3c and end of chapter.velvet_maceOctober 11 2010, 20:21:06 UTC
"I don't want your charity," said Greg. Especially not if you are going to break in my house to give it to me. "I want you to leave me alone."
There was a hesitation. "I can't do that."
Greg felt a thrill of terror in his middle. "Why not."
"Because I need you, Gregory. Didn't you feel it? The connection we shared? Don't you feel it even now?"
The horror of it was that he did. Something inside felt bound to Mycroft. "What the hell is going on."
"We are meant to be together," said Mycroft.
Oh god, that was so cheesy. "Like lifemates or something."
"Yes!" there was relief in his voice. "Exactly, Gregory."
"And that gives you the right to break into my home - twice - so that you could fill it with what you think I need?" It had to be twice, how else could Mycroft have known his size?
There was a longer pause. "It would be far easier if you simply gave me permission. For that matter, you could live with me, and there would be no need at all for me to trespass."
The cheek! "I don't know you, Mycroft. But there is going too fast, and then there is this. Please, for the love of Pete, back off." I should be arresting him, thought Greg. Why am I hesitating. "Give me some space to think."
"Please forgive me, I… I'm at a loss here, Gregory." The voice sounded distinctly pained. "I've never done this before. It's terribly new to me, and I'm not used to dealing with new things. I seem to be continually misstepping."
Greg felt his heart soften a bit. The man sounded almost pathetic and not in the slick way of a scam artist. He'd remembered the way Sherlock had looked when he'd caught him on the scene. Surprised, confused, confounded. But then he'd gone on to be absolutely bloody brilliant.
One of Greg's strongest skills had always been empathy. He could assess motive, past and future behavior by putting his mind into that of the perpetrator. Now he did the same for Mycroft and found that there was no evil intent in what he did. The man had, in his own fumbling way, assessed exactly what areas had been worrying Greg and had dealt with them in the most efficient way possible.
If not for social norms, he would probably have been quite happy to be relieved of what had been an extremely stressing situation. But damn it, there were social norms, and for good reason.
"Listen," said Greg finally. "I understand what you are trying to do. But you really need to back off a bit and let me have a chance to know you. We can't all just glance at a man and know everything there is about him."
"Ah!" Mycroft's voice was happy. "You wish to know about me! That can be arranged. I shall have that information to you by tomorrow."
The line went dead and Greg slumped forward. What have I done now.
Holy crumb I'm fucking up trying to post this. See this? This? Is why I never post anon on a kink meme. Let's try this again from the fucking top. ARGH!!! _________________________
The next day a prim young man in a suit delivered a package to his office at the MET. Greg stood next to his desk and signed for it, wondering what on earth was in the unmarked manila envelope and why it couldn't have gone through the normal interoffice delivery system.
With some trepidation, he opened it at his desk and up ended it. This better not be full of anthrax, or I'll be very embarrassed.
A small, unlabeled flash drive slid out into his palm.
Or computer viruses, either.
He opened his laptop and put it in. There was a single file on the drive and in the file was a single document, labeled mycroft.holmes.pdf.
Greg relaxed. Oh, it's just him, giving me his resume or some such.
He shook his head. Now how had that come to be? Somewhere in the space of three days he'd gone from thinking of Mycroft as being some mysterious and terrifying stranger to thinking of him as a - well as a mysterious and terrifying acquaintance.
Greg tugged his collar a bit. For some reason his neck itched at the thought of Mycroft. Then he looked at the sleeve of the pinstripe blue Windsor shirt he wore. It was one of the many that had appeared in the closet. He wouldn't have worn it if he had any other choice, but the man had made off with all his old clothes, even the dirty ones and the one he knew was carelessly wadded under his bed. Meanwhile Greg's bank account was every bit as tapped out this morning as it had been the morning before.
Everyone in the office had noticed his change in attire, he'd received compliments all day long over his taste and how well the shirt looked on him. Donovan had been the only one slightly suspicious about it, but she hadn't said anything other than to compliment him on finding a shirt that really suited him.
He did have to admit that the shirt fit him well enough to have been tailored. How had Mycroft known his measurements?
He opened the document. Mycroft's "get to know me" appeared on the screen. Apparently the man must have spent all night writing, because the thing wasn't just long, it was a positive novel. It even had chapters. Laid out in sensible language was everything from his preferences in music to a screed on political philosophy wherein he examined the flaws and strengths of all the major parties. Greg found himself scanning page after page instead of doing his real work, all while the gape on his face increased.
4b/? might double postvelvet_maceOctober 17 2010, 05:46:41 UTC
Well, he had asked to know the man. And now he did. The impression off the screen was a strong sense of self-confidence thrown into sudden disarray. Mycroft knew what he wanted in such uncertain terms. Not only did he know his preferences, but he was comfortable enough in them that he willingly experimented outside of them only for the sake of understanding others. There was an entire chapter on his sexual capabilities written in such graphic terms and sensual language that it made Greg blush. There were several chapters on domestic issues. Mycroft had a reason for everything, down to his color choices. Every nuance of aesthetics came with accompanying analysis of not only how it pleased himself, but how it was perceived by other people.
It was clear that for Mycroft manipulating others was as natural and thoughtless as breathing. So why had he been so damn clumsy and rushed about it with Greg?
There was a clue about that as well. For the information dump this was, there were three glaring gaps. Nothing was said about Mycroft's childhood or family. There was nothing about his jobs, current or past. And despite the pornographic chapter, there was nothing at all about past romantic relationships. Perhaps the man had simply indulged in one night stands all this time. Or maybe he was Bluebeard.
It was surprisingly unhelpful in making Greg decide if he wanted to get involved with the his would be suitor. On one hand, there were a ton of areas where Greg found he respected and agreed with Mycroft. Philosophy, religion, ethical choices all seemed to be in alignment. And Mycroft was certainly interesting. His intelligence was breathtaking. His insight fascinating. Greg would have leaped to the idea of having a dinner conversation with him.
On the other hand, Mycoft was a man. More over he was a man who wanted to do at least some of the things in that sex chapter to Greg. The images that conjured were beyond disturbing. Greg didn't like to think of himself as being bigoted, but he'd been pretty uninterested in men for the bulk of his life. And yet, now he could not only see himself in Mycroft's bed - he could picture it vividly. And part of him was fascinated by the idea - yeah, that was unnerving.
But even that wasn't the real worry. What terrified him was even more primal and practical.
Greg had pulled his share of domestic abuse cases - enough to recognize the warning flags. The sudden intense interest. The rather successful attempt at controlling his wardrobe. The demand to move quickly into a deeper relationship. Everything about that screamed of abuser. He could picture Mycroft eating up all his time, attempting to isolate him from family and friends who might help him. He could see him insisting that Greg quit his job. Finally, when he was well and truly penned in, would come the beatings.
Everything about Mycroft suggested that leaving him would be a lot more difficult than leaving Lydia, mother of his children and wife of twelve years. And that hadn't been easy, at all.
Gregory Lestrade was far too straight, far too seasoned both in life and crime, to fall for this. I should nip this off now.
There was a call to his mobile from Mycroft's number. "Did you have enough time to read my file?"
"Skimmed," said Greg, tensely.
"Will you go out with me tonight?" His voice was soft and pleading and something in Greg ached to appease it.
Say yes, say yes, say yes, cooed the treacherous inner voice.
The hell, no! Tell him to bugger off! screamed his reason.
"I'm sorry, very busy!" Greg's voice was tight and high. " - Perhaps tomorrow. Yes. Well." Greg hung up before Mycroft could reply.
