickpocket's head again. He made a strong effort, and didn't.
"Who sent you," he demanded again. The man feigned incomprehension.
Mycroft said, "He's just a common thief. He only wanted my watch."
"He had a knife."
"That was me. Actually."
"Should we take him to the police?"
"That would take all night. . . I'd rather not."
Lestrade gave the thief a hard shove. "Stay away from us, right? Get out of here," he yelled. He knew better than to warn him off stealing. But he didn't give him back his loot, either. The thief ran off, pressing a hand to his bleeding face.
Lestrade stood up, his knees a little unsteady from the adrenaline spike that had shot through his heart. They just stood there a moment, leaning against the wall. Lestrade handed Mycroft his watch. He fought an unaccountable impulse to put it on his wrist himself and then he was angry all over again.
"Jesus, Mycroft, why didn't you just let it go? You could have gotten killed-- never pull a knife unless you bloody well know how to use it- " he was yelling. He tried to temper the harshness, but now, the thought that the knife might have been turned against him--
"I know it was - foolish," Mycroft said quietly. He was, as always, calm and composed. "But . . . it's my grandfather's watch. So you see, I couldn't let it go. Anyway. Thank you."
They looked each other over. Mycroft's face had scraped against the bricks. Lestrade's own hand was throbbing and bleeding.
"I don't know about you," Lestrade finally said, "but I'd as soon forget about Tommy Tang's."
"Would you?" Mycroft said, seeming surprised, possibly. If Mycroft Holmes was ever surprised, Lestrade thought. "Well. What do you want to do?"
They looked around. Over the rooftops, the multicoloured glow of the Cotai Strip lit up the night sky.
* * *
They found a cab and headed back toward their hotel, Chinese pop music blaring from the tinny radio. The night was warm and humid, and they cracked the windows to try and get some air.
After just a few blocks, far from the Galaxy, they hit gridlock and the air in the car stopped flowing altogether. Lestrade stripped off his leather jacket. After a few minutes of possibly trying to maintain decorum, Mycroft removed off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Lestrade wrapped a handkerchief around his torn knuckles.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft said. "I should have been more. . . attentive to our situation. I should have seen him coming. It won't happen again." He couldn't tell Lestrade that his mind had been occupied by certain confusing and impossible thoughts - dreams - brought on, no doubt, by jet lag, too much wine at dinner, and the oppressive heat all around them. He watched a spot of blood seep through the handkerchief on Lestrade's hand and he flashed back to John's hand, crashing into the doorframe in 221b, bleeding. Pressing down on his cock. Another impossible dream. A nightmare, maybe.
Time to wake up, he admonished himself.
He caught Lestrade's eyes on him, noticing him noticing the blood. Lestrade tightened the handkerchief. Flexed his fist.
"No, it won't happen again," Lestrade said. His voice low and determined. "Let me have a look at that," he demanded, pointing at the raw scrape along Mycroft's cheekbone. He turned Mycroft's face to the light from the street. It was already swelling. He swore under his breath and brushed the grit from the shallow wound. He noticed a fading bruise and recently-healed cut on Mycroft's lower lip. He frowned. But the touch of his fingertips made Mycroft pull back a little.
"Sorry -- I didn't mean --". He felt the colour climbing to his face.
There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the back of the sweltering cab. They stared at each other for a long minute.
"Can't you move faster," Mycroft said over the din of the radio, "we-- we need to get back to our hotel."
The cabbie's reply was unintelligible. He leaned on his horn, but nothing was moving. Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a look, and surged with one accord out of the cab, Mycroft tossing a few crumpled bills through the window.
They started walking past the clogged traffic. As they walked, the Old Town was left behind and the otherworldly panorama of the Cotai Strip, like a million stars, was spread out before them. Lestrade walked faster to keep up with Mycroft's long-legged stride. His mind drifted to his empty hotel room. To Mycroft loosening his tie, his long pale throat. It started to rain.
He pulled his leather coat over his head. It became so waterlogged that he gave up and let the rain pour over his face.
"I counted on you," Lestrade said.
"Whatever for?" Mycroft asked, pushing his dripping hair back.
"Umbrella."
"In my room, I'm afraid. I do apologize," he said, "Again."
"Don't," Lestrade said. He smiled. "It's good."
Mycroft looked down at his shirt and tie, drenched. Lestrade was right. It did feel . . .good. This was nothing like London rain. This was sudden, warm, and hard. He watched Lestrade, turning his face up to the rain with uncomplicated pleasure.
They had taken a false turning in these twisty streets. "This is wrong," Mycroft shouted over the torrent of rain. He reached out tentatively, and his hand closed around Lestrade's arm, pulling him back in the other direction.
"No, no, it isn’t," Lestrade said. He looked at Mycroft's hand gripping his arm, warmer than the rain. He considered the feeling.
It had been a long, long time.
But he wasn't at all confused about what it meant.
"What I think I mean," he said, "is yes."
Mycroft pulled him in closer, reached out, gently pushed dripping hair back from Lestrade's face. "Are you quite sure," he said diffidently. This really couldn't be happening to him. Things like this didn't happen in the orderly, secretive world of Mycroft Holmes.
"I want to find out," Lestrade said. And then Mycroft was bending down and their mouths met a little awkwardly. Lestrade was alive to the strange feeling of kissing a man, Mycroft, like this. Strange and wonderful. It came to him then, strongly, that was what he wanted. He must have wanted this, wanted Mycroft, for some time. His heart was jackhammering as if in fear, but it wasn't, it wasn't, he told himself.
"Hotel," Mycroft said, very fast before he lost his nerve, unable to believe his own boldness. He half expected Lestrade to punch him, or walk away. Under no circumstance could this be happening. Lestrade was an unbelievably attractive man, inside and out. Gorgeous and fine. Married and straight. He ought to know. The sort of man that didn’t look twice at him. Except that he couldn’t ignore the fact that Lestrade had been looking at him. More than twice. And this was confusing but it had become increasingly impossible to ignore. The only explanation was that he would just wake up. Or, Lestrade would.
But Lestrade was pulling on his arm now, and they retraced their steps, back toward the lights.
* * *
Mycroft retrieved two towels from the bath and began toweling off his dripping hair. Something to do to calm himself, the nervous tremor in his hands. Then he switched out the light, feeling better in the relative anonymity of darkness, but then huge windows illuminated them with the panorama of the million lights of the Cotai Strip.
"Sit down, please," he said. Lestrade sat on the edge of the bed. It was cooler in the room than the sweltering night air, and now he shivered a little in his wet clothes. Clothes that he wanted to strip off, the thought of which ought to be terrifying, but wasn't. Mycroft was gently toweling off his hair. It felt wonderful. He didn't think anyone had done that for him since he was a child. His wife surely never would.
"I think," Mycroft said softly, apparently a mind-reader, "that we ought to get out of these wet things. Don't you?" Lestrade nodded. After the electric newness of their first touch in the street, he felt a languid passivity. He probably would do anything Mycroft asked in that soft, civilized voice. Anything at all.
He started to undo his shirt buttons, clumsy with his bound and swollen hand. Mycroft stopped him.
"Allow me," he murmured and gently but rapidly stripped Lestrade garments, then his own. Lestrade sat still and quiet on the edge of the bed, watching, trying to come to grips with what this was. What was happening in this very moment. He felt alive, present, in a way he couldn't define and everything started to seem sharper. His nerves pricked and sang and his heart skidded and thumped. Mycroft could probably hear his breathing coming faster.
"Are you quite sure?" Mycroft asked. "You've . . . never been with a man." It wasn't a question.
Lestrade shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Closest was Colin, at uni. But -- he didn't want--" Lestrade couldn't choke the words out. It was painful even after all these years.
Mycroft felt a pang and flash of anger at the obviously profoundly idiotic Colin. He looked at Greg, sitting there, painfully gorgeous, expectant and more than a little afraid, he thought, though he was hiding it well. Afraid of what was happening. Of letting Mycroft touch him like this. Of facing himself. Mycroft knew very well what it was to deny his needs. Who he was. It was never worth the cost.
