Title: Pony
Author: marill_chan
Prompt: #16 Whips for
25deductions and #24 Family for
sherlock100Summary: Mycroft is tortured to protect Sherlock. (see full summary inside)
Warnings: Torture
Rating: R
Spoilers: A Scandal in Belgravia
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock.
My table:
25 Deductions TableMy other table:
Sherlock 100 Table Summary: Mycroft takes the blame for the Bond Flight falling through, and has to suffer through his Masters’ punishment to protect Sherlock.
His protection was stripped from him, first of all. He had no safe havens that could hide him from the big bad monsters lurking in the dark. Just the slight psychological trauma of having to look over his shoulder, to jump at shadows and noises in his own home, would’ve been enough punishment.
But there was more.
Mycroft remembered vividly the day he’d gotten the call. He had expected it, and the waiting was torture in itself. Waiting for the axe to fall. Finally, four weeks after he had to announce the failure of Bond Air, he was summoned to his Masters’ Quarters. The meeting was quick and to the point. For a week, Mycroft was to lose his power, his credibility, and his security. At the end of the week, he would return to the Masters’ Quarters for remediation training, and afterwards his probation would be over. His job was safe. But his life, his physical safety was not guaranteed.
It was Day 7 of his probation. Mycroft had managed to survive without any of his connections, as well as keeping Sherlock alive, which was nearly impossible most normal weeks. Threats had been made against him on days 2 and 5, and all he could do was wait out his punishment. To wait until his title was back in place and he could crush his enemies beneath his heel.
Mycroft was out for his morning walk, umbrella in tow, planning to stop for coffee and then stay in for the rest of the day. As he passed by the newsagent, glancing at a paper, someone behind him said his name. He turned to look and was suddenly grabbed by two men and bundled into a van.
He froze, relaxing his muscles. There had been training for this. He was positioning his umbrella for a defensive move just as the door was closing. However, the two men held him securely as a third man wrenched his arm behind his back until he dropped his brolly.
“What is the meaning of this?” he growled, attempting to gain purchase on the stately clean floor of the people carrier. None of the men were familiar to him and he didn’t recognise the van. He began to catalog various details that he noticed, trying to rule out some of his enemies.
One of the men, who wore a dark suit and a light blue handkerchief, smiled condescendingly at him. “You’ll see, Mr. Holmes.”
They fastened a cable tie around his wrists, so tightly that it nearly cut off his circulation. Duct tape was wrapped around his thighs and another cable tie cinched his ankles together.
“You’ll be surrounded by armed soldiers in a matter of minutes,” he bluffed, as the men went through his pockets, taking all his devices, and sensors. He cursed inwardly as they somehow knew to take away the sensor on his tie tack. “If I am not released promptly, you will not be spared. You know who I am, and you know what I’m saying is true.”
A blindfold was tied over his face, leaving him with the fleeting image of the expressions on their faces. Smug, arrogant, unconvinced. He maintained his calm exterior.
“You’ve been warned,” he said, just before a solid thing was forced into his mouth, separating his teeth and resting on his tongue. It tasted of leather. The thing was fastened behind his head and pulled at his lips indelicately. He tried to move it around a little to make it more comfortable but only managed to make it pull at his lips more and press his tongue against his teeth painfully.
Mycroft laid still on the floor of the van, feeling the turns as the driver carried them away. An hour into the drive, Mycroft had second guessed himself one too many times and had to admit that he didn’t know where he was.
Something clenched within his stomach as the van came to its final stop, the engine shutting down. One of the men petted Mycroft’s head, trying to humiliate him.
“We’re here.”
Mycroft’s senses roused as he was carried out of the van and into some kind of building. He smelled heavy pollen and dust, which nearly stirred up his sinuses. He heard the wooden steps creaking as the men walked over them and into the house. He nearly panicked upon hearing the heavy door slam shut behind him. Despite all the bindings placed on him, it was the closing door that made him feel most vulnerable and cornered.