He ran a hand through his short hair and glared unseeingly at his desk. "I'm such a fucking coward."
"For some stranger to stop bothering him perhaps?" Sherlock was, astonishingly enough, sober. He sat at the table in the reception room, tapping away at a brand new laptop. "By the way, I'm thinking of starting a website where I explain my methods of deduction. Lestrade thinks that documentation will lend me an air of professionalism. He'll have something he can refer other people to, so they don't question my consulting. I'm thinking of calling it The Science of Deduction."
Mycroft didn't give a damn about Sherlock's consulting. He grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a throw pillow, and tossed it with all his might. It made a very unsatisfying thud against the window.
Sherlock looked up. "Usually histrionics fall under my purview," he remarked dryly.
"I'm not a stranger! I poured my soul out into that letter I sent him." He rounded on Sherlock. "Tell me what I should do."
"As if I would know!" Sherlock shook his head. "I did my best when I sent you to Mummy."
"But you know him! He talks to you. He helps you! How were you able to ingratiate yourself to him when I've been completely lacking in luck."
"Simple. I'm not asking him to bend over his desk for me." Sherlock shrugged. "He's coming out of a bad relationship. Maybe give him a week or two to adjust to the idea of your existence. Not that I really know, it's just a thought."
"I can't give him a week or two," said Mycroft. "I'm hungry. Desperately hungry."
Sherlocks eyes sharpened. "You are! You poor fat thing, you. You are starving. Why don't you just go visit Bart's maternity ward again. Or nibble on that Anthea you love so much. Tide yourself over."
"Don't you think I've tried?" asked Mycroft. "I can't do it. Their blood tastes like rubbish to me. It's not what I want. I want his."
"Then take his," suggested Sherlock. "Don't ask, just climb into his bedroom window while he sleeps and take it. You are far stronger than he is."
Mycroft paled. "I'm not going to rape my mate."
"Oh, horrors the idea," said Sherlock looking back down at the laptop screen. "As though what you've been doing to your thralls all these years is so much more consensual."
"This isn't funny," said Mycroft, sitting heavily on Sherlock's chaise lounge. "I'm going to die if he doesn't give in. I can barely think."
"This is precisely why I don't want to find a mate," said Sherlock. "I'm very sorry for your problem, but what can I say. I'm glad it's not me."
Mycroft was up off the lounge and to Sherlock's chair in an instant. He grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and dragging him to his feet. With one hand he slammed the lid of the computer down. "You are going to help me. Or, God help me, I will box you."
"Always with the threats," said Sherlock steadily, he grabbed Mycroft's hand and pulled it away. "But I'm not high right now. I think you've lost your advantage. Brother."
Mycroft collapsed, kneeling on the ground before Sherlock looking utterly defeated and pathetic. "Please, Sherlock. He likes you. Be my advocate just this once?"
"What do you think I can do?"
"Talk to him. Convince him I need him."
"I see. Why?"
Mycroft looked up, panicked. "Because we are brothers. We are blood twice over. Mummy would be horrified if I died and you simply sat back and did nothing."
Sherlock's face went blank. He said nothing for a long minute. "All right."
Mycroft's heart leapt. "You'll do it?"
"Yes. I'll do it. My own way."
"When."
"Tonight. But only because I don't want Mummy upset and I rather dislike seeing you grovel. It's undignified." Sherlock paused and waited while Mycroft stood up and straightened his clothes.
"But in return, Mycroft," he continued. "No more threats of boxing. It may seem like a simple punishment to you, and God only knows it's common enough. But it's terrifying to me. I don't care how much of your blood you'd force down my gullet before you drove the nails in, the long sleep of the coffin is torture. It's not just hunger of the body, my mind needs to be fed as well."
"Agreed," said Mycroft swiftly. "And thank you. I can't tell you how much--"
It was midnight when Greg heard the buzzer ring out in his flat. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed his face and blearily glanced at the LED display on his clock. Goddamn it.
He grabbed a robe (hooded, cotton, understated grey on black, soft as clouds and probably insanely expensive, but Greg hadn't dared look it up for fear of having his suspicions confirmed) and hurried to the intercom. "Yes?"
"Let me in."
It was Sherlock's voice.
"Have you any idea of the time?" Greg asked.
"Does that really matter to a police detective?"
Greg shook his head. "No." He hit the button to let Sherlock into the building. "Come on up." A moment later he opened the door to the gangly man. Sherlock's eyes scanned his room in one quick sweep, then settled on him.
"Well Mycroft does have an eye for aesthetics. Boss designs, yes? You look well. He'll be happy you are wearing his gift."
Greg scratched his head. "Not much choice in that, since he's stolen all my other clothes. But you aren't here to talk about your brother are you?"
Sherlock stopped in his visual perusal to settle his eyes on Greg. He said nothing.
Greg ran his hand over his face. "You are. Argh." He wandered over to a chair, tossed the post off the seat and collapsed heavily into it.
"This is insane, you know," he said. "Utterly mad. I mean, I could understand it if I were some beautiful young thing, some twenty-something stud. Or even an attractive older woman. But I'm neither. I'm coming up hard on forty, Sherlock, and I look every year of it. What little of my life isn't taken up by my job, is wound up with my wife and family. I'm not normally attracted to men. So, why is your brother so damnably obsessed with me? Is he playing with me? Is this some sort of a game?"
Sherlock sat down on the chair opposite, never minding the clutter. "Not a game. Far from it. My brother needs you."
"Oh, Bull - shit!" Greg shouted. "Bullshit. He doesn't need me. No one truly needs anyone. It's want. Why does he want me? And, more over, how can I make him stop wanting me."
"Is that what you truly want?" Sherlock's voice was soft and low.
"What do you mean, of course it is." No it isn't, I want, I want, I want…
"Continue rejecting him," said Sherlock, his voice growing dark and resonant. Greg shuddered, gripped with the knowledge that if death had a voice, this would be how it sounded. "Put him off, and in another three or four days, you will never be bothered by him again."
Greg tried to shrug away the gloomy atmosphere. "He will give up that easily?'
"Easily? No, I won't say it will be easy. Dying is never easy. Especially not for one as old and in love with life as my brother."
"What do you mean, dying. Who is talking about dying?"
"Reject him for three or four more days, Lestrade and he will die and you will be free."
"What are you talking about?" Greg gripped the arms of his seat. "Why will he die?"
"Because that's what happens to my kind when their mate rejects them."
"Your kind? Your kind?"
Sherlock smiled. It wasn't with kindness or joy or any reason why Greg would ever smile at someone. Greg noticed something different about his teeth. Holy shit!
4f and the end of chapter.velvet_maceOctober 17 2010, 05:52:30 UTC
His heart thudded triple-time. He could feel the blood in his skin as if it were being pulled by some magnet. Greg leapt out of his seat and backed away, looking around his apartment for something to protect himself. His gun - but no, guns weren't effective if lore was to be believed. If only he were more religious. His eyes caught on a magazine dropped callously under the table and he ran for it, grabbing it.
He waved the cover towards Sherlock defensively, the picture of the church, its steeple silhouetted against a bright blue sky facing the monster. "Stay away from me!"
"Or you'll threaten me with periodical literature?" Sherlock asked.
"The cross, damn it."
"I go to church, Lestrade. Much as I am a terrible atheist, Mycroft, still insists on it for propriety's sake."
Greg tossed the magazine and went for his gun, lore be damned.