"Greg," he said seriously. "This part of you-- here, now," he pressed his hand to Greg’s chest, over his heart, trying to show that he didn't just mean impulsive sex - "you have to let yourself take what you really need. Won't you let me. . .take care of you? Just for tonight," he added hastily. Anything else would be rash presumption. That this was anything more than a brief, impossible encounter under exotic circumstances.
Something that couldn't survive the morning's light.
Greg was quiet for a long moment. Then he took his hand with his good hand with an almost shy smile that went straight to his heart and unlocked it.
Mycroft tried to remember to keep hold of the key.
* * *
Mycroft knelt down with his heart now thudding and skipping little beats. Lestrade was all strong angles and firm muscle, silvered black hair on his head, down his chest, framing his cock that was already temptingly hard, long and thick and so ready to be touched. He felt his own cock lengthen and throb in sympathy. He reached out, hesitated. He felt an almost overwhelming responsibility here, and more than half expected Lestrade to bolt up out of the bed at any moment as he realised how far things had gone.
His own familiar (usually fairly successful) repertoire somehow seemed all wrong. He pushed away the distant unhappy memory of his own first time, and also of the most recent: the burning memory of John, that terrible night in 221b. If this was the only time he would ever be allowed this, he wanted Greg to remember it as something beautiful. And so, he held himself back and gently took Lestrade’s mouth, open and uncertain and so yearning under his that it made his head swim.
But far from bolting out of the bed, Lestrade’s kisses were urgent. He stopped and held Mycroft’s face so as not to hurt his scraped cheekbone, and kissed and nipped at the sensitive bruise on his lower lip. He remembered how that bruise had been made, John slamming him against the wall, and felt hot all over.
There wasn’t anything for it but to push Lestrade down on the bed as Lestrade pulled him on top, arms and legs clumsy. Lestrade groaned when their cocks touched for the first time, rubbing together so hard and tight.
"Slow down," he gasped. Mycroft was pierced with an unfamiliar deep feeling at the craving that flared up in Greg’s dark eyes as he finally allowed himself to look his fill at Mycroft’s long lean body, touching the thicket of red-gold hair on his chest, slowly trailing an exploratory hand lower, his tentative touches more inflaming than any practiced technique could possibly be. Mycroft whispered, "Yes, slow down, god - we can’t -" His thoughts drifted against his own will. Of pushing him over, pulling him up on his knees. Things got much worse as their hands found each other’s cocks and began stroking, pulling. It felt divine.
"Wait," he whispered, and stumbled to the closet where he flung open his suitcase, searching for dimly remembered treasure. A small box of condoms, an unopened bottle of lube. Purchased over-optimistically for his last trip, a flirtation that had gone horribly wrong. He pushed this memory away too and pulled his attention back where he wanted to be. Here, now.
When he returned, Greg was lying back against the pillows, radiating want. "You’re so far away," Greg said. Mycroft felt a tugging at the strong chain that held the key fast to his heart, and so he closed his eyes. He reminded himself to remain detached, where he was safe. He concentrated on warming the little bottle in his hand and then poured some out and slicked Greg with his hand.
Greg’s body against his felt solid and strong and right while his cock rutted, hesitantly at first, in the palm of his hand. He stroked, urging him, feeling a heady sense of power that he was giving this beautiful man such pleasure, so easily. And there was no mistaking that he was feeling pleasure. But he wanted to give him something finer than the stroke of his hand, and so he laid him back on the smooth sheets and felt him tense a little. "Shhhh," he said. "It’s all right. I want you in my mouth," he said, and it God, it was so true, he thought, even as he told himself firmly not to get lost and tried to imagine himself somewhere high above, looking down as they had watched through the one-way glass of those hidden windows.
Greg closed his eyes, breathing, "please --- yes." Mycroft had rather big hands but his cock filled his palm, long and heavy and nearly pulsing with want. He gave it an exploratory lick of his tongue, stroking away the remains of the lube. Greg whimpered as Mycroft leisurely took his time, the smooth head pushing against the back of his throat, the tension building and building as Greg whispered a little nervously, "ah, what are you doing to me?" It might have been interesting to play with him, draw it out until need became excruciating. This gorgeous man's own wife obviously hadn't taken care of what she had for a very long time. But his own need was becoming insistent despite his efforts at detachment.
He took a single slick finger and teased it gently at his opening, not pressing in. Yet. In his heat-addled mind he imagined his cock pressing there against that virgin hole, and he swallowed down so hard at the thought that Greg suddenly stilled and gripped his head and came forcefully into his mouth with a shout, gorgeous tang and salt almost bringing his own end. Greg murmured, "Oh god, I can't believe what you feel like," as he ran his hands along Mycroft's shoulders, in his hair, which felt wonderful and sweet. Mycroft slid up, pressed a salty kiss into Greg's mouth. Greg looking unbelievably undone against the rumpled sheets. He drank in Greg’s expression, flushed and sloe-eyed from orgasm, feeling almost astonishment. He couldn’t remember the last time any lover of his had looked at him with anything more than a mixture of entitlement and greed, even ennui. He drank in the heady perfume of their desire, their warmed skins giving off a scent that was male and raw.
Greg took his hand and pressed his palm to his lips. "Thank you," he whispered haltingly. "I want to do that for you - how you made me feel -- "
What Mycroft felt in that moment was more fear than desire, maybe; and so he silenced whatever lust-fueled declaration Greg would have made with another demanding kiss. Mycroft ran his hand down his thighs, to be rewarded by little telltale bucks and thrusts. A wave of painful desire slammed through him. Before he could stop the words he said, "Not yet. I know what you want. Let me fuck you," his heart hammering, immediately afraid that this would end everything. Crossing the line.
"You know what I want," Greg repeated the words, the weight of them. "I want it," he said softly, but his voice was roughened by lust. "Turn over," Mycroft whispered.
Here at last was that magnificent arse, high and firm and pale, bounded by fading tan lines. He smoothed it all over, warm skin under his hand, then gently slipped his long slicked fingers into the cleft, finding his hole, circling it softly. He leaned down and pressed wet kisses against the back of Greg's neck, uncaring now that he'd plunged so deeply into this potent intimacy, the contrived distance closing in fast. He knew he'd regret this later, the pain would be that much worse, obviously; but he was too far gone. Greg's moans at his touch urged him on, and he slipped in the first finger. So tight. "Is it all right," he whispered against his ear. Greg whispered, "wait, wait - just stop," and there he stopped, feeling the tense quivering of the ring of muscle flexing, resisting.
They stayed like that for a long minute until Greg nodded, the fingers of his good hand clutching the edge of the bed, his eyes screwed shut at the intense new feeling as Mycroft started to work in and out of him. "More," he finally groaned, bloody gorgeous word, and with an answering groan Mycroft pressed in with a second finger, feeling the tightness slowing giving under his hand. He kept at this for a long while, no sound but Greg’s increasingly undone cries. At the third finger, Greg cried out loudly and thrust back, up against his hand, hard. Mycroft felt his own cock fairly weeping, leaking precome down its length onto the back of Greg’s thighs, where it glistened.
He slowly withdrew his fingers and ripped open the condom, rolled it on, feeling Greg’s muscles tense again in anticipation. "Now," Mycroft whispered into Greg's ear, and pulled him up on his knees.
* * *
Greg’s body and mind opened to new sensation.
He’d been faithful to his wife, despite her increasing disenchantment with his detachment. He knew why. He hadn’t allowed himself to take what he really needed. Not ever. Mycroft was opening the door to that place, leading him inside and with every passing minute, it felt less taboo, more pure and right. His self-consciousness fell away under gently passionate touches that never let up.
