At the Beginning with You (2/3?)
At the Beginning with You
By alistair_wolfe
Rating: R to NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.
Warning: dub-con, obsessive!Mycroft
Mycroft's Story
The first time Mycroft met Gregory Lestrade, it was raining. He was walking to the car after spending some time taking a stroll along the embankment. Not something he would usually do, but it somehow allured to him that day. He just received his letter from Oxford and he should start thinking about his future. Umbrella in hand, he spotted the car near the bridge. That was when he saw someone standing, eyes vacant, drenched from head to toe with equally wet bag in his hand. Mycroft looked at the boy up and down, and then, slowly approached him. The next thing he knew, he had insulted him as an opening to a conversation. Mycroft was quite perturbed that he could not start a conversation properly. He was usually more in his element, but not then. He could feel the boy's anger, so he shoved his umbrella at him, and with a dignified stance, walked (ran, really, but it could be attributed to the rain ... or so he thought) to his (thankfully) waiting car. His hand was tingling at the place where his hand had brushed against the boy's the whole ride home.
And that, to Mycroft, was when it all started.
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He had imagined the meeting in different settings and endings over and over. He did not understand what it was, what the feeling he felt every time the image of The Boy (until he knew his name, he would remain as The Boy) replayed in his mind was. He learnt to control it with difficulty. After several years, he thought he had succeeded.
MMMMM
He blamed The Boy when his relationship with Sherlock deteriorated. If he had not been to preoccupied with his work and him, he would have had more time for his brother. Then it became worse. Sherlock hated him and, in Mycroft's opinion, destroyed his life to spite him. Mycroft did not know what to do and he hated it. What was the use of having control of most of the world if he could not save his brother from himself? And if he did not want his brother to waste his talent to drugs then he had to do something.
All his attempts to help Sherlock only served to make his brother hate him more. Then he heard, after months sorting the problem in the Middle East, that his brother had checked himself into rehab. Because of the persuasion of one DI Lestrade. Sherlock had been in contact with this man since before he was a DI. He had been arrested several times by this man and yet, he managed to convince his brother to get clean, the one thing that Mycroft still could not make him do. He had to meet this DI Lestrade. So he had the DI 'escorted' to an abandoned warehouse while he spent the ride there reviewing the DI's files.
Mycroft had never lost his composure, not even when he had to face presidents or monarchs, yet one look, one closer look at the photographs of the man on the files made him almost drop his umbrella. His assistant, bless her, only reacted with a raised eyebrow at her Blackberry.
DI Lestrade. That Boy. Not a boy now. A man, definitely a man.
He was glad at least to have a name to go with the face, among other things.
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The meeting left him angry, angry at Lestrade for not remembering him while he had spent years trying to control his feelings ... urges, angry at himself for being angry. He had to stop his hand from twitching when they were talking, so close to touch yet so far away. Mycroft thought he had control over his obsession. Apparently he was wrong. He had to deal with it. He had to. And he had to make sure that this time Lestrade would remember his name.
MMMMM
He put Greg, now in his head Lestrade was always Greg (the name had never passed his lips when they were together), on surveillance. He would spend some time watching him from the CCTV cameras. They always met in his house or his office, but he never stayed. He could not stay. Every time he held those hands, every time he brushed his lips on his skin, every time he pressed against him, he could feel things, things he thought were left buried. Lestrade had far too strong hold on him. As Sherlock said, the body is only transport, and his wanted the one that he could not have. Mycroft was no fool, he knew he was pushing Lestrade. How far could he handle?
He knew it was an obsession and he was, for lack of better word, a stalker. He was disgusted by himself, but he could not stop. He would never hurt Lestrade, not physically, but his lack of control had hurt him in more ways and more destructive than a physical harm could. Every time he held the inspector, he thought of the people who had seen him like that, who had held him like that, and he was enraged. He had to stop himself from making them ... disappear. It would not be fair and Lestrade would hate him if he found out. He saw the blank look that Lestrade had when they were together. That look stopped him from kissing him. He would not give himself that satisfaction. It is a punishment for him, for taking something that he should not take. Once he had everything under control, he would let Greg go. He told himself that everyday, but even to him it sounded empty.