"Better," said Sherlock. And then the gun was out of Greg's hand and in Sherlock's. "But no." He pulled the clip out and pocketed it, then tossed the gun on the cushions behind him.
"Christ!" Greg put his hands together in front of his face, praying desperately for divine intervention. "What do you want?"
"I want nothing more than to work with you," said Sherlock. "Exactly as I proposed. My brother needs more."
"You said 'mate.' That doesn't mean 'chum' does it."
"No. It means sexual partner, as well you know."
"Will I become like you?" he asked. He stared at his wrists. "Will he turn me."
"No. Never," said Sherlock. "You'll sustain Mycroft. He will feed on you. Frequently. But it won't harm you. Your body will compensate for it. In time your blood will help him make other vampires, but you won't be turned."
"And if I stop feeding him."
"He'll starve."
"And if I die?" Greg asked.
"He'll die."
"Sounds like he's screwed then." Greg felt weak.
"It does seem dire, but I hope it's not," Sherlock grew pensive. "My brother and I don't always get along, but he is my brother and I don't want him to die. I've probably hurt his chances more than I've helped by speaking to you. Still, I do hope that you'll will at least consider the prospect now that you truly understand what is going on."
Greg closed his eyes.
"Will it hurt?"
Sherlock laughed. "No. God no. It will feel wonderful. Or so I've been told. It will feel like you've found a missing piece of yourself. You'll feel complete."
Greg twisted and looked around the room - at anything other than Sherlock, those teeth. Those eyes.
"Why me?" Greg asked. "Why of all the people in the world did it have to be me?"
"Because, out of all the people in the world, you are his perfect balance. Your soul completes his and brings it into check." Sherlock dropped onto the couch, absentmindedly pulling the gun out from under himself. "And God only knows, Mycroft needs balancing. With you around talking reason into him, telling him 'no' when he needs to hear it, this world may just have a hope. You can make him -- not human-- but at least a bit less of a monster. That's your power. That's your gift. Your ability to say no to him. Savor it. God only knows, I wish I had it."
There was bitterness in Sherlock's words. Greg was overwhelmed. "Vampires. Bloody goddamn vampires."
Sherlock stood up. "Think on it. You have tonight and tomorrow. After that it will become hairy. If you wait too long, it will be the same as a 'no.' But, think on it. For all the bad in Mycroft, there is good as well. And there could be much more with your encouragement."
And then he was gone and the only sign of his passing was the sound of the front door being slammed. ---------
Greg had the next two days "off." Normally he went in anyway, even if he weren't called. He cleared up paperwork which might have built up over the week, made phone calls that weren't convenient at other times. Hours as a detective were more half-hearted suggestions than anything else, and since the separation Greg had little reason not to hang around the MET waiting for something to happen.
This time, though, was different. Today, he needed to think away from people. You have tonight and tomorrow, after that it gets hairy, Sherlock had said. He hadn't really needed to. Greg could feel the urgency of the decision in his own blood. He felt tied to a wire stretched taut across a vast distance. Every minute wound it just a bit tighter.
The night had gone, lost to fitful sleep and dreams of running and escape. Running and being caught and ravished. Even in his sleep he couldn't decide which he preferred. Now it was morning and exhaustion already made his limbs heavy. He was down to mere hours to decide if he wanted to play the part of Van Helsing or Mina.
Greg dressed for the day, once more irritated by the fact that Mycroft had stolen his clothes. It didn't bloody matter that what he left behind fit and looked sharp, the bloody presumption of the thing galled. He had history with some of those clothes. The man hadn't even asked.
But done was done. And being angry didn't help him decide either.
Sighing, Greg headed out the door for a long walk. It had rained an hour or two before and the pavement still was dark with damp. The air had a clamminess about it that seemed to cling to Greg's cheeks. The smell of petrol irritated his nose. For some reason his whole body felt a bit achy and heavy, as though he might be coming down with the flu. Digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, he hunched forward and strode in the direction of Eccleston Square.
Vampires, thought Greg. Well could be worse. Could be zombies. Or ghouls. As undead men went, Mycroft was rather handsome. His hand felt warm enough to the touch. His smile was quite soothing. And then there was that way he sort of wrapped his attention around you, like thick blanket. Not at all corpse-like, that.
There was no denying that part of Greg wanted more of it. More attention, more smiles, more warm touches. He'd been awfully lonely since he'd left Lydia and the kids. He'd felt awfully undesirable and unattractive. For that reason alone it was tempting.
Greg reached the park. The leaves were beginning to turn colors for the fall, the grass was confettied with bright orange and red.
Vampires. Of all the crazy, unbelievable, bizarre things.
All those books had it completely wrong. Creature of the night? He'd seen both Sherlock and Mycroft wandering around in bright sunshine without the least bit of problem with it. They went to church. They certainly didn't look like nosferatu. They didn't appear to be leaving behind corpses wherever they went, so they must not need to kill to eat. There was no evidence either he or Sherlock were any worse than average people. If it weren't for the teeth and the speed and that strange reeling feeling he got when Mycroft stared at him, Greg would scoff at the notion.
5b/5 may triple post. Why are you eating my posts!velvet_maceOctober 26 2010, 00:19:09 UTC
But he didn't scoff. He could feel Mycroft's need for him like a palpable tug on him. This wasn't anything like how he felt when he'd fallen in love with Lydia. None of that happy, delicate, head-in-the-clouds feeling. This was like a crush on steroids, full of unrequited need and self-consciousness. This was like being under the influence of some powerful narcotic.
He had to decide. Soon.
Factors. Pro and con. Pro: He'd never have to worry about money or companionship, he'd be set up for life in both cases. Con: Coming out of the closet at nearly 40, how awkward! Pro: Those eyes, that smile, those hands. Con: Giving up completely on reuniting with Lydia. For all the bad lately, there'd once been so much good and he missed that. Pro: This feeling inside, this need, will be satisfied. Con: He'd sworn he'd wait until the divorce was final before dating again, and here he was contemplating committing to someone else. It smacked of bigamy.
Pro: It would take away temptation to try and mend a relationship that was eating away at his soul. Lydia knew his weak spots, his insecurities, the currency of his pride, and felt justified in exploiting them to their fullest. And even though he wasn't blameless, it had all become rather unforgivable. They brought out the worst in each other. A clean, certain break was best.
Pro: Mycroft would never physically or emotionally abuse Greg, that part was clear from his novel of a resume. He'd negotiate first, bribe second and as a last resort, work around it. And under normal circumstances, when his life wasn't at stake, he had near infinite patience. Even the thing with the clothes had been more of a misaimed attempt to bribe and ingratiate rather than an attempt to control.
Con: He couldn't think of a con right now. He couldn't think.
Greg bent and collected a damp leaf that had stuck to his shoe. Dead things could look so beautiful. Until they rotted. Greg had a vision of Mycroft, dressed fine, but not moving, not breathing. That incredible intellect, that fascinating mind, stilled. Voice silenced. Forever.
Oh fuck it! Anger flared. Greg suddenly threw the leaf down and headed back towards his flat, his feet moving quicker now.
Pro and con be damned, he couldn't kill Mycroft. Not actively, not by omission. He wasn't that kind of man.
He couldn't do it for the same reason he couldn't stand by and watch a child drown in a pond. The same reason he put on a bulletproof vest and walked into buildings with drug dealers and thugs and lowlifes. It wasn't as if he'd never killed a person before, but he'd never killed one that hadn't been in the active attempt of trying to kill him or a fellow officer. Mycroft wasn't even a criminal. He wasn't even a bad person.