He was carried deeper into the house and down a flight of stairs. He kept trying to focus his mind and notice anything that could help him get out of this new situation. However, there was really nothing he could do without his best weapon, his voice. Without it, and certainly without his hands, he was at the mercy of his captors.
It was cold inside the house, damp in the basement, going by the smell. He was wearing a suit jacket and coat, but still the chill in the air seeped through the layers of fabric. It became worse when he was dumped on the hard cement floor of the basement, his face and one hand touching the cold surface.
Mycroft lay still, trying to gather more information, trying to work the leather gag out of his mouth. The cable tie around his wrists was never going to budge. He simply didn’t have enough strength (willpower?) to break it. If he could talk to them. If he could convince them…
A person walking in leather-soled shoes came down the steps. Mycroft focused once more, trying to discern any telling smells or noises. The man, over 6 foot, under 200 pounds, wearing wool trousers, stopped right in front of Mycroft’s nose.
“Mycroft, so good of you to meet with me on such short notice,” said the man, a hint of derision in his tone.
Mycroft didn’t know whether to feel relief or fright. He knew this man. He worked for this man. He simply went by the name Eleven, as he had been eleventh in command of the Organisation for several years. He was a Master, and it was his job to deal with problems.
“You’re looking well,” Eleven carried on, circling him. “Good colour in your cheeks, you even have good posture despite the barbaric way you’ve been trussed up.” The last three words he spoke were incisive, drawn out. “Lie on your back for me, Mycroft.”
Mycroft understood the request, heard the threat underlying it, and made an attempt to roll off his shoulder and on top of his bound arms. He made a grunt, which disgusted him, as he failed to even budge.
The toe of a fine leather shoe made contact with his ribs, so gently, and then firmly pushed him over. He managed to hold in any noises that might have tried to escape when his shoulders were stretched and his hands were crushed by his weight.
“Look at you. Wearing a bit just like a work horse. My, My, My,” said Eleven. “You know what happens when a man like me gets hold of a horse that doesn’t pull its weight, right Mycroft?”
The question was meant to be answered, as Eleven’s shoe made sharp contact with his ribs this time. Mycroft nodded quickly.
“That’s right. I have to break the horse until it’s learnt its lesson.”
A hush fell over the room. Mycroft tensed, as his gut told him something was to happen. As if on a non-verbal signal, the three lackeys lifted him off the floor and dragged him to one side of the room. Mycroft tried picking up his feet, but it proved worthless with them bound the way they were.
He was laid atop some kind of metal structure. Two bars, crossed like at T. His body was bent over the horizontal bar and laid across the vertical, which was no more than 6 inches across. It immediately chilled him further and it was painful, trying to let it take his full weight. Mycroft panicked, as his body started tilting to one side. He shuffled his feet, desperate to keep his balance.
Metal touched his wrists and cut his hands free. He quickly grabbed the bar in front of him to stead himself. His hands were seized immediately and tethered onto the bar instead. He grunted, as his arms were stretched in front of him painfully. Eventually, he managed to settle into an easier position.
The metal shears returned, slicing through the fabric of his clothing carelessly. Mycroft slowed his breathing, kept his body still. A display of weakness was not going to help him.
Finally, his trousers, pants, and suit were pulled away, and he lay naked across the chilled metal bars. Eleven walked behind him. “Yes. He will be a fine work horse once he’s been broken…”
A hand grabbed one side of his arse firmly and Mycroft yelped, a sound which was muffled only slightly by the bit. He hadn’t meant to show this sort of reaction, but he certainly hadn’t expected to be grabbed right away.
Eleven chuckled deeply, a sound which made Mycroft’s guts clench painfully. The hand was removed and silence took over the room once again.
“You’re not even a full-fledged horse, are you Mycroft?” said Eleven, finally breaking away the quiet. He was walking around the metal structure that Mycroft was restrained upon, circling him like a predator. “You’re more like a show pony. Delicate, dainty, pathetic. You screamed just like I’d taken my crop to your hide.” Eleven moved a stray bit of hair from Mycroft’s forehead. “Which I fully intend to do.”