He felt almost painful emptiness when Mycroft pulled his slicked fingers out. He could hear the condom wrapper, a sharp crackle. In the afterglow of his orgasm, his senses reeled and he trembled as he felt the knob of Mycroft’s cock pressing firmly against his hole. Mycroft was stroking his back with his hands. It calmed him and he rested his head against the pillows, his heart pounding. And then Mycroft was pushing inside, stretching him, so wide and tight it seemed impossible that he could take this, and he shook harder as Mycroft grasped his hips and slowly, gently, buried his cock inside him. He stopped, poised, just letting him feel himself be filled. It burned. The stretching was just this side of pain. It felt like being taken over, invaded. He felt himself blush hotly at how much he wanted it.
"Are you all right," Mycroft murmured softly and he couldn’t do anything else but gasp "Just - stop," because he didn’t really know. His entire world was falling apart, he was melting together with this man, losing himself. And for a few moments Mycroft held himself very still, panting hard, letting him adjust. After a time he felt a change, something in himself released and the burning receded. He was exquisitely aware of every inch of Mycroft’s hard length sunk into him. Mycroft felt it too because he started rocking it, and for long time they were quiet, almost hypnotised by the rhythm. He felt another orgasm unfurling from his the base of his cock, heat shooting straight up through him and setting his soul on fire.
Mycroft’s hand reached around to stroke him and at the touch of his hand he collapsed into long, shuddering orgasm as Mycroft held him up. Through the haze he felt Mycroft shudder too as he came inside him.
Time passed. Mycroft and Greg touched each other gently, exploring each other’s bodies with less urgency but no less desire. There was a suggestion that the sky was starting to lighten.
Soon the brilliant lights would be extinguished.
* * *
In a crooked nameless street in the Old Town, a young street tough known at Little Eel, because he was so slippery in getting in and out of difficult spots, was bowing nervously before a huge, blandly composed man in a rumpled Western-style suit sitting behind a desk, surrounded by stacks of foreign currency. More money than the youth had ever seen in his life. Today might be the day he was finally allowed to partake of the vast wealth that surrounded him everywhere, but was so much more difficult than it ought to be to grasp.
Beads of nervous sweat dripped from his brow but he tried not to appear afraid. He held out his precious offerings with a hand that was reasonably steady. One of the huge man's gun-toting henchmen took them and laid them respectfully before their boss.
The huge man looked carefully at the photo that had been snapped by Little Eel's camera phone. Poor quality, but it was adequate. He looked at the crumpled business card.
Mycroft Holmes, Deputy Director, Security Service, Special Projects Branch, Thames House, 11 Millbank, London SW1.
"Which one is Holmes?" he growled. He was in a temper today, the weather was unseasonably hot. He had lost 2 million Yuan yesterday. Not a vast sum. But still. He was supposed to believe that his boat had sunk. He would find out the truth.
But family came first.
The youth quivered but pointed confidently enough to the taller man with the devilish-looking reddish-brown hair.
"You are certain?"
Little Eel gulped and nodded vigorously. "The other one is Scotland Yard," he said the carefully memorized phrase proudly.
He would show General Shan he could be useful.
* * *
"Why now? Why did you wait so long?" Mycroft asked. He himself had "come out" in his mid-twenties, a deeply wounding process that had alienated both of his parents for a long while, a breach he felt had never truly been repaired. His first fumblings toward relationships more fulfilling than brief fling had met with resounding failure; he did not consider himself terribly handsome, he was reserved and formal and suffered from a form of self-consciousness almost bordering on stage fright where sex was concerned. He had overcome some of these impediments, slowly and painfully. Not completely.
But he could not imagine that Greg Lestrade, warm and charismatic, seemingly possessed of an effortless core of happiness in addition to truly spectacular good looks, should have had any of the same problems. It was puzzling.
"After Colin and I - after he told me he couldn’t be with me, not like that . . . I married Janet straight away. You could call it a rebound. But. . .I thought we could be happy, you know, regular cop, married, regular life. I told myself the whole thing with Colin was a phase, you know? She got bored pretty quick. Not saying she didn't have reason. It didn't really work. For either of us."
"Why ever did you stay?"
"Habit. Work. I just threw myself into the Yard. It'll take all you can give, and then some. Religion. Our families are both staunch Catholic. There's never been a divorce in my family. Till now. Janet and me. I thought it was just the way things were. She was right to pull the plug," he sighed. "She didn't want me, hadn't for years. And I, well - I suppose I didn't fight hard enough." Lestrade looked up, smiling ruefully. He hadn’t spilled any of this to anyone, ever.
"You have to fight for yourself, now," Mycroft heard himself saying.
In his heart, he heard himself say, I’ll fight for you, too.
He kissed him gently, went to pull up the covers. Lestrade stayed his hand.
* * *
General Shan looked for a long moment at the tiny photograph of Mycroft Holmes' face. He had seen pictures of Sherlock Holmes, who had committed suicide. A cowardly act. This Mycroft did not resemble his brother strongly, but that was of no consequence. He himself did not much resemble his sister, the former General Shan. Murdered in London. Another cowardly act. A sniper's bullet, he had been told.
Now that he himself was out of prison, it was time to balance the books.
The loss of the Empress' jade pin was not trivial, but the murder of his revered sister demanded justice. Blood for blood. He had never believed the fanciful story of Sherlock Holmes' nearly magical discovery of the peerless jade pin, adorning the hair of a common secretary, like something out of a children’s folk tale. No. He was certain his relentless and fearless sister had recovered the jade pin herself. She would not have failed the Black Lotus in this.
But this Sherlock Holmes had caught her unawares. A cowardly sniper's bullet. Sherlock Holmes had stolen the jade pin from his sister, and invented his ludicrous story, which the Western press had believed. Sherlock Holmes had had some sort of henchman. A gunman, who perhaps had pulled the trigger. This man had disappeared.
But this did not mean that General Shan was without options. It was no longer possible to take revenge on Sherlock Holmes himself. But it was very important that a message be sent. Those who crossed the Black Lotus would pay, with their own blood. Or their family's.
The elder Holmes brother, last of the line. He would pay for his perfidious brother Sherlock’s crimes.
"Follow this Mycroft Holmes until I send for you. Someone will call you." He tossed a new mobile at Little Eel, who caught it. "If I am satisfied," General Shan said, "you shall have your reward." His henchman grinned and pointed to his foot. Little Eel swelled with pride. The Black Lotus tattoo. “If am not . . .”
Little Eel was ushered out. He made his way by circuitous routes until he reached a service entrance to the Galaxy hotel, unobserved, just as the lights of the strip were being extinguished. The morning sun would be here soon.
* * *
"Let me look at you just a little more," Greg said, a little teasingly. Mycroft understood. He still remembered the rush of being allowed to touch another man’s body for the first time. It hadn’t been anything like this. Still, he didn’t want to deny Lestrade anything he could safely give. He laid back and let Lestrade look his fill, but was surprised when Lestrade became still, frowning, then looking thunderously angry.
"Where did you get these," he growled through clenched teeth, lightly touching the outlines of two near perfect oval bruises on either hipbone, fading but still visible to Lestrade’s cop’s eye. He cursed himself for a fool, for not anticipating this. He swallowed hard.
"It - I -" the words wouldn’t come.
Lestrade pressed his hand over one of the bruises as though he couldn’t bear to look. "Mycroft. Do you know how many beaten up women, and men, I’ve seen with those same marks? Rape victims. You can’t tell me it didn’t happen. Somebody - pounded you hard. Very, very hard. Up against a wall. Or a hard floor. You were hurt. That’s where you cut your lower lip, too. Bruises exactly the same age," he said quietly. He touched the barely healed wound on his temple. Moran’s bullet. He knew about that one. "This is different. This was Moran. That warning shot." Mycroft nodded solemnly.
"Tell me who the fuck did the others," Lestrade demanded softly, reasonably.
He could tell Lestrade it was none of his concern. None of his business. But Lestrade’s dark eyes were boring into his, and behind the anger he saw fear, fear for him. And then it was impossible not to tell the truth.