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The monitor in front of him showed a clearer picture than the others, a clear view of Greg. Him interrogating suspects, chasing after criminals, chasing after Sherlock. He still could not believe that Greg managed to get Sherlock into rehab. He wondered what he did. Why did Sherlock listen to him? The thought of Sherlock and Greg together ... Mycroft was horrified when he realised he would face Sherlock if that meant he would be able to keep Greg. The voice inside his head, a tiny voice from the boy he had been, kept telling him, He is not yours to keep. Mycroft had learnt to ignore the voice, but even if it was right, he would need to change it. He loved Sherlock, but if he ever laid a hand on Greg ... Even Mycroft could not bear to continue the thought. And wasn't that terrifying in itself ...
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He could never let him go. That was his thought as he looked down on Greg, mouth opened in a gasp, eyes glazed with lust. His hands travelled down that gorgeous body, his tongue followed. He could feel that Greg was more responsive lately. It was less of Mycroft trying to make him elicit a sound during their time together and receiving a blank stare instead. It was something, and the first time Greg said his name in that breathy voice, calling him, grabbing him, actually touching him on his own accord, pulled him close, he lost it. No, he could never let him go, not on his own volition. He could not say no to the man, if he would just ask. Greg clearly had no idea how much power he had over Mycroft. Yes, he thought as he pressed kisses on Greg's collarbone, adding to the kiss marks already placed there, his marks, I cannot let him go, it will kill me. And that was the truth.
MMMMM
Mycroft hated Donovan. No, not hated. Disliked. She was hostile to Sherlock, called him names, but his brother was never too affected by it. What he hated the most was her lingering glances on Greg, her hand on his arm, the way she flicked her hair ... Mycroft watched in distaste as she tried, unsuccessfully, to get Greg's attention. His one comfort was that Greg did not realise what was happening. However, that could change, and despite his thought to ... remove Sergeant Donovan from Greg's vicinity, he could not give the man more reason to hate him. As if he did not hate you enough now. So he arranged problems to Anderson's marriage, made sure that Anderson got good look on Donovan, made sure to throw them together more often than not, and if later Donovan took up with Anderson and left Greg alone, it was a win/win situation for the both of them. He knew Greg did not like it. He knew that it was only going to be a disaster. If Donovan dared to seek comfort from Greg when the relationship crumbled, then Mycroft could not be held accountable if he decided to take the necessary steps to ... make sure the problems go away.
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He gave gifts to Greg anytime he could. In fact, he could not stop himself every time he saw something that he wanted to see on Greg. He also knew that Greg never wore anything that he sent. Until one day he saw the watch, light reflected from the clear surface. He remembered buying it, the price did not put a dent in his account, but he had not thought that the inspector would actually wear it. More than anything, it raised something in his body. Greg followed his eyes and started explaining about Sherlock ruining his watch or something, Mycroft was not really listening. Instead, he pulled Greg to him and proceeded to show him how much he appreciated it. It was not a gesture, he knew. He also knew Sherlock's involvement in it, he had the report on his desk. He had considered the possibility, but did not dare to hope. He made note to send Sherlock his thanks and let his brother deduced whatever that meant. And as he pinned both Greg's wrists next to his head, feeling the cold metal band of the watch on his palm and pushed into the hot body underneath him, he felt those long legs digging into his back, pulling him in further, Greg’s voice saying, Mycroft. That was the first time Mycroft dared to kiss him. And he could not stop. Not even when Greg went slack on him, eyes closing as sleep overtook him. He did not know if Greg was going to remember it. But it was etched in his memory for as long as he lived. That was also the day he accepted how much he loved the sleeping man.
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If Mycroft could point to the one thing he loved most about Greg, it was his sense of honour. It battled with his love for the man's patience, and devotion, and ..., and everything about him, really, but his sense of honour was the best thing to him, if not amusing. The way he handled Sherlock was amazing. He had managed to convince himself that what Sherlock had with Greg was platonic. He acted more like an older brother, more of an older brother to Sherlock than Mycroft was nowadays. If it had not been Greg, he would have ... done something. Sherlock still sulked and generally made everyone's life hell when he was in one of his moods, but Greg handled him quite well. He also made him keep his promise to stay clean, and to Mycroft that was the most important thing.