I'm willing to risk my life to save a goddamn criminal from an equally low-lifed rival, I can sacrifice some blood for Mycroft.
And the rest? The sex, the clothes, the everything else. That can be negotiated.
There were eighty-four unanswered messages on Mycroft's phone. Althea sat at the table in the sitting room, typing away at a laptop, looking gawky and thin and harried. She wasn't wearing make up today. She had a bottle of caffeine pills in arms reach and a coffee cup next to her elbow. Sherlock sat across the table from her, typing away at his computer, still as sober as a judge. Off to the side, Mycroft simply lay still and stared unseeing at the ceiling, utterly unhelpful to anyone.
Sherlock slapped his hands down to either side of his computer causing Anthea to jump. How could he concentrate on building his website with this going on?
"Should I go and see him again?" he asked.
"No," said Mycroft.
"What can I do?"
"Nothing. It has to be his decision. He has all the facts."
"Then you do something," said Sherlock. "Watching you fade is… annoying! Fight for your mate. Argue with him. Convince him. Don't just lie there like a sorry lump because he rejects you."
A small smile tweaked at Mycroft's lips. "Are you concerned for me? It's been a long time since you showed you care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to programming the background for his site. "I should be happy. Either way this turns out, I'll be free of your obsessive smothering."
"Now that's the brother I love," said Mycroft with a sigh.
Mycroft's phone rang with a special tone and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. Anthea looked over, excited. Mycroft sat up.
It rang again and he snatched the phone off the end table and flipped it open. He suddenly had more energy than he had in days. His voice was rushed and clipped, nearly breathless. "I've been hoping you'd call. Have you made a decision? I'll be right over."
Without saying a word to either of them, Mycroft was up and across the room. He grabbed his coat, his fingers already on the speed dial for his chauffer. A moment later the door banged closed behind him.
"Will he be back soon?" Anthea asked, looking a bit lost.
"Let's hope not." Sherlock slouched back in his seat, relieved that the oppressive cloud of worry had dissipated.
I'm never going through that. He vowed to himself. Never.
Greg waited. He tried sitting at his sofa, but he couldn't. There were springs in his knees that seemed to want to keep him up and pacing. Time had slowed down. It was two minutes since he'd called.
He went to the bathroom and looked at his face. He finger combed his windblown hair back into place, stroked his cheeks to check for residual stubble. He resisted the urge to use some of his cologne. Didn't want to make Mycroft think he was too eager, even though it was truly ridiculous how eager he was for this. Now that he was contemplating giving in, the pressure seemed to push him in a more pleasant way. He felt like a teenager preparing for a date. He was even a bit itchy in the groin.
Four minutes since he called. How far away had Mycoft been? He had no idea where the man lived. Somewhere posh, probably. There were a lot of posh spots around the city. How long would it take to get a cab? How bad was traffic?
He should read. He should clean something. Call the office and find out if there had been anything new. But he couldn't. Now that he'd made the decision, he just wanted it done, whatever "it" was.
He wondered if it would hurt to be bitten. Should he roll up his shirt sleeves? Change to something else? Christ. Why was he so damned hot for this.
Let's get this over with! Hurry up!
The chime was a relief. Greg hit his shin against the corner of the coffee table in his hurry to get to the button to release the door. Hobbling painfully, he unlocked the door to his flat. Any moment now.
And then he was there, striding down the hall, calmly. His smile was warm and Greg felt a thrill of something, fear, excitement, lust, move down his belly to his groin. He tried to keep his face professional, allowing only a tight, controlled smile.
"Glad you could come," he said. It was a stupid thing to say under the circumstances.
"I'm glad you've let me." His voice was soothing, like honey.
Greg felt hooked. That sense of being drawn in began. He swallowed and shook his head and it seemed to fall away again. Suddenly his resolve slipped. My God, am I really going through with this?
Mycroft frowned. "Greg. Please."
"Not in the hall," said Greg. "Inside."
Mycroft nodded and followed him inside, closing the door after them. "Are you still unsure?"
For some reason that annoyed Greg. "Of course, I'm unsure. Listen, I'm a brave man, I'm not scared of taking risks, but I'm not a foolish enough to throw my entire future to a man I've barely met. What you want from me - no sane man should accept. It's so permanent. It's so … intimate."
Mycroft nodded. He looked pained. "If I could give you more time, I would. Normally, I'm not so impatient. But for my kind, that is the way this happens. It's sudden, swift and brutal. A true test of our worth. The rewards are great, but so is the punishment for failure." He took a step towards Greg. Greg stepped backwards and Mycroft sighed again. "Perhaps I could have done something different. Perhaps I could have wooed you more aggressively, but I don't think that would have worked."
"So I ask you," said Mycroft. "Are you still unsure?"
"Why do you want me so much?" Greg said, ducking the question. "Couldn't you have done better? I'm … old. Set in my ways. I'm a slob. I can't keep a budget. I spend too much time at work. I risk my life - that will be your life, too if Sherlock is to be believed. I'm nowhere near as bright as you. What can I possibly give you that would want?"
"You are quite young in my eyes," said Mycroft, smiling. "And the rest is not as great a problem as you might think. I too am a very busy man. I haven't picked up after myself in centuries - that's what maids are for. I'm quite good with money, so I won't require you to worry about that. And the rest, I think you underestimate yourself."
Mycroft sat down on the couch and held out a hand to him. "Are you ready?" Greg noticed that he'd managed to back himself into a corner, literally. "I can wait if you aren't. A few more minutes, at least."
Greg stood up straight with effort and shrugged his shirt straight. "What do I need to do?"
"Stop resisting."
"How do I stop resisting?" That reeled in sensation had started again. He shrugged it away like an annoying gnat.
"That. What you did right there. That's resisting."
"You mean, just do nothing?"
"Exactly, though it won't be nothing. Sometimes letting go is the hardest thing you can do."
Greg nodded. "Okay."
Greg met Mycroft's eyes and he felt the thread between them tauten. Then it was as if he were being drawn closer. The urge to break it off was like an itch, but he resisted. For a moment he felt horribly vulnerable and utterly off balance.
And then something clicked. It was as if all his fears simply stopped. The racing thoughts died to nothing. His doubts and self-conscious inhibitions evaporated into a heady bliss. Desire (for closeness, affection, sex?) blotted out everything thing else. His heart slowed.
Without a single thought, he crossed the floor and walked straight to Mycroft's arms.
It wasn't the most graceful embrace Mycroft had ever engaged in. Greg really didn't know what to do with his elbows and knees. It was clear he was used to holding people much smaller than himself and just didn't have the spatial memory to reach his arms wider, to allow his legs to part enough to encompass a man's knee rather than a woman's.
Nonetheless, it was still the most exquisite embrace Mycroft had ever engaged in. With a shift of his hip and careful hands to the man's side, he managed to reposition him in a more comfortable way, in his lap, straddling him.
His weight felt wonderful. Mycroft arched against the cushions, pushing his own hardness against the cleft of Greg's buttocks. He then reached up a hand to draw Greg's lips down to his. Their first kiss.
Greg tasted of shaving soap and mint toothpaste. He tasted of smooth skin, salt, rainwater dripped from ripe leaves. He smelled of soot and earth and tannins, of the heady rush of endorphins and the tang of pheromones. He smelled virile. Oh yes, quite virile. His kisses were rough, hungry, the rasp of his beard contrasting with the softness of his lips. He mouthed Mycroft's face with uninhibited passion. Mycroft was more careful in return, gave softer, gentler pecks, parting his lips and letting Greg inside.