"John - we were drinking. That’s one thing. And he was very very angry, you see. At me. He . . .blames me. For many things. About Sherlock. He’s not entirely wrong," he stammered.
"John? John Watson?" Lestrade was very still. "I can’t believe - " he bit his tongue. Mycroft wouldn’t lie to him about such a thing. This had to be true. He felt a sick burning and Mycroft’s eyes (how had he failed to notice their blue-green depths before?) were getting wider and so he swiftly mastered his anger. Anger was the last thing Mycroft needed to see, needed to feel. A surprising protective tenderness filled him and he pulled the covers up over those bruised hipbones, and planted a chaste kiss on Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft looked up at him, amazed, ashamed maybe. Lestrade felt almost like crying.
His wounded fist clenched and this time he didn’t mind the pain.
"When I see him," he said calmly, "he’s going to pay for that."
They laid down side by side, listening to each other’s breathing, watching out the window as the glittering lights were slowly extinguished.
* * *
:
Listen to A Million Stars
To be continued
Back: Chapter Thirteen: Proximate Pyrotechnics ( Read more... )
Next: Chapter Fifteen: Dangerous Men: ( Read more... )
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 7,600 this chapter; 58,000 to date
Warnings: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall, S2Ep3; dark!fic, explicit sex, graphic violence, dub con, reference to sensory integration/tactile defensiveness syndrome.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al,
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John finds he still has one thing left to live for. A dark!John fic.
And it only takes a moment
To step outside and let the rain
Kiss your pain away
And surrender it to the sun
Cause the world is still spinning around
So seize the day
Cause you have come so far
Lost all track of time
Felt the energy of a million stars
You will feel love again
You will feel love again
After the rain
Lyrics to A Million Stars (Listen below), BT Feat. Kristy Hawkshaw. All rights reserved.
The Galaxy Macau Resort, Cotai Strip, Macau Special Administrative Region, People's Republic of China
In 2011, gaming revenues of Las Vegas were $7 billion.
In that same year, Macau amassed $33.5 billion.
Money-lending syndicates, called "junkets", rogue banks based in Hong Kong, Dubai, and the Caymans, and the Chinese tongs, all jostled for position: a place by the river to haul in as much of the golden flow as possible.
Mycroft's analysis of Moran's computer had led him to form the theory that Moriarty was cleansing his ill-gotten gains in this loosely regulated fantasyland. Moran’s computer had yielded up a faint trail that led here, to one of the newest and flashiest of the mega-casino resorts - The Galaxy.
* * *
The Galaxy Casino had numerous security rooms both above and below the casino floor. From the rooms above, one could watch gamblers and dealers through one-way glass panels in the floor, as gods on Olympus loomed over the interesting doings of mortals. These rooms were ultra-secure and dimly lit. They were equipped with motion-sensitive cameras, telescopic lenses and a vast array of state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.
In other words, Mycroft Holmes was in his element.
In the near-darkness, Lestrade and Mycroft scanned targeted tables. Their intent was to detect, if possible, the use of the trigger devices - such as Moran had been caught using at Crockford's- by shadowy teams that they theorized were under Moriarty's control.
Lestrade was accustomed to long hours on stakeout and was well able to endure the mind-numbing task of scanning the swarms of gamblers. He watched, relaxed and still. However, he could not avoid noting that the ordinarily glacially composed Mycroft Holmes was restless.
"Look," Lestrade said, "what do you think of those two?" He beckoned for Mycroft to look. Below, two men jostled each other, spilling drinks, making a minor production of their collision. Mycroft looked down intently, moving closer. Their shoulders brushed.
"Hmmm," Mycroft intoned. This sent a whisper of a tingle up the back of Lestrade's neck. He focused harder on the scene below. "I think . . .not," Mycroft declared. "But -- do you want to --?" Mycroft glanced down at Lestrade.
"---want to . . .what?" Lestrade asked, confused. They were both speaking very softly. Which, Lestrade realised, was unnecessary. They had been assured these rooms were fully soundproofed. There was a long pause.
"Have them picked up," Mycroft finally said. Neither of them was looking below now. Lestrade found he didn't care for the dim light, he couldn't really make out Mycroft's expression. "Can't be too careful," Mycroft added.
". . . can't be too careful," Lestrade agreed. "Let's call it." He called it down and they observed the silent pantomime as security tried to remove the men from the casino floor with a minimum of disruption. Still, their body language seemed genuinely indignant. Probably, these men were not who they were seeking. In a few moments the radio crackled: "Negative."
Mycroft immediately withdrew to an observation window at the far end of the room. He turned his back on Lestrade and watched the activity below for a long time. His restlessness had vanished; he was quite still. He did not look at Lestrade again.
* * *
The officers of the Galaxy's security team invited Mycroft and Lestrade to dinner in one of the lavish restaurants in the vast casino complex. They were all former Hong Kong detectives, plucked at the height of their careers to this burgeoning city, a Chinese gold rush funneling the vast river of illicit wealth through the casinos.
Mycroft and Lestrade were enjoying an exquisite banquet of Hong Kong- style cuisine washed down by free-flowing wine and liquor. The room was an ornate fantasy of red and gold, the colours of luck. For art, there were huge televisions in baroque gold frames flashing a different painting - Monet, Van Gogh -- every few minutes.
Their hosts, though outwardly respectful, were quietly amused by Mycroft and Lestrade's mission.
"Macau is a perfect storm for money-laundering," Lestrade was saying earnestly. " Any currency can be changed for casino chips here. Gold and gems change hands under the table. Questionable assets become gambling wins."
"Macau has signed the most recent accords. Every effort is made to prevent money laundering in the reputable casinos," their chief, Wen Ho, declared smoothly.
"No one can stop the flow of money through Macau," said another officer, a short, stocky man named Jimmy Han. Mycroft had learned that Jimmy Han was the only officer not from Hong Kong. Han was from Shanghai. "It is, what do you say - the golden goose. So, you say you suspect a few cheats, trick devices - it is impossible that they could succeed. Not on a large scale. A pebble thrown in the river. Everything here is computerized. We would know."
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a look. Mycroft believed that Moriarty was also capable of manipulating the casino's computer - a feat vastly more challenging that breaking into the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, or even the Tower of London. A challenge worthy of Moriarty's talents. Even Mycroft could acknowledge that.
When his thoughts drifted down such paths, he always felt a sharp sort of pain that had at first puzzled him, but which he finally had concluded was the feeling of missing his brother's unmatched brilliance. Missing Sherlock, in fact. He drank some wine. Then he drank some more. He now regretted never having developed Sherlock's trick of deletion. He tried to erase from his mind the echo of John Watson's parting words in London.
On one thing, he and John agreed.
It was time for Moriarty to pay.
* * *
Mycroft Holmes' ancestors had, regrettably, participated in such barbaric Imperialistic pursuits as African big-game hunting. There was a trophy room in the Holmes estate. As a child, the staring heads on the wall had terrified him. But Mycroft had loved one book that he had appropriated from the room: an obscure old hunting guide's memoir, filled with sepia photographs that appalled him. But it contained thrilling tales of adventure.
Today, as an agent of the British government wielding diverse covert powers, Mycroft found it instructive to contemplate certain advice given by the author of that antique volume. In particular, advice concerning the appropriate means of hunting the Big Five of African game: African Elephant, Black Rhinoceros, Cape Buffalo, Lion, and Leopard. All but one of the Big Five were known for aggression: likely to stand their ground, and charge any attacker. The leopard was different.
The leopard’s success is due to its opportunistic hunting behaviour and notorious ability for stealth. The leopard consumes any prey that it can hunt down. Of the Big Five, it is the most difficult to hunt: a leopard will evade detection when it senses danger. Baiting is the method most likely to catch a leopard. A prey species is used as bait. The leopard will only approach under cover of night. The hunter must be prepared to take his shot in complete darkness.