The problem was, his brother was too smart not to notice. He barged into his office, telling him to stop tormenting Greg, and find a new toy to play with. Mycroft was seething with anger, his voice was icy when he told Sherlock that it was not his business. How could he understand? How could he understand that Mycroft needed Greg? Sherlock had never needed anyone. He had never felt this drive, this ... urge to take whatever he could get. To stop people from taking what was his. Never yours. The voice. No, he is mine, mine, only mine. He had to show Sherlock. He had to show Sherlock, to show his brother who was mocking him about his lack of control over his body. It is only transport, Mycroft. How hard is it to control something so mundane? He would show Sherlock, he would prove him wrong, and in the end, Mycroft Holmes would have the last laugh.
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Mycroft knew he had turned so pale he could collapse at any moment. His grip on his umbrella was starting to become painful. Greg was breaking it off. Why? He said he did not care if Mycroft destroyed his life, that he could not continue living like this. Why? He would give everything to make Greg stay. Why would he leave him? Mycroft wondered if that was the reason of some of the murders that Greg usually handled. The image of Greg lying in the pool of his own blood with Mycroft standing there, a gun, a knife, something, in his hand. The phrase, Now you will never leave me ... No, he would not debase himself. He would not become a common criminal. He took in the sight of the man, shoulders slumped, dark circles under his eyes.
"What do you want?" He asked in a steady voice, what was supposed to be a steady voice, but it sounded broken to his ear.
When Greg answered, "Everything you will never give.", he wanted to yell Wrong! that there was nothing he was not willing to give him. But Greg looked very tired, sad, hurt. What about me? Mycroft then realised this was one thing he could give. If Greg wanted out, if he thought he would be happier if he got out of their ... not quite a relationship, then that was what Mycroft would give him.
"Very well then." His obsession for this man had not diminished, but it was apparently held in check by another feeling that was more dangerous to him. After years of trying to control his obsession, he finally managed it.
As he watched Greg walked out of the door, he wondered why the victory felt so bitter.
MMMMM
Mycroft knew that it would hurt. He just never thought how much it would hurt him to only be able to watch, not to touch. He upped the surveillance to make sure that Greg would not get hurt, or at least reduce the chance of that happening. He was working with Sherlock after all and the boy was trouble. Mycroft could not sleep, he could not eat, every spare time that he got, he spent watching the CCTV feeds of Greg. He was not faring that much better. The first time he saw Greg going out with someone, he nearly hurled his glass at the monitor. Luckily for the poor guy, it never went past the first date. He still made sure to get him transferred as far away as possible from Greg. He was back at square one and he was not feeling better.
Everything you will never give.
He wondered what that meant. His eyes when he said it ...
Everything you will never give.
Mycroft curled up in his bed, something he had not done since his childhood, and could not help feeling so alone.
MMMMM
The first time Mycroft met John Watson, he knew this man would be perfect for Sherlock the moment he refused his offer. Sherlock was lucky to have him. And a darker part in his mind was delighted that Sherlock probably did not know what hit him. Serve him right. Mycroft had little reason to be in a good mood lately, but this was reason enough. And another person watching over Sherlock would mean less work for both Greg and Mycroft.
The second time Mycroft met John Watson, he was with Sherlock. The cabbie was dead, and he was right. John Watson would kill for Sherlock. It was a good start. Sherlock taunted him as usual, Mycroft kept his amusement inside. Oh, if only Sherlock had known. When he said, Losing it, in fact, he was losing it. The not eating and overworking were running him ragged and he felt foolish. Sherlock knew what he meant. It was only a brief look, a Don't be stupid, it is unbecoming look from a brother who he knew despite everything still worried about him. And Sherlock was right. It did upset Mummy.
After their talk, Mycroft stayed behind to watch Greg got his team to clear the scene. This was the closest they had been since six months ago. Mycroft missed it. He walked up to Greg, delighted in seeing the man's gorgeous, lovely, brilliant, eyes widened at him. Another bad start at conversation, but Mycroft had not slept in days, he could be excused for that. He could not even remember how long. He offered his hand, this time letting Greg took it when he wanted to, if he wanted to. His heart was beating so hard the whole time that he was amazed Greg could not hear it. For what felt like hours, he stood there, hand tightened around the handle of his umbrella, the other was offered to the man who looked at it warily. Then slowly, much to his surprise, Greg took the offered hand.
And for the first time since they met all those years ago, Gregory Lestrade finally, finally, smiled at him.
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Epilogue