Mycroft concentrated on breathing. He tried to meditate, to think of nothing at all, just like one of his sessions with the Buddhist lama. Except he wasn’t in the lotus position, and the burn of incense was replaced by the smell of his own sweat.
“We can stop this if you want, Mycroft. Clean you up, give you a new suit, and return you to your home,” Eleven said. “Just let your brother take your place. Because believe me, I would love to be punishing him instead.”
Mycroft grunted, shaking his head, trying to make one syllable come out of him. “No.” Part of their arrangement had been Sherlock’s immunity. The younger Holmes was never to know of the trouble Mycroft was in, and he was never to be touched.
“If you change your mind, just say the word,” said Eleven, as he cracked a thin object against Mycroft’s arse. Mycroft’s body rocked forward at the pain, but he managed to keep the noises to himself. However, as more and more blows from the riding crop were laid upon him, 17, 18, 19, he couldn’t hold in his grunts and cries any longer. This small admission of weakness only seemed to encourage Eleven further. He began swatting Mycroft’s unprotected backside harder and swifter. Mycroft clenched his fists and bore down on the gag with his teeth. He knew he was bleeding. The stripe was so thin and he feel something dripping down his legs that was too much to be sweat. His head started to spin at the idea of it.
He was still screaming and whimpering for about 20 seconds after it stopped.
“Look at that…” Eleven said, in hushed tones. He splayed his fingers across the many welts on Mycroft’s arse. It was so incredibly painful. Mycroft whimpered loudly, nearly yelping, nearly screaming. “More colour in your cheeks, my dear, dear boy.” There was something perverse in his voice. He enjoyed this as more than just a power play. It was more than a satisfying punishment for a lackey’s failure. Mycroft swallowed around the fat lump in his throat. He shut his mind away from the nightmarish intentions he heard in Eleven’s voice.
“So, I’ve whipped my pony.” Eleven was carrying on with that metaphor, apparently. “What else needs to be done to break him?” Eleven’s leather-soled shoes moved the man away from where Mycroft was stretched. There were some sounds of searching, and Mycroft could hear the click of a lighter. Soon, he could smell the burn of wood, as a fire was started in a stove or maybe a fireplace. It was difficult to gauge the layout of the room simply by sound and smell. Metal pinged against the cement floor.
“I have to make sure he can never work for anyone else. I need to make him mine,” said Eleven, close to the far wall.
Mycroft clenched his fists. He arse was a white hot mess. He could feel veins throbbing as they tried to clot. The taunts of his Master barely registered, just white noise to him now. The sound of the leather shoes coming towards him caught his attention, however, and he trembled in fear and cold.
A breath of warmth ghosted past him and he was confused. He swallowed and his throat was so dry that the effort was painful. Eleven stopped behind him.
“Now, Mycroft. Your body will no longer belong to yourself. It’s going to belong to me.” Eleven moved and Mycroft felt a cold touch on the side of his leg, which suddenly felt hot, very very hot. He couldn’t stop his reaction. It was primal, it was animal. He screamed and bucked and thrashed as the heated metal branded him. Eleven held it to him for a full minute before pulling back. Mycroft nearly vomited. The pain of it removed, exposed to the air was worse. It was worse.
“You see, pony? You see what little brother’s behaviour can get you? Is he worth all this trouble?"
Mycroft gasped in fear as Eleven faintly touched the brand to his face, removing it just as quickly. Eleven chuckled, walking the metal poker back to the fireplace and leaving it there. Mycroft’s stomach was one twisted coil of nausea, and he felt as though he was going to pass out from the pain of his lower body. He let his head hang down towards the floor, in case he vomited. At least some of it might clear the gag and it would lower the chances of him choking to death.
He shivered, realising it had been a very long time since anyone had spoken or moved in the room. He couldn’t be sure what torture awaited him, what Eleven was planning in his devious mind. Mycroft’s muscles tensed, and he released them suddenly, as waves of pain shot through his lower extremities. He decided to remain limp, as if it could relieve him in the slightest.