The great game which had begun in London as a sort of psychopathic game of chess had become much more primitive. But no less deadly. A big game hunt, with none of the modern advantages accorded to the hunter. This hunt was kill or be killed. Hunting the most elusive of prey required the proper bait to draw it out of hiding.
The most attractive bait, Mycroft now believed, was to be found here, in Macau.
* * *
Mycroft watched Lestrade chatting quietly with a tall, elegant officer, Sun Li. Mycroft wondered if she had chosen to sit with Lestrade herself, or had been ordered to do so. Lestrade was asking Officer Li why she had left the Hong Kong force.
"I grew weary of cleaning up the mess. Never ending," she said very calmly. Her musical voice belied the steel in her eyes. "Hard to close cases. Not like your Scotland Yard," she said.
"We do all right," Lestrade said. He had decided to maintain his undercover look even in Macau, and so was not dressed in a dark suit like the others. He wore a black shirt and his hair worn slicked back. He carried it well, Mycroft found himself observing idly. Very well indeed. Like his departed brother but less neurotic, he liked to think, Mycroft was always observing.
Tonight, Mycroft observed that Lestrade he seemed very comfortable with this woman. They leaned in toward each other to speak over the din of this lively restaurant. Mycroft found that he didn't quite like this. Lestrade, he had noticed, was exceptionally easy to talk to. Mycroft was well aware of his own skill set, but he didn't count easy bonhomie amongst them. His own work, the ordering of covert minions, devising and foiling secret plans, did not lend itself to camaraderie. With anyone. It hadn't for years.
He regarded Lestrade with what he supposed must be a sort of envy. Despite the unrelenting pressures of his duties at the Yard, there was still a core of Lestrade that had apparently resisted becoming bitter. A burnout case. Lestrade was not that. Not yet. Mycroft found himself hoping very much that he never would be, before admonishing himself sternly to attend to the matter at hand.
It was entirely possible that one of the officers at this very table, perhaps even the so-elegant Miss Li, was part of Moriarty's web. "And how do you measure success? For your -- employer? What are their expectations?" Mycroft put in smoothly, face impassive.
Sun Li looked momentarily irritated with Mycroft. He wondered if this as because of his insinuation, or because he had disturbed the flow of her tete-a-tete with Lestrade. He considered smoking a cigarette. He needed it. He had a case in the pocket of his jacket. He recalled that Lestrade had conquered a fiendishly stubborn cigarette habit and had complained about the ever-present cigarette smoke in Macau. He fingered his cigarette case and then left it.
No cigarette.
"Here at Galaxy, what is expected is that the money keeps flowing. If our guests feel too . . oppressed . . by security, the money will not flow." She smiled, as if to suggest the foolishness of their errand here in Macau. "And so, by doing little, we are considered a great success."
Lestrade looked like he was trying to decide if Sun Li was being ironic, but then she flung back her long hair. This was a gesture that Mycroft recognized as a time-honored and universal flirting technique. It appeared that Sun Li had decided to unleash her considerable assets in Lestrade's direction. Lestrade was certainly not pulling away.
Now she was offering Lestrade a tidbit from her own plate.
Lestrade politely declined.
Mycroft stood to excuse himself. He walked away from the table out of sight of the officers. He pulled out his mobile. He worked it, then watched for the result.
Sun Li was staring at her mobile in confusion. She stood up, making profuse apologies for her rudeness: a security malfunction in the casino required her immediate attention. Mycroft surreptitiously rejoined the group, suppressing a really inappropriate smile, just as the men all stood politely to wish her good night. Sun Li flashed a rather smoudering glance at Lestrade and held out her hand, and Lestrade shook it. Her fellow officers had no qualms at all about watching her go until she disappeared in the crowds.
Lestrade felt the sharp corner of a little card that Sun Li had pressed into his hand when she shook it. He didn't open it, though. He looked across the table.
It appeared that he and Mycroft were the only ones that weren't watching Officer Li's departure with rapt attention.
Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, then raised his glass in a silent toast. Lestrade's heart skipped a beat as he crumpled the card and threw it away under the table, then raised his glass in return.
* * *
After dinner, the officers promised that they would be shown "the real Macau," a classic bar, Tommy Tang's. Mycroft and Lestrade were driven down the Cotai Strip, a cacophony of rainbow-hued flashing lights. It dwarfed Las Vegas, from what Lestrade had been told. He had never been to Las Vegas. His soon-to-be ex-wife, Janet, had wanted to go. She had always been drawn to flashing lights, parties, games. But it had never seemed to be the right time. Probably, it never had been, for them.
He had once, with Colin, spent a weekend in Blackpool. They lost all their money the first night, and had to hitch it all the way back to London.
They passed a long, enigmatic sign. The City of Dreams Will Soon Be A Reality, it announced alluringly. Dreams. He couldn't recall, really, the last time he had permitted himself any.
He glanced at Mycroft, who was staring out the window with apparent fascination, although his thoughts seemed far away, Lestrade thought. He had a fleeting wish that they were actually on holiday. The flashing lights and raw, aggressive glamour here were filling him with a strange, restless energy.
It felt like anything might happen.
* * *
Old Town Macau.
The architecture shrank. No longer titanic but a jumble of mixed European and Chinese buildings jammed together in mazelike streets. It was near midnight.
"Macau was a trading outpost of the Portuguese," the chief, Wen Ho, said. He thumped on the driver's shoulder and the car pulled over. "We should walk. This is old Macau. Not to be missed."
There were not many tourists out this time of night, but the narrow streets were teeming with people, street vendors, pedalcars, groups of businessmen like themselves, out on a bar prowl. The group walked a few blocks, taking in the sights. A surprisingly huge European cathedral dome loomed overhead, a counterpoint to the glittering Cotai Strip.
They turned a corner, and Lestrade noticed that Mycroft wasn't there.
Lestrade swung around, backtracked, shoving his way through the crowds, increasingly uneasy. Mycroft's height should render him easily visible.
"Mycroft!" he shouted. No one turned.
But out of the corner of his eye he saw a fast, violent movement and he lunged toward it.
* * *
Mycroft was grappling with a small wiry man in a dark hooded track suit. He was trying to drag Mycroft into a dark doorway.
Lestrade caught the glint of a blade and something inside snapped. In an adrenaline-sparked haze he was ripping him away from Mycroft, pounding the man's face with his fist. The man tried to scramble away, kicking viciously, but Lestrade wouldn't let go, and then they were both down in the street.
The man thrashed, hit back. Lestrade bashed his head against the pavement. Mycroft was here now, holding him down. Lestrade emptied his pockets while the man groaned and spat blood, dazed. His fist throbbed and he wondered if he'd broken a knuckle or two.
"Who sent you," Lestrade growled, scanning the pile. Five watches. A small roll of cash. Two iPods. A common pickpocket, then. One of the watches he recognised as Mycroft's.
"Are you all right," he panted, a little breathless. Mycroft's face was bleeding a little, nothing serious, and this made Lestrade want to bash the pickpocket's head again. He made a strong effort, and didn't.
"Who sent you," he demanded again. The man feigned incomprehension.
Mycroft said, "He's just a common thief. He only wanted my watch."
"He had a knife."
"That was me. Actually."
"Should we take him to the police?"
"That would take all night. . . I'd rather not."
Lestrade gave the thief a hard shove. "Stay away from us, right? Get out of here," he yelled. He knew better than to warn him off stealing. But he didn't give him back his loot, either. The thief ran off, pressing a hand to his bleeding face.
Lestrade stood up, his knees a little unsteady from the adrenaline spike that had shot through his heart. They just stood there a moment, leaning against the wall. Lestrade handed Mycroft his watch. He fought an unaccountable impulse to put it on his wrist himself and then he was angry all over again.
"Jesus, Mycroft, why didn't you just let it go? You could have gotten killed-- never pull a knife unless you bloody well know how to use it- " he was yelling. He tried to temper the harshness, but now, the thought that the knife might have been turned against him--
"I know it was - foolish," Mycroft said quietly. He was, as always, calm and composed. "But . . . it's my grandfather's watch. So you see, I couldn't let it go. Anyway. Thank you."
