MMOM Day 25-"Sacrifice" Sherlock Jim/Mycroft Rating-R Wordcount-865
Title: Sacrifice
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Jim/Mycroft
Rating: R
Wordcount: 865
Notes: Written for MMOM 2012, Day 25. Inspired by a re-watch of The Reichenbach Fall. Beta'd by the always-awesome michelleann68. Comments and concrit welcome.
Summary: It's not an interrogation; it's a seduction.
Hello, Mycroft.
I know who you are long before you introduce yourself. I can see your brother in you. Not the features so much, but the disdain that oozes from every pore. You burn with the same contempt for humanity that he does. You both lie to yourselves about it, of course. He solves the petty mysteries of the mundane world, but only to massage his own throbbing ego. Meanwhile, you serve the Crown and delude yourself you’re actually make the world a better place. I know better. You’re as addicted to your schemes as Sherlock is to his puzzles. You two are so much alike. No wonder you can barely tolerate being in the same room for more than a few minutes.
I suppose I should thank you for the respite from my daily pummeling at the hands of your minions, but you know that doesn’t really bother me. If you thought you’d get anything out it, I’d still be in there playing punching bag. You’ve finally figured it out though. You know I’m something special. Not just a master criminal or terrorist or whatever other names you want to brand me with, but the man who beat Sherlock Holmes. That’s why I’m sitting here opposite you at a cosy interrogation table, being offered a cup of tea and even a cigarette, even though smoking is so very strictly forbidden.
It’s not even an interrogation any more, is it? It’s a dance. A flirtation. Seduction even, though lord knows I lost interest in sex long before I committed my first murder. It’s all so boring. My cock gets hard. Spunk shoots out. What’s the point?
Not you though, eh Mycroft. What do you really see when you look at me? A bit of rough you might have had one night in the shadows near the Marble Arch? Nobody really needs to do that anymore, you know? You could just come out and march down the Mall with a boyfriend at a Gay Pride parade. Have Elton John sing at your commitment ceremony if you can stand hearing that crap. No. That’s not what you want. You need it to be something dark and depraved. Maybe you see your little brother when he was young and vulnerable? Is that it? How did the genius get that way, I wonder. Not so smart; anyone can be clever, but so terribly fucked up. What did you do to him, or keep someone else from doing? There’s already rumours about a drug habit. That doesn’t come cheap. Tales to tell there, I bet.
I “slip up” and give you a clue to the location of my favorite Jihadist. You’re good. There’s barely a quirk at the left side of your thin lips, but I know you might as well be standing on the table doing the Hokey Cokey. Then I tell you the price for more: Sherlock. Tit for tat, as it were. You narrow your eyes at me. Shake your head in disgust. Call me “vulgar,” because that’s the worst thing you can say. You stand up, start to walk away, let me know I can expect an especially energetic session with the boys. I shrug it off. You know better and I know you know better. You turn around, teeth practically grinding together. You must be so jealous of him. Oh, Mycroft, I could tell you things about Sherlock and that little terrier of his, but you might not want to hear it. Besides, I’d probably be lying. I’m pretty sure Sherlock has about as much interest in the act of physical love as I do.
“Sherlock was a difficult child,” you start, and I can hear the sigh that goes along with those words. That’s the thrill you really need; betrayal. You hate your brother as much as you love him and I’m giving you a way to destroy him. A slight flush comes to your pale cheeks. You must be aroused. You’d like to open your trousers, wouldn’t you? Ease your prick out for a little friction. I’ll bet it’s slender. Thin enough to take a boy without doing too much damage. You wouldn’t take the risk of exposing yourself, though. Maybe just work it through the fabric, while imagining what you’d like to do to me, although I’m really just a stand-in.
I don’t mind. I like seeing you like this; gagging with a lust that only I can see. Yes, your mum was at her wits end. Couldn’t keep a nanny for a more than week. Blah blah blah. Utterly boring, but the beginning of so much more. Nothing for me, but for you the utter undoing of your self- respect. Your hands are back on the table and I see the tremor, along with beads of sweat on your forehead. I close my eyes and feel an odd warmth stirring in my loins. The story itself is meaningless, but it’s just beginning.
In the end, I will give you nothing but associates who’ve already outlived their usefulness and you will give me everything. This is going to be fun. Same time tomorrow? Absolutely.