Greg shuddered, breaking off the kiss to arch his own back. His body was eager, oh yes, ready for sex the way it probably hadn't been since the earliest days of his marriage. Now that he'd relinquished his prudery along with his fears, he rutted against Mycroft like a man half his years.
"Almost, not yet," murmured Mycroft. "But soon. Very soon," he promised as Greg let out a small sigh of disappointment.
First there had to be this. Greg wore a long sleeved pullover, with deft little yanks, Mycroft freed the hem and slid it up and off his chest. Greg understanding took over and pulled the rest off himself. Except for the brief moment when his face was covered, his eyes were glued to Mycroft's.
Half naked he sat in Mycroft's lap, the muscles of his belly clearly outlined. This was a fit man, Mycroft thought appreciatively. Little fat, much muscle. His nipples were firm with chill or perhaps sexual need. Mycroft touched first one, then the other, appreciating their hardness.
Then he drew the man to him. His warmth was delicious. Mycroft kissed him once under the ear, then ran his tongue down his throat until he felt the pulse point. His teeth ached pleasantly as they extended. Anticipation thrummed, and then a little pressure, pop, and oh… yes…
The first taste was exactly what Mycroft needed. The flavor was like nothing he'd tasted before. It was purer, richer, full of vitality. It seemed to fill the void in Mycroft. He'd barely sipped and already he felt more alive than he had all week. Greg didn't move. Mycroft knew from experience that he was feeling pleasure and satisfaction.
There was a hesitation. "I can't do that."
Greg felt a thrill of terror in his middle. "Why not."
"Because I need you, Gregory. Didn't you feel it? The connection we shared? Don't you feel it even now?"
The horror of it was that he did. Something inside felt bound to Mycroft. "What the hell is going on."
"We are meant to be together," said Mycroft.
Oh god, that was so cheesy. "Like lifemates or something."
"Yes!" there was relief in his voice. "Exactly, Gregory."
"And that gives you the right to break into my home - twice - so that you could fill it with what you think I need?" It had to be twice, how else could Mycroft have known his size?
There was a longer pause. "It would be far easier if you simply gave me permission. For that matter, you could live with me, and there would be no need at all for me to trespass."
The cheek! "I don't know you, Mycroft. But there is going too fast, and then there is this. Please, for the love of Pete, back off." I should be arresting him, thought Greg. Why am I hesitating. "Give me some space to think."
"Please forgive me, I… I'm at a loss here, Gregory." The voice sounded distinctly pained. "I've never done this before. It's terribly new to me, and I'm not used to dealing with new things. I seem to be continually misstepping."
Greg felt his heart soften a bit. The man sounded almost pathetic and not in the slick way of a scam artist. He'd remembered the way Sherlock had looked when he'd caught him on the scene. Surprised, confused, confounded. But then he'd gone on to be absolutely bloody brilliant.
One of Greg's strongest skills had always been empathy. He could assess motive, past and future behavior by putting his mind into that of the perpetrator. Now he did the same for Mycroft and found that there was no evil intent in what he did. The man had, in his own fumbling way, assessed exactly what areas had been worrying Greg and had dealt with them in the most efficient way possible.
If not for social norms, he would probably have been quite happy to be relieved of what had been an extremely stressing situation. But damn it, there were social norms, and for good reason.
"Listen," said Greg finally. "I understand what you are trying to do. But you really need to back off a bit and let me have a chance to know you. We can't all just glance at a man and know everything there is about him."
"Ah!" Mycroft's voice was happy. "You wish to know about me! That can be arranged. I shall have that information to you by tomorrow."
The line went dead and Greg slumped forward. What have I done now.
-----
Short chapter, too much to do today.
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_________________________
The next day a prim young man in a suit delivered a package to his office at the MET. Greg stood next to his desk and signed for it, wondering what on earth was in the unmarked manila envelope and why it couldn't have gone through the normal interoffice delivery system.
With some trepidation, he opened it at his desk and up ended it. This better not be full of anthrax, or I'll be very embarrassed.
A small, unlabeled flash drive slid out into his palm.
Or computer viruses, either.
He opened his laptop and put it in. There was a single file on the drive and in the file was a single document, labeled mycroft.holmes.pdf.
Greg relaxed. Oh, it's just him, giving me his resume or some such.
He shook his head. Now how had that come to be? Somewhere in the space of three days he'd gone from thinking of Mycroft as being some mysterious and terrifying stranger to thinking of him as a - well as a mysterious and terrifying acquaintance.
Greg tugged his collar a bit. For some reason his neck itched at the thought of Mycroft. Then he looked at the sleeve of the pinstripe blue Windsor shirt he wore. It was one of the many that had appeared in the closet. He wouldn't have worn it if he had any other choice, but the man had made off with all his old clothes, even the dirty ones and the one he knew was carelessly wadded under his bed. Meanwhile Greg's bank account was every bit as tapped out this morning as it had been the morning before.
Everyone in the office had noticed his change in attire, he'd received compliments all day long over his taste and how well the shirt looked on him. Donovan had been the only one slightly suspicious about it, but she hadn't said anything other than to compliment him on finding a shirt that really suited him.
He did have to admit that the shirt fit him well enough to have been tailored. How had Mycroft known his measurements?
He opened the document. Mycroft's "get to know me" appeared on the screen. Apparently the man must have spent all night writing, because the thing wasn't just long, it was a positive novel. It even had chapters. Laid out in sensible language was everything from his preferences in music to a screed on political philosophy wherein he examined the flaws and strengths of all the major parties. Greg found himself scanning page after page instead of doing his real work, all while the gape on his face increased.
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It was clear that for Mycroft manipulating others was as natural and thoughtless as breathing. So why had he been so damn clumsy and rushed about it with Greg?
There was a clue about that as well. For the information dump this was, there were three glaring gaps. Nothing was said about Mycroft's childhood or family. There was nothing about his jobs, current or past. And despite the pornographic chapter, there was nothing at all about past romantic relationships. Perhaps the man had simply indulged in one night stands all this time. Or maybe he was Bluebeard.
It was surprisingly unhelpful in making Greg decide if he wanted to get involved with the his would be suitor. On one hand, there were a ton of areas where Greg found he respected and agreed with Mycroft. Philosophy, religion, ethical choices all seemed to be in alignment. And Mycroft was certainly interesting. His intelligence was breathtaking. His insight fascinating. Greg would have leaped to the idea of having a dinner conversation with him.
On the other hand, Mycoft was a man. More over he was a man who wanted to do at least some of the things in that sex chapter to Greg. The images that conjured were beyond disturbing. Greg didn't like to think of himself as being bigoted, but he'd been pretty uninterested in men for the bulk of his life. And yet, now he could not only see himself in Mycroft's bed - he could picture it vividly. And part of him was fascinated by the idea - yeah, that was unnerving.
But even that wasn't the real worry. What terrified him was even more primal and practical.
Greg had pulled his share of domestic abuse cases - enough to recognize the warning flags. The sudden intense interest. The rather successful attempt at controlling his wardrobe. The demand to move quickly into a deeper relationship. Everything about that screamed of abuser. He could picture Mycroft eating up all his time, attempting to isolate him from family and friends who might help him. He could see him insisting that Greg quit his job. Finally, when he was well and truly penned in, would come the beatings.