They looked each other over. Mycroft's face had scraped against the bricks. Lestrade's own hand was throbbing and bleeding.
"I don't know about you," Lestrade finally said, "but I'd as soon forget about Tommy Tang's."
"Would you?" Mycroft said, seeming surprised, possibly. If Mycroft Holmes was ever surprised, Lestrade thought. "Well. What do you want to do?"
They looked around. Over the rooftops, the multicoloured glow of the Cotai Strip lit up the night sky.
* * *
They found a cab and headed back toward their hotel, Chinese pop music blaring from the tinny radio. The night was warm and humid, and they cracked the windows to try and get some air.
After just a few blocks, far from the Galaxy, they hit gridlock and the air in the car stopped flowing altogether. Lestrade stripped off his leather jacket. After a few minutes of possibly trying to maintain decorum, Mycroft removed off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Lestrade wrapped a handkerchief around his torn knuckles.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft said. "I should have been more. . . attentive to our situation. I should have seen him coming. It won't happen again." He couldn't tell Lestrade that his mind had been occupied by certain confusing and impossible thoughts - dreams - brought on, no doubt, by jet lag, too much wine at dinner, and the oppressive heat all around them. He watched a spot of blood seep through the handkerchief on Lestrade's hand and he flashed back to John's hand, crashing into the doorframe in 221b, bleeding. Pressing down on his cock. Another impossible dream. A nightmare, maybe.
Time to wake up, he admonished himself.
He caught Lestrade's eyes on him, noticing him noticing the blood. Lestrade tightened the handkerchief. Flexed his fist.
"No, it won't happen again," Lestrade said. His voice low and determined. "Let me have a look at that," he demanded, pointing at the raw scrape along Mycroft's cheekbone. He turned Mycroft's face to the light from the street. It was already swelling. He swore under his breath and brushed the grit from the shallow wound. He noticed a fading bruise and recently-healed cut on Mycroft's lower lip. He frowned. But the touch of his fingertips made Mycroft pull back a little.
"Sorry -- I didn't mean --". He felt the colour climbing to his face.
There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the back of the sweltering cab. They stared at each other for a long minute.
"Can't you move faster," Mycroft said over the din of the radio, "we-- we need to get back to our hotel."
The cabbie's reply was unintelligible. He leaned on his horn, but nothing was moving. Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a look, and surged with one accord out of the cab, Mycroft tossing a few crumpled bills through the window.
They started walking past the clogged traffic. As they walked, the Old Town was left behind and the otherworldly panorama of the Cotai Strip, like a million stars, was spread out before them. Lestrade walked faster to keep up with Mycroft's long-legged stride. His mind drifted to his empty hotel room. To Mycroft loosening his tie, his long pale throat. It started to rain.
He pulled his leather coat over his head. It became so waterlogged that he gave up and let the rain pour over his face.
"I counted on you," Lestrade said.
"Whatever for?" Mycroft asked, pushing his dripping hair back.
"Umbrella."
"In my room, I'm afraid. I do apologize," he said, "Again."
"Don't," Lestrade said. He smiled. "It's good."
Mycroft looked down at his shirt and tie, drenched. Lestrade was right. It did feel . . .good. This was nothing like London rain. This was sudden, warm, and hard. He watched Lestrade, turning his face up to the rain with uncomplicated pleasure.
They had taken a false turning in these twisty streets. "This is wrong," Mycroft shouted over the torrent of rain. He reached out tentatively, and his hand closed around Lestrade's arm, pulling him back in the other direction.
"No, no, it isn’t," Lestrade said. He looked at Mycroft's hand gripping his arm, warmer than the rain. He considered the feeling.
It had been a long, long time.
But he wasn't at all confused about what it meant.
"What I think I mean," he said, "is yes."
Mycroft pulled him in closer, reached out, gently pushed dripping hair back from Lestrade's face. "Are you quite sure," he said diffidently. This really couldn't be happening to him. Things like this didn't happen in the orderly, secretive world of Mycroft Holmes.
"I want to find out," Lestrade said. And then Mycroft was bending down and their mouths met a little awkwardly. Lestrade was alive to the strange feeling of kissing a man, Mycroft, like this. Strange and wonderful. It came to him then, strongly, that was what he wanted. He must have wanted this, wanted Mycroft, for some time. His heart was jackhammering as if in fear, but it wasn't, it wasn't, he told himself.
"Hotel," Mycroft said, very fast before he lost his nerve, unable to believe his own boldness. He half expected Lestrade to punch him, or walk away. Under no circumstance could this be happening. Lestrade was an unbelievably attractive man, inside and out. Gorgeous and fine. Married and straight. He ought to know. The sort of man that didn’t look twice at him. Except that he couldn’t ignore the fact that Lestrade had been looking at him. More than twice. And this was confusing but it had become increasingly impossible to ignore. The only explanation was that he would just wake up. Or, Lestrade would.
But Lestrade was pulling on his arm now, and they retraced their steps, back toward the lights.
* * *
Mycroft retrieved two towels from the bath and began toweling off his dripping hair. Something to do to calm himself, the nervous tremor in his hands. Then he switched out the light, feeling better in the relative anonymity of darkness, but then huge windows illuminated them with the panorama of the million lights of the Cotai Strip.
"Sit down, please," he said. Lestrade sat on the edge of the bed. It was cooler in the room than the sweltering night air, and now he shivered a little in his wet clothes. Clothes that he wanted to strip off, the thought of which ought to be terrifying, but wasn't. Mycroft was gently toweling off his hair. It felt wonderful. He didn't think anyone had done that for him since he was a child. His wife surely never would.
"I think," Mycroft said softly, apparently a mind-reader, "that we ought to get out of these wet things. Don't you?" Lestrade nodded. After the electric newness of their first touch in the street, he felt a languid passivity. He probably would do anything Mycroft asked in that soft, civilized voice. Anything at all.
He started to undo his shirt buttons, clumsy with his bound and swollen hand. Mycroft stopped him.
"Allow me," he murmured and gently but rapidly stripped Lestrade garments, then his own. Lestrade sat still and quiet on the edge of the bed, watching, trying to come to grips with what this was. What was happening in this very moment. He felt alive, present, in a way he couldn't define and everything started to seem sharper. His nerves pricked and sang and his heart skidded and thumped. Mycroft could probably hear his breathing coming faster.
"Are you quite sure?" Mycroft asked. "You've . . . never been with a man." It wasn't a question.
Lestrade shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Closest was Colin, at uni. But -- he didn't want--" Lestrade couldn't choke the words out. It was painful even after all these years.
Mycroft felt a pang and flash of anger at the obviously profoundly idiotic Colin. He looked at Greg, sitting there, painfully gorgeous, expectant and more than a little afraid, he thought, though he was hiding it well. Afraid of what was happening. Of letting Mycroft touch him like this. Of facing himself. Mycroft knew very well what it was to deny his needs. Who he was. It was never worth the cost.
"Greg," he said seriously. "This part of you-- here, now," he pressed his hand to Greg’s chest, over his heart, trying to show that he didn't just mean impulsive sex - "you have to let yourself take what you really need. Won't you let me. . .take care of you? Just for tonight," he added hastily. Anything else would be rash presumption. That this was anything more than a brief, impossible encounter under exotic circumstances.
Something that couldn't survive the morning's light.
Greg was quiet for a long moment. Then he took his hand with his good hand with an almost shy smile that went straight to his heart and unlocked it.
Mycroft tried to remember to keep hold of the key.
* * *
Mycroft knelt down with his heart now thudding and skipping little beats. Lestrade was all strong angles and firm muscle, silvered black hair on his head, down his chest, framing his cock that was already temptingly hard, long and thick and so ready to be touched. He felt his own cock lengthen and throb in sympathy. He reached out, hesitated. He felt an almost overwhelming responsibility here, and more than half expected Lestrade to bolt up out of the bed at any moment as he realised how far things had gone.