And I’ll have that cup of tea now.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Jim/Mycroft
Rating: R
Wordcount: 865
Notes: Written for MMOM 2012, Day 25. Inspired by a re-watch of The Reichenbach Fall. Beta'd by the always-awesome michelleann68. Comments and concrit welcome.
Summary: It's not an interrogation; it's a seduction.
Hello, Mycroft.
I know who you are long before you introduce yourself. I can see your brother in you. Not the features so much, but the disdain that oozes from every pore. You burn with the same contempt for humanity that he does. You both lie to yourselves about it, of course. He solves the petty mysteries of the mundane world, but only to massage his own throbbing ego. Meanwhile, you serve the Crown and delude yourself you’re actually make the world a better place. I know better. You’re as addicted to your schemes as Sherlock is to his puzzles. You two are so much alike. No wonder you can barely tolerate being in the same room for more than a few minutes.
I suppose I should thank you for the respite from my daily pummeling at the hands of your minions, but you know that doesn’t really bother me. If you thought you’d get anything out it, I’d still be in there playing punching bag. You’ve finally figured it out though. You know I’m something special. Not just a master criminal or terrorist or whatever other names you want to brand me with, but the man who beat Sherlock Holmes. That’s why I’m sitting here opposite you at a cosy interrogation table, being offered a cup of tea and even a cigarette, even though smoking is so very strictly forbidden.
It’s not even an interrogation any more, is it? It’s a dance. A flirtation. Seduction even, though lord knows I lost interest in sex long before I committed my first murder. It’s all so boring. My cock gets hard. Spunk shoots out. What’s the point?
Not you though, eh Mycroft. What do you really see when you look at me? A bit of rough you might have had one night in the shadows near the Marble Arch? Nobody really needs to do that anymore, you know? You could just come out and march down the Mall with a boyfriend at a Gay Pride parade. Have Elton John sing at your commitment ceremony if you can stand hearing that crap. No. That’s not what you want. You need it to be something dark and depraved. Maybe you see your little brother when he was young and vulnerable? Is that it? How did the genius get that way, I wonder. Not so smart; anyone can be clever, but so terribly fucked up. What did you do to him, or keep someone else from doing? There’s already rumours about a drug habit. That doesn’t come cheap. Tales to tell there, I bet.
I “slip up” and give you a clue to the location of my favorite Jihadist. You’re good. There’s barely a quirk at the left side of your thin lips, but I know you might as well be standing on the table doing the Hokey Cokey. Then I tell you the price for more: Sherlock. Tit for tat, as it were. You narrow your eyes at me. Shake your head in disgust. Call me “vulgar,” because that’s the worst thing you can say. You stand up, start to walk away, let me know I can expect an especially energetic session with the boys. I shrug it off. You know better and I know you know better. You turn around, teeth practically grinding together. You must be so jealous of him. Oh, Mycroft, I could tell you things about Sherlock and that little terrier of his, but you might not want to hear it. Besides, I’d probably be lying. I’m pretty sure Sherlock has about as much interest in the act of physical love as I do.
“Sherlock was a difficult child,” you start, and I can hear the sigh that goes along with those words. That’s the thrill you really need; betrayal. You hate your brother as much as you love him and I’m giving you a way to destroy him. A slight flush comes to your pale cheeks. You must be aroused. You’d like to open your trousers, wouldn’t you? Ease your prick out for a little friction. I’ll bet it’s slender. Thin enough to take a boy without doing too much damage. You wouldn’t take the risk of exposing yourself, though. Maybe just work it through the fabric, while imagining what you’d like to do to me, although I’m really just a stand-in.
I don’t mind. I like seeing you like this; gagging with a lust that only I can see. Yes, your mum was at her wits end. Couldn’t keep a nanny for a more than week. Blah blah blah. Utterly boring, but the beginning of so much more. Nothing for me, but for you the utter undoing of your self- respect. Your hands are back on the table and I see the tremor, along with beads of sweat on your forehead. I close my eyes and feel an odd warmth stirring in my loins. The story itself is meaningless, but it’s just beginning.
In the end, I will give you nothing but associates who’ve already outlived their usefulness and you will give me everything. This is going to be fun. Same time tomorrow? Absolutely.
And I’ll have that cup of tea now.