Everything about Mycroft suggested that leaving him would be a lot more difficult than leaving Lydia, mother of his children and wife of twelve years. And that hadn't been easy, at all.
Gregory Lestrade was far too straight, far too seasoned both in life and crime, to fall for this. I should nip this off now.
There was a call to his mobile from Mycroft's number. "Did you have enough time to read my file?"
"Skimmed," said Greg, tensely.
"Will you go out with me tonight?" His voice was soft and pleading and something in Greg ached to appease it.
Say yes, say yes, say yes, cooed the treacherous inner voice.
The hell, no! Tell him to bugger off! screamed his reason.
"I'm sorry, very busy!" Greg's voice was tight and high. " - Perhaps tomorrow. Yes. Well." Greg hung up before Mycroft could reply.
He ran a hand through his short hair and glared unseeingly at his desk. "I'm such a fucking coward."
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"For some stranger to stop bothering him perhaps?" Sherlock was, astonishingly enough, sober. He sat at the table in the reception room, tapping away at a brand new laptop. "By the way, I'm thinking of starting a website where I explain my methods of deduction. Lestrade thinks that documentation will lend me an air of professionalism. He'll have something he can refer other people to, so they don't question my consulting. I'm thinking of calling it The Science of Deduction."
Mycroft didn't give a damn about Sherlock's consulting. He grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a throw pillow, and tossed it with all his might. It made a very unsatisfying thud against the window.
Sherlock looked up. "Usually histrionics fall under my purview," he remarked dryly.
"I'm not a stranger! I poured my soul out into that letter I sent him." He rounded on Sherlock. "Tell me what I should do."
"As if I would know!" Sherlock shook his head. "I did my best when I sent you to Mummy."
"But you know him! He talks to you. He helps you! How were you able to ingratiate yourself to him when I've been completely lacking in luck."
"Simple. I'm not asking him to bend over his desk for me." Sherlock shrugged. "He's coming out of a bad relationship. Maybe give him a week or two to adjust to the idea of your existence. Not that I really know, it's just a thought."
"I can't give him a week or two," said Mycroft. "I'm hungry. Desperately hungry."
Sherlocks eyes sharpened. "You are! You poor fat thing, you. You are starving. Why don't you just go visit Bart's maternity ward again. Or nibble on that Anthea you love so much. Tide yourself over."
"Don't you think I've tried?" asked Mycroft. "I can't do it. Their blood tastes like rubbish to me. It's not what I want. I want his."
"Then take his," suggested Sherlock. "Don't ask, just climb into his bedroom window while he sleeps and take it. You are far stronger than he is."
Mycroft paled. "I'm not going to rape my mate."
"Oh, horrors the idea," said Sherlock looking back down at the laptop screen. "As though what you've been doing to your thralls all these years is so much more consensual."
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"This is precisely why I don't want to find a mate," said Sherlock. "I'm very sorry for your problem, but what can I say. I'm glad it's not me."
Mycroft was up off the lounge and to Sherlock's chair in an instant. He grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and dragging him to his feet. With one hand he slammed the lid of the computer down. "You are going to help me. Or, God help me, I will box you."
"Always with the threats," said Sherlock steadily, he grabbed Mycroft's hand and pulled it away. "But I'm not high right now. I think you've lost your advantage. Brother."
Mycroft collapsed, kneeling on the ground before Sherlock looking utterly defeated and pathetic. "Please, Sherlock. He likes you. Be my advocate just this once?"
"What do you think I can do?"
"Talk to him. Convince him I need him."
"I see. Why?"
Mycroft looked up, panicked. "Because we are brothers. We are blood twice over. Mummy would be horrified if I died and you simply sat back and did nothing."
Sherlock's face went blank. He said nothing for a long minute. "All right."
Mycroft's heart leapt. "You'll do it?"
"Yes. I'll do it. My own way."
"When."
"Tonight. But only because I don't want Mummy upset and I rather dislike seeing you grovel. It's undignified." Sherlock paused and waited while Mycroft stood up and straightened his clothes.
"But in return, Mycroft," he continued. "No more threats of boxing. It may seem like a simple punishment to you, and God only knows it's common enough. But it's terrifying to me. I don't care how much of your blood you'd force down my gullet before you drove the nails in, the long sleep of the coffin is torture. It's not just hunger of the body, my mind needs to be fed as well."
"Agreed," said Mycroft swiftly. "And thank you. I can't tell you how much--"
"Then don't. I haven't done anything yet."
Mycroft, chastened, simply nodded.
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He grabbed a robe (hooded, cotton, understated grey on black, soft as clouds and probably insanely expensive, but Greg hadn't dared look it up for fear of having his suspicions confirmed) and hurried to the intercom. "Yes?"
"Let me in."
It was Sherlock's voice.
"Have you any idea of the time?" Greg asked.
"Does that really matter to a police detective?"
Greg shook his head. "No." He hit the button to let Sherlock into the building. "Come on up." A moment later he opened the door to the gangly man. Sherlock's eyes scanned his room in one quick sweep, then settled on him.
"Well Mycroft does have an eye for aesthetics. Boss designs, yes? You look well. He'll be happy you are wearing his gift."
Greg scratched his head. "Not much choice in that, since he's stolen all my other clothes. But you aren't here to talk about your brother are you?"
Sherlock stopped in his visual perusal to settle his eyes on Greg. He said nothing.
Greg ran his hand over his face. "You are. Argh." He wandered over to a chair, tossed the post off the seat and collapsed heavily into it.
"This is insane, you know," he said. "Utterly mad. I mean, I could understand it if I were some beautiful young thing, some twenty-something stud. Or even an attractive older woman. But I'm neither. I'm coming up hard on forty, Sherlock, and I look every year of it. What little of my life isn't taken up by my job, is wound up with my wife and family. I'm not normally attracted to men. So, why is your brother so damnably obsessed with me? Is he playing with me? Is this some sort of a game?"
Sherlock sat down on the chair opposite, never minding the clutter. "Not a game. Far from it. My brother needs you."
"Oh, Bull - shit!" Greg shouted. "Bullshit. He doesn't need me. No one truly needs anyone. It's want. Why does he want me? And, more over, how can I make him stop wanting me."
"Is that what you truly want?" Sherlock's voice was soft and low.
"What do you mean, of course it is." No it isn't, I want, I want, I want…
"Continue rejecting him," said Sherlock, his voice growing dark and resonant. Greg shuddered, gripped with the knowledge that if death had a voice, this would be how it sounded. "Put him off, and in another three or four days, you will never be bothered by him again."
Greg tried to shrug away the gloomy atmosphere. "He will give up that easily?'
"Easily? No, I won't say it will be easy. Dying is never easy. Especially not for one as old and in love with life as my brother."
"What do you mean, dying. Who is talking about dying?"
"Reject him for three or four more days, Lestrade and he will die and you will be free."
"What are you talking about?" Greg gripped the arms of his seat. "Why will he die?"
"Because that's what happens to my kind when their mate rejects them."
"Your kind? Your kind?"
Sherlock smiled. It wasn't with kindness or joy or any reason why Greg would ever smile at someone. Greg noticed something different about his teeth. Holy shit!
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He waved the cover towards Sherlock defensively, the picture of the church, its steeple silhouetted against a bright blue sky facing the monster. "Stay away from me!"
"Or you'll threaten me with periodical literature?" Sherlock asked.
"The cross, damn it."
"I go to church, Lestrade. Much as I am a terrible atheist, Mycroft, still insists on it for propriety's sake."
Greg tossed the magazine and went for his gun, lore be damned.