His own familiar (usually fairly successful) repertoire somehow seemed all wrong. He pushed away the distant unhappy memory of his own first time, and also of the most recent: the burning memory of John, that terrible night in 221b. If this was the only time he would ever be allowed this, he wanted Greg to remember it as something beautiful. And so, he held himself back and gently took Lestrade’s mouth, open and uncertain and so yearning under his that it made his head swim.
But far from bolting out of the bed, Lestrade’s kisses were urgent. He stopped and held Mycroft’s face so as not to hurt his scraped cheekbone, and kissed and nipped at the sensitive bruise on his lower lip. He remembered how that bruise had been made, John slamming him against the wall, and felt hot all over.
There wasn’t anything for it but to push Lestrade down on the bed as Lestrade pulled him on top, arms and legs clumsy. Lestrade groaned when their cocks touched for the first time, rubbing together so hard and tight.
"Slow down," he gasped. Mycroft was pierced with an unfamiliar deep feeling at the craving that flared up in Greg’s dark eyes as he finally allowed himself to look his fill at Mycroft’s long lean body, touching the thicket of red-gold hair on his chest, slowly trailing an exploratory hand lower, his tentative touches more inflaming than any practiced technique could possibly be. Mycroft whispered, "Yes, slow down, god - we can’t -" His thoughts drifted against his own will. Of pushing him over, pulling him up on his knees. Things got much worse as their hands found each other’s cocks and began stroking, pulling. It felt divine.
"Wait," he whispered, and stumbled to the closet where he flung open his suitcase, searching for dimly remembered treasure. A small box of condoms, an unopened bottle of lube. Purchased over-optimistically for his last trip, a flirtation that had gone horribly wrong. He pushed this memory away too and pulled his attention back where he wanted to be. Here, now.
When he returned, Greg was lying back against the pillows, radiating want. "You’re so far away," Greg said. Mycroft felt a tugging at the strong chain that held the key fast to his heart, and so he closed his eyes. He reminded himself to remain detached, where he was safe. He concentrated on warming the little bottle in his hand and then poured some out and slicked Greg with his hand.
Greg’s body against his felt solid and strong and right while his cock rutted, hesitantly at first, in the palm of his hand. He stroked, urging him, feeling a heady sense of power that he was giving this beautiful man such pleasure, so easily. And there was no mistaking that he was feeling pleasure. But he wanted to give him something finer than the stroke of his hand, and so he laid him back on the smooth sheets and felt him tense a little. "Shhhh," he said. "It’s all right. I want you in my mouth," he said, and it God, it was so true, he thought, even as he told himself firmly not to get lost and tried to imagine himself somewhere high above, looking down as they had watched through the one-way glass of those hidden windows.
Greg closed his eyes, breathing, "please --- yes." Mycroft had rather big hands but his cock filled his palm, long and heavy and nearly pulsing with want. He gave it an exploratory lick of his tongue, stroking away the remains of the lube. Greg whimpered as Mycroft leisurely took his time, the smooth head pushing against the back of his throat, the tension building and building as Greg whispered a little nervously, "ah, what are you doing to me?" It might have been interesting to play with him, draw it out until need became excruciating. This gorgeous man's own wife obviously hadn't taken care of what she had for a very long time. But his own need was becoming insistent despite his efforts at detachment.
He took a single slick finger and teased it gently at his opening, not pressing in. Yet. In his heat-addled mind he imagined his cock pressing there against that virgin hole, and he swallowed down so hard at the thought that Greg suddenly stilled and gripped his head and came forcefully into his mouth with a shout, gorgeous tang and salt almost bringing his own end. Greg murmured, "Oh god, I can't believe what you feel like," as he ran his hands along Mycroft's shoulders, in his hair, which felt wonderful and sweet. Mycroft slid up, pressed a salty kiss into Greg's mouth. Greg looking unbelievably undone against the rumpled sheets. He drank in Greg’s expression, flushed and sloe-eyed from orgasm, feeling almost astonishment. He couldn’t remember the last time any lover of his had looked at him with anything more than a mixture of entitlement and greed, even ennui. He drank in the heady perfume of their desire, their warmed skins giving off a scent that was male and raw.
Greg took his hand and pressed his palm to his lips. "Thank you," he whispered haltingly. "I want to do that for you - how you made me feel -- "
What Mycroft felt in that moment was more fear than desire, maybe; and so he silenced whatever lust-fueled declaration Greg would have made with another demanding kiss. Mycroft ran his hand down his thighs, to be rewarded by little telltale bucks and thrusts. A wave of painful desire slammed through him. Before he could stop the words he said, "Not yet. I know what you want. Let me fuck you," his heart hammering, immediately afraid that this would end everything. Crossing the line.
"You know what I want," Greg repeated the words, the weight of them. "I want it," he said softly, but his voice was roughened by lust. "Turn over," Mycroft whispered.
Here at last was that magnificent arse, high and firm and pale, bounded by fading tan lines. He smoothed it all over, warm skin under his hand, then gently slipped his long slicked fingers into the cleft, finding his hole, circling it softly. He leaned down and pressed wet kisses against the back of Greg's neck, uncaring now that he'd plunged so deeply into this potent intimacy, the contrived distance closing in fast. He knew he'd regret this later, the pain would be that much worse, obviously; but he was too far gone. Greg's moans at his touch urged him on, and he slipped in the first finger. So tight. "Is it all right," he whispered against his ear. Greg whispered, "wait, wait - just stop," and there he stopped, feeling the tense quivering of the ring of muscle flexing, resisting.
They stayed like that for a long minute until Greg nodded, the fingers of his good hand clutching the edge of the bed, his eyes screwed shut at the intense new feeling as Mycroft started to work in and out of him. "More," he finally groaned, bloody gorgeous word, and with an answering groan Mycroft pressed in with a second finger, feeling the tightness slowing giving under his hand. He kept at this for a long while, no sound but Greg’s increasingly undone cries. At the third finger, Greg cried out loudly and thrust back, up against his hand, hard. Mycroft felt his own cock fairly weeping, leaking precome down its length onto the back of Greg’s thighs, where it glistened.
He slowly withdrew his fingers and ripped open the condom, rolled it on, feeling Greg’s muscles tense again in anticipation. "Now," Mycroft whispered into Greg's ear, and pulled him up on his knees.
* * *
Greg’s body and mind opened to new sensation.
He’d been faithful to his wife, despite her increasing disenchantment with his detachment. He knew why. He hadn’t allowed himself to take what he really needed. Not ever. Mycroft was opening the door to that place, leading him inside and with every passing minute, it felt less taboo, more pure and right. His self-consciousness fell away under gently passionate touches that never let up.
He felt almost painful emptiness when Mycroft pulled his slicked fingers out. He could hear the condom wrapper, a sharp crackle. In the afterglow of his orgasm, his senses reeled and he trembled as he felt the knob of Mycroft’s cock pressing firmly against his hole. Mycroft was stroking his back with his hands. It calmed him and he rested his head against the pillows, his heart pounding. And then Mycroft was pushing inside, stretching him, so wide and tight it seemed impossible that he could take this, and he shook harder as Mycroft grasped his hips and slowly, gently, buried his cock inside him. He stopped, poised, just letting him feel himself be filled. It burned. The stretching was just this side of pain. It felt like being taken over, invaded. He felt himself blush hotly at how much he wanted it.
"Are you all right," Mycroft murmured softly and he couldn’t do anything else but gasp "Just - stop," because he didn’t really know. His entire world was falling apart, he was melting together with this man, losing himself. And for a few moments Mycroft held himself very still, panting hard, letting him adjust. After a time he felt a change, something in himself released and the burning receded. He was exquisitely aware of every inch of Mycroft’s hard length sunk into him. Mycroft felt it too because he started rocking it, and for long time they were quiet, almost hypnotised by the rhythm. He felt another orgasm unfurling from his the base of his cock, heat shooting straight up through him and setting his soul on fire.