The leather shoes moved across the room once more. Mycroft began chanting mantras in his head. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. A soft pair of headphones was fitted over his ears and the top of his head, the earpieces cushioned. Mycroft swallowed, unsure what this could mean. Eleven’s fingers slowly smoothed down his spine. Then, without warning, the device over his ears turned on, and all he could hear was a sharp, horrible scream. The scream was played over three times before he understood what it was. It was Sherlock’s voice, screaming for mercy, screaming in pain. Mycroft’s heart beat fiercely against his chest wall. Had Eleven gotten hold of Sherlock and done this to him? Was this from long ago when Sherlock had been tortured for information?
Regardless, the scream was played over again and again, literally hundreds of times, as Mycroft was helpless to stop it. Helpless to comfort his little brother and end his pain. At some point, he felt wetness against his cheeks. It was a pinprick of information compared with how badly his stomach was cramping and how loud Sherlock’s scream was in his ears. The branding wound on the side of his leg was throbbing painfully, and his arse was a blurry mess. Still, it was the screaming that nearly broke him.
Something felt differently in the air at some point. Mycroft squeezed his eyes together, knowing that something was about to happen to him, but unable to hear or see what was coming. The new feeling remained in place for about five minutes before anything really changed. The headphones were taken away, but Mycroft could still hear Sherlock echoing in his ears for a long while. Soothing touches at his shoulders and face were not reassuring. He grunted and tried pulling away from the hands touching him, removing the gag and blindfold.
“Mycroft, it’s going to be okay.” The words went past him, not wanting to organise themselves for his addled brain to comprehend. He took a deep breath through his dry lips and his parched throat, coughing and sputtering, dignity long forgotten.
“Please,” he murmured.
His hands were freed without warning and his body was being lifted, with his muscles protesting the change. He was laid onto something soft, and blankets were piled over him. Was this rescue? Who would know he was here?
He dared to crack his eyes open, curiosity overcoming fear for a brief moment. It was Sherlock, come to this den of torture on his behalf. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, but was conversing with Anthea off to the side. Mycroft couldn’t hear the conversation well enough and simply gave it up. He looked to his other side where John was taking his blood pressure. John nodded to him.
“You’ll be all right. We just need to get you back home.”
Mycroft thought to glance around for Eleven, or his henchmen, but he was past the point of caring. The three people he trusted most in the world were at his side. Finally, he let his fatigue take over, slipping into the darkness.
When Mycroft woke up, he was sore and dazed. He’d been laid on his side, a pillow between his knees, which was appreciated more than whoever had done it could know. He moved his leg slightly and felt the pull of bandages covering his wounds. He looked straight ahead at a pitcher of water on the bedside table. Before he could manage to try reaching for it, familiar hands were pouring a glass with a straw and putting it to his lips.
Once he had drunk the full glass of water, Mycroft sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Sherlock. I fear, however, that your noble act will cause more trouble than I am worth.”
Sherlock sat in the chair next to the bed. “Your assistant assures me that a cover up is in place, and that your period of probation was over four hours ago. They won’t touch you.” He said the last, possessively, with conviction. It seemed Sherlock would make sure that no one would get to his brother again.
“I assume that someone in your homeless network observed those men taking me,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock nodded. “I’ve had them following you all week. It doesn’t suit you to hide your problems from me when I am such a big part of them and I can help you.” He paused. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that on my account. You should have let them take me instead.”
“You know me too well to think that that was a possibility,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock hummed is response. “Well, no work for a few days. John’s orders,” he said. “In fact, if I were you, I’d look into a whole other career, but, I know how you hate change.”
Mycroft shifted slightly, wincing at the pain of his small movement. “Sherlock, thank you.”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Mycroft. And I mean it when I tell you that I’m sorry.”
Mycroft nodded. No more had to be said for the brothers to understand one another completely.