"Better," said Sherlock. And then the gun was out of Greg's hand and in Sherlock's. "But no." He pulled the clip out and pocketed it, then tossed the gun on the cushions behind him.
"Christ!" Greg put his hands together in front of his face, praying desperately for divine intervention. "What do you want?"
"I want nothing more than to work with you," said Sherlock. "Exactly as I proposed. My brother needs more."
"You said 'mate.' That doesn't mean 'chum' does it."
"No. It means sexual partner, as well you know."
"Will I become like you?" he asked. He stared at his wrists. "Will he turn me."
"No. Never," said Sherlock. "You'll sustain Mycroft. He will feed on you. Frequently. But it won't harm you. Your body will compensate for it. In time your blood will help him make other vampires, but you won't be turned."
"And if I stop feeding him."
"He'll starve."
"And if I die?" Greg asked.
"He'll die."
"Sounds like he's screwed then." Greg felt weak.
"It does seem dire, but I hope it's not," Sherlock grew pensive. "My brother and I don't always get along, but he is my brother and I don't want him to die. I've probably hurt his chances more than I've helped by speaking to you. Still, I do hope that you'll will at least consider the prospect now that you truly understand what is going on."
Greg closed his eyes.
"Will it hurt?"
Sherlock laughed. "No. God no. It will feel wonderful. Or so I've been told. It will feel like you've found a missing piece of yourself. You'll feel complete."
Greg twisted and looked around the room - at anything other than Sherlock, those teeth. Those eyes.
"Why me?" Greg asked. "Why of all the people in the world did it have to be me?"
"Because, out of all the people in the world, you are his perfect balance. Your soul completes his and brings it into check." Sherlock dropped onto the couch, absentmindedly pulling the gun out from under himself. "And God only knows, Mycroft needs balancing. With you around talking reason into him, telling him 'no' when he needs to hear it, this world may just have a hope. You can make him -- not human-- but at least a bit less of a monster. That's your power. That's your gift. Your ability to say no to him. Savor it. God only knows, I wish I had it."
There was bitterness in Sherlock's words. Greg was overwhelmed. "Vampires. Bloody goddamn vampires."
Sherlock stood up. "Think on it. You have tonight and tomorrow. After that it will become hairy. If you wait too long, it will be the same as a 'no.' But, think on it. For all the bad in Mycroft, there is good as well. And there could be much more with your encouragement."
And then he was gone and the only sign of his passing was the sound of the front door being slammed.
---------
Hopefully the next part won't take so long.
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This time, though, was different. Today, he needed to think away from people. You have tonight and tomorrow, after that it gets hairy, Sherlock had said. He hadn't really needed to. Greg could feel the urgency of the decision in his own blood. He felt tied to a wire stretched taut across a vast distance. Every minute wound it just a bit tighter.
The night had gone, lost to fitful sleep and dreams of running and escape. Running and being caught and ravished. Even in his sleep he couldn't decide which he preferred. Now it was morning and exhaustion already made his limbs heavy. He was down to mere hours to decide if he wanted to play the part of Van Helsing or Mina.
Greg dressed for the day, once more irritated by the fact that Mycroft had stolen his clothes. It didn't bloody matter that what he left behind fit and looked sharp, the bloody presumption of the thing galled. He had history with some of those clothes. The man hadn't even asked.
But done was done. And being angry didn't help him decide either.
Sighing, Greg headed out the door for a long walk. It had rained an hour or two before and the pavement still was dark with damp. The air had a clamminess about it that seemed to cling to Greg's cheeks. The smell of petrol irritated his nose. For some reason his whole body felt a bit achy and heavy, as though he might be coming down with the flu. Digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, he hunched forward and strode in the direction of Eccleston Square.
Vampires, thought Greg. Well could be worse. Could be zombies. Or ghouls. As undead men went, Mycroft was rather handsome. His hand felt warm enough to the touch. His smile was quite soothing. And then there was that way he sort of wrapped his attention around you, like thick blanket. Not at all corpse-like, that.
There was no denying that part of Greg wanted more of it. More attention, more smiles, more warm touches. He'd been awfully lonely since he'd left Lydia and the kids. He'd felt awfully undesirable and unattractive. For that reason alone it was tempting.
Greg reached the park. The leaves were beginning to turn colors for the fall, the grass was confettied with bright orange and red.
Vampires. Of all the crazy, unbelievable, bizarre things.
All those books had it completely wrong. Creature of the night? He'd seen both Sherlock and Mycroft wandering around in bright sunshine without the least bit of problem with it. They went to church. They certainly didn't look like nosferatu. They didn't appear to be leaving behind corpses wherever they went, so they must not need to kill to eat. There was no evidence either he or Sherlock were any worse than average people. If it weren't for the teeth and the speed and that strange reeling feeling he got when Mycroft stared at him, Greg would scoff at the notion.
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He had to decide. Soon.
Factors. Pro and con. Pro: He'd never have to worry about money or companionship, he'd be set up for life in both cases. Con: Coming out of the closet at nearly 40, how awkward! Pro: Those eyes, that smile, those hands. Con: Giving up completely on reuniting with Lydia. For all the bad lately, there'd once been so much good and he missed that. Pro: This feeling inside, this need, will be satisfied. Con: He'd sworn he'd wait until the divorce was final before dating again, and here he was contemplating committing to someone else. It smacked of bigamy.
Pro: It would take away temptation to try and mend a relationship that was eating away at his soul. Lydia knew his weak spots, his insecurities, the currency of his pride, and felt justified in exploiting them to their fullest. And even though he wasn't blameless, it had all become rather unforgivable. They brought out the worst in each other. A clean, certain break was best.
Pro: Mycroft would never physically or emotionally abuse Greg, that part was clear from his novel of a resume. He'd negotiate first, bribe second and as a last resort, work around it. And under normal circumstances, when his life wasn't at stake, he had near infinite patience. Even the thing with the clothes had been more of a misaimed attempt to bribe and ingratiate rather than an attempt to control.
Con: He couldn't think of a con right now. He couldn't think.
Greg bent and collected a damp leaf that had stuck to his shoe. Dead things could look so beautiful. Until they rotted. Greg had a vision of Mycroft, dressed fine, but not moving, not breathing. That incredible intellect, that fascinating mind, stilled. Voice silenced. Forever.
Oh fuck it! Anger flared. Greg suddenly threw the leaf down and headed back towards his flat, his feet moving quicker now.
Pro and con be damned, he couldn't kill Mycroft. Not actively, not by omission. He wasn't that kind of man.
He couldn't do it for the same reason he couldn't stand by and watch a child drown in a pond. The same reason he put on a bulletproof vest and walked into buildings with drug dealers and thugs and lowlifes. It wasn't as if he'd never killed a person before, but he'd never killed one that hadn't been in the active attempt of trying to kill him or a fellow officer. Mycroft wasn't even a criminal. He wasn't even a bad person.
I'm willing to risk my life to save a goddamn criminal from an equally low-lifed rival, I can sacrifice some blood for Mycroft.
And the rest? The sex, the clothes, the everything else. That can be negotiated.
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Sherlock slapped his hands down to either side of his computer causing Anthea to jump. How could he concentrate on building his website with this going on?
"Should I go and see him again?" he asked.
"No," said Mycroft.
"What can I do?"
"Nothing. It has to be his decision. He has all the facts."
"Then you do something," said Sherlock. "Watching you fade is… annoying! Fight for your mate. Argue with him. Convince him. Don't just lie there like a sorry lump because he rejects you."