Mycroft’s hand reached around to stroke him and at the touch of his hand he collapsed into long, shuddering orgasm as Mycroft held him up. Through the haze he felt Mycroft shudder too as he came inside him.
Time passed. Mycroft and Greg touched each other gently, exploring each other’s bodies with less urgency but no less desire. There was a suggestion that the sky was starting to lighten.
Soon the brilliant lights would be extinguished.
* * *
In a crooked nameless street in the Old Town, a young street tough known at Little Eel, because he was so slippery in getting in and out of difficult spots, was bowing nervously before a huge, blandly composed man in a rumpled Western-style suit sitting behind a desk, surrounded by stacks of foreign currency. More money than the youth had ever seen in his life. Today might be the day he was finally allowed to partake of the vast wealth that surrounded him everywhere, but was so much more difficult than it ought to be to grasp.
Beads of nervous sweat dripped from his brow but he tried not to appear afraid. He held out his precious offerings with a hand that was reasonably steady. One of the huge man's gun-toting henchmen took them and laid them respectfully before their boss.
The huge man looked carefully at the photo that had been snapped by Little Eel's camera phone. Poor quality, but it was adequate. He looked at the crumpled business card.
Mycroft Holmes, Deputy Director, Security Service, Special Projects Branch, Thames House, 11 Millbank, London SW1.
"Which one is Holmes?" he growled. He was in a temper today, the weather was unseasonably hot. He had lost 2 million Yuan yesterday. Not a vast sum. But still. He was supposed to believe that his boat had sunk. He would find out the truth.
But family came first.
The youth quivered but pointed confidently enough to the taller man with the devilish-looking reddish-brown hair.
"You are certain?"
Little Eel gulped and nodded vigorously. "The other one is Scotland Yard," he said the carefully memorized phrase proudly.
He would show General Shan he could be useful.
* * *
"Why now? Why did you wait so long?" Mycroft asked. He himself had "come out" in his mid-twenties, a deeply wounding process that had alienated both of his parents for a long while, a breach he felt had never truly been repaired. His first fumblings toward relationships more fulfilling than brief fling had met with resounding failure; he did not consider himself terribly handsome, he was reserved and formal and suffered from a form of self-consciousness almost bordering on stage fright where sex was concerned. He had overcome some of these impediments, slowly and painfully. Not completely.
But he could not imagine that Greg Lestrade, warm and charismatic, seemingly possessed of an effortless core of happiness in addition to truly spectacular good looks, should have had any of the same problems. It was puzzling.
"After Colin and I - after he told me he couldn’t be with me, not like that . . . I married Janet straight away. You could call it a rebound. But. . .I thought we could be happy, you know, regular cop, married, regular life. I told myself the whole thing with Colin was a phase, you know? She got bored pretty quick. Not saying she didn't have reason. It didn't really work. For either of us."
"Why ever did you stay?"
"Habit. Work. I just threw myself into the Yard. It'll take all you can give, and then some. Religion. Our families are both staunch Catholic. There's never been a divorce in my family. Till now. Janet and me. I thought it was just the way things were. She was right to pull the plug," he sighed. "She didn't want me, hadn't for years. And I, well - I suppose I didn't fight hard enough." Lestrade looked up, smiling ruefully. He hadn’t spilled any of this to anyone, ever.
"You have to fight for yourself, now," Mycroft heard himself saying.
In his heart, he heard himself say, I’ll fight for you, too.
He kissed him gently, went to pull up the covers. Lestrade stayed his hand.
* * *
General Shan looked for a long moment at the tiny photograph of Mycroft Holmes' face. He had seen pictures of Sherlock Holmes, who had committed suicide. A cowardly act. This Mycroft did not resemble his brother strongly, but that was of no consequence. He himself did not much resemble his sister, the former General Shan. Murdered in London. Another cowardly act. A sniper's bullet, he had been told.
Now that he himself was out of prison, it was time to balance the books.
The loss of the Empress' jade pin was not trivial, but the murder of his revered sister demanded justice. Blood for blood. He had never believed the fanciful story of Sherlock Holmes' nearly magical discovery of the peerless jade pin, adorning the hair of a common secretary, like something out of a children’s folk tale. No. He was certain his relentless and fearless sister had recovered the jade pin herself. She would not have failed the Black Lotus in this.
But this Sherlock Holmes had caught her unawares. A cowardly sniper's bullet. Sherlock Holmes had stolen the jade pin from his sister, and invented his ludicrous story, which the Western press had believed. Sherlock Holmes had had some sort of henchman. A gunman, who perhaps had pulled the trigger. This man had disappeared.
But this did not mean that General Shan was without options. It was no longer possible to take revenge on Sherlock Holmes himself. But it was very important that a message be sent. Those who crossed the Black Lotus would pay, with their own blood. Or their family's.
The elder Holmes brother, last of the line. He would pay for his perfidious brother Sherlock’s crimes.
"Follow this Mycroft Holmes until I send for you. Someone will call you." He tossed a new mobile at Little Eel, who caught it. "If I am satisfied," General Shan said, "you shall have your reward." His henchman grinned and pointed to his foot. Little Eel swelled with pride. The Black Lotus tattoo. “If am not . . .”
Little Eel was ushered out. He made his way by circuitous routes until he reached a service entrance to the Galaxy hotel, unobserved, just as the lights of the strip were being extinguished. The morning sun would be here soon.
* * *
"Let me look at you just a little more," Greg said, a little teasingly. Mycroft understood. He still remembered the rush of being allowed to touch another man’s body for the first time. It hadn’t been anything like this. Still, he didn’t want to deny Lestrade anything he could safely give. He laid back and let Lestrade look his fill, but was surprised when Lestrade became still, frowning, then looking thunderously angry.
"Where did you get these," he growled through clenched teeth, lightly touching the outlines of two near perfect oval bruises on either hipbone, fading but still visible to Lestrade’s cop’s eye. He cursed himself for a fool, for not anticipating this. He swallowed hard.
"It - I -" the words wouldn’t come.
Lestrade pressed his hand over one of the bruises as though he couldn’t bear to look. "Mycroft. Do you know how many beaten up women, and men, I’ve seen with those same marks? Rape victims. You can’t tell me it didn’t happen. Somebody - pounded you hard. Very, very hard. Up against a wall. Or a hard floor. You were hurt. That’s where you cut your lower lip, too. Bruises exactly the same age," he said quietly. He touched the barely healed wound on his temple. Moran’s bullet. He knew about that one. "This is different. This was Moran. That warning shot." Mycroft nodded solemnly.
"Tell me who the fuck did the others," Lestrade demanded softly, reasonably.
He could tell Lestrade it was none of his concern. None of his business. But Lestrade’s dark eyes were boring into his, and behind the anger he saw fear, fear for him. And then it was impossible not to tell the truth.
"John - we were drinking. That’s one thing. And he was very very angry, you see. At me. He . . .blames me. For many things. About Sherlock. He’s not entirely wrong," he stammered.
"John? John Watson?" Lestrade was very still. "I can’t believe - " he bit his tongue. Mycroft wouldn’t lie to him about such a thing. This had to be true. He felt a sick burning and Mycroft’s eyes (how had he failed to notice their blue-green depths before?) were getting wider and so he swiftly mastered his anger. Anger was the last thing Mycroft needed to see, needed to feel. A surprising protective tenderness filled him and he pulled the covers up over those bruised hipbones, and planted a chaste kiss on Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft looked up at him, amazed, ashamed maybe. Lestrade felt almost like crying.
His wounded fist clenched and this time he didn’t mind the pain.
"When I see him," he said calmly, "he’s going to pay for that."
They laid down side by side, listening to each other’s breathing, watching out the window as the glittering lights were slowly extinguished.
* * *
:
Listen to A Million Stars
To be continued
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