A small smile tweaked at Mycroft's lips. "Are you concerned for me? It's been a long time since you showed you care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to programming the background for his site. "I should be happy. Either way this turns out, I'll be free of your obsessive smothering."
"Now that's the brother I love," said Mycroft with a sigh.
Mycroft's phone rang with a special tone and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. Anthea looked over, excited. Mycroft sat up.
It rang again and he snatched the phone off the end table and flipped it open. He suddenly had more energy than he had in days. His voice was rushed and clipped, nearly breathless. "I've been hoping you'd call. Have you made a decision? I'll be right over."
Without saying a word to either of them, Mycroft was up and across the room. He grabbed his coat, his fingers already on the speed dial for his chauffer. A moment later the door banged closed behind him.
"Will he be back soon?" Anthea asked, looking a bit lost.
"Let's hope not." Sherlock slouched back in his seat, relieved that the oppressive cloud of worry had dissipated.
I'm never going through that. He vowed to himself. Never.
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He went to the bathroom and looked at his face. He finger combed his windblown hair back into place, stroked his cheeks to check for residual stubble. He resisted the urge to use some of his cologne. Didn't want to make Mycroft think he was too eager, even though it was truly ridiculous how eager he was for this. Now that he was contemplating giving in, the pressure seemed to push him in a more pleasant way. He felt like a teenager preparing for a date. He was even a bit itchy in the groin.
Four minutes since he called. How far away had Mycoft been? He had no idea where the man lived. Somewhere posh, probably. There were a lot of posh spots around the city. How long would it take to get a cab? How bad was traffic?
He should read. He should clean something. Call the office and find out if there had been anything new. But he couldn't. Now that he'd made the decision, he just wanted it done, whatever "it" was.
He wondered if it would hurt to be bitten. Should he roll up his shirt sleeves? Change to something else? Christ. Why was he so damned hot for this.
Let's get this over with! Hurry up!
The chime was a relief. Greg hit his shin against the corner of the coffee table in his hurry to get to the button to release the door. Hobbling painfully, he unlocked the door to his flat. Any moment now.
And then he was there, striding down the hall, calmly. His smile was warm and Greg felt a thrill of something, fear, excitement, lust, move down his belly to his groin. He tried to keep his face professional, allowing only a tight, controlled smile.
"Glad you could come," he said. It was a stupid thing to say under the circumstances.
"I'm glad you've let me." His voice was soothing, like honey.
Greg felt hooked. That sense of being drawn in began. He swallowed and shook his head and it seemed to fall away again. Suddenly his resolve slipped. My God, am I really going through with this?
Mycroft frowned. "Greg. Please."
"Not in the hall," said Greg. "Inside."
Mycroft nodded and followed him inside, closing the door after them. "Are you still unsure?"
For some reason that annoyed Greg. "Of course, I'm unsure. Listen, I'm a brave man, I'm not scared of taking risks, but I'm not a foolish enough to throw my entire future to a man I've barely met. What you want from me - no sane man should accept. It's so permanent. It's so … intimate."
Mycroft nodded. He looked pained. "If I could give you more time, I would. Normally, I'm not so impatient. But for my kind, that is the way this happens. It's sudden, swift and brutal. A true test of our worth. The rewards are great, but so is the punishment for failure." He took a step towards Greg. Greg stepped backwards and Mycroft sighed again. "Perhaps I could have done something different. Perhaps I could have wooed you more aggressively, but I don't think that would have worked."
"No, it wouldn't have," said Greg.
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"Why do you want me so much?" Greg said, ducking the question. "Couldn't you have done better? I'm … old. Set in my ways. I'm a slob. I can't keep a budget. I spend too much time at work. I risk my life - that will be your life, too if Sherlock is to be believed. I'm nowhere near as bright as you. What can I possibly give you that would want?"
"You are quite young in my eyes," said Mycroft, smiling. "And the rest is not as great a problem as you might think. I too am a very busy man. I haven't picked up after myself in centuries - that's what maids are for. I'm quite good with money, so I won't require you to worry about that. And the rest, I think you underestimate yourself."
Mycroft sat down on the couch and held out a hand to him. "Are you ready?" Greg noticed that he'd managed to back himself into a corner, literally. "I can wait if you aren't. A few more minutes, at least."
Greg stood up straight with effort and shrugged his shirt straight. "What do I need to do?"
"Stop resisting."
"How do I stop resisting?" That reeled in sensation had started again. He shrugged it away like an annoying gnat.
"That. What you did right there. That's resisting."
"You mean, just do nothing?"
"Exactly, though it won't be nothing. Sometimes letting go is the hardest thing you can do."
Greg nodded. "Okay."
Greg met Mycroft's eyes and he felt the thread between them tauten. Then it was as if he were being drawn closer. The urge to break it off was like an itch, but he resisted. For a moment he felt horribly vulnerable and utterly off balance.
And then something clicked. It was as if all his fears simply stopped. The racing thoughts died to nothing. His doubts and self-conscious inhibitions evaporated into a heady bliss. Desire (for closeness, affection, sex?) blotted out everything thing else. His heart slowed.
Without a single thought, he crossed the floor and walked straight to Mycroft's arms.
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Nonetheless, it was still the most exquisite embrace Mycroft had ever engaged in. With a shift of his hip and careful hands to the man's side, he managed to reposition him in a more comfortable way, in his lap, straddling him.
His weight felt wonderful. Mycroft arched against the cushions, pushing his own hardness against the cleft of Greg's buttocks. He then reached up a hand to draw Greg's lips down to his. Their first kiss.
Greg tasted of shaving soap and mint toothpaste. He tasted of smooth skin, salt, rainwater dripped from ripe leaves. He smelled of soot and earth and tannins, of the heady rush of endorphins and the tang of pheromones. He smelled virile. Oh yes, quite virile. His kisses were rough, hungry, the rasp of his beard contrasting with the softness of his lips. He mouthed Mycroft's face with uninhibited passion. Mycroft was more careful in return, gave softer, gentler pecks, parting his lips and letting Greg inside.
Greg shuddered, breaking off the kiss to arch his own back. His body was eager, oh yes, ready for sex the way it probably hadn't been since the earliest days of his marriage. Now that he'd relinquished his prudery along with his fears, he rutted against Mycroft like a man half his years.
"Almost, not yet," murmured Mycroft. "But soon. Very soon," he promised as Greg let out a small sigh of disappointment.
First there had to be this. Greg wore a long sleeved pullover, with deft little yanks, Mycroft freed the hem and slid it up and off his chest. Greg understanding took over and pulled the rest off himself. Except for the brief moment when his face was covered, his eyes were glued to Mycroft's.
Half naked he sat in Mycroft's lap, the muscles of his belly clearly outlined. This was a fit man, Mycroft thought appreciatively. Little fat, much muscle. His nipples were firm with chill or perhaps sexual need. Mycroft touched first one, then the other, appreciating their hardness.
Then he drew the man to him. His warmth was delicious. Mycroft kissed him once under the ear, then ran his tongue down his throat until he felt the pulse point. His teeth ached pleasantly as they extended. Anticipation thrummed, and then a little pressure, pop, and oh… yes…
The first taste was exactly what Mycroft needed. The flavor was like nothing he'd tasted before. It was purer, richer, full of vitality. It seemed to fill the void in Mycroft. He'd barely sipped and already he felt more alive than he had all week. Greg didn't move. Mycroft knew from experience that he was feeling pleasure and satisfaction.
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