Though I Walk Through the Valley (4/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (4/38)
Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: Gratuitous sex and incredible self ignorance and denial of self (ie. Mycroft being Mycroft)
Author's Notes: Finally, a small glimpse into Mycroft's mind for everyone.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Nonsense. Next week, my shout. - GL
The message sat there, a glowing light in an otherwise rather dim office. He always preferred the lights down low; all that he required to work was the fire and a single desk lamp. Arum (apparently the current theme was floral. He would have preferred Lilly, but Arum it was) kept the lights turned up during the day, but acceded to his wishes in the evening. It was the closest the office had to a natural light cycle as there were no windows (too much of a security risk).
Mycroft steepled his fingers as he studied the mobile glowing on the antique walnut desk. The screen lasted through only a few more seconds of his gaze before it switched off in power saver. He kept staring at it, but didn’t reactivate the screen. There was no need - he had the message well and truly committed to memory.
Arum was moving around the exterior room that acted as a small antechamber to his office performing all the mundane tasks she was in charge of as his secretary and PA in addition to her more specialised duties. It was only a small room, big enough for her desk, a couch, the vast array of filing cabinets, another fireplace, three bookshelves ostensibly full of legal texts and accounting reports, and a large leafy potted plant (Ficus benjamina or the Weeping Fig, he believed). From the sounds that filtered through he suspected she was reviewing the daily reports and prioritising them: things he needed to be told about in a single line, things he needed to be told about in a paragraph, things he needed to read a full summary for, things he needed to read, and things he needed to read and deal with. He already had the summary report on his brother, along with a note that the report writer had been scheduled for a Continuous Learning Seminar on grammar. She really was incredibly efficient. His life would be so much more difficult without her.
He should finish reading the transcript of the latest conversation between the Americans and the Koreans. It was sitting in its inconspicuous manila folder right there at his elbow. The Budget was ready for his review underneath it, and the list of candidates for Prime Minister after the next election that Arum had compiled at his request was waiting in his inbox. He didn’t move, giving himself just a little longer.
The fire popped and the logs shifted sending up a small cloud of sparks. The fireplace was one of the sole indulgences in his office and one of the few overt indications of the power wielded from this room. Let the Cabinet Minsters occupy their sweeping halls with grand windows and huge spaces. When Mycroft needed to impress and didn’t want to open his sanctuary he merely borrowed one of the rooms for as long as he needed. Anyone who came here had power impressed upon them in spite of the lack of grand features.
Besides, this office was old and had been occupied by a Holmes since the building was rebuilt in 1840. Of course, the family had enjoyed rooms in Westminister Palace longer than that, but the current furnishings dated to the rebuilding works after the fire. He had contemplated moving his office, to Number 70 next to 10 Downing St for example, but had decided too much would be forfeit. Being called in for a discussion rather lost its sting when the Prime Minister only had to walk next door.
And the history! Oh the history that would be sacrificed. The floor to ceiling hand carved bookcases, nothing flashy, merely the royal crest carefully carved into the sides and the border at the top; the ceiling with an English Rose of ruby inlaid at the centre and wood lovingly maintained for almost two hundred years so it shone; and of course, the marble fireplace which was so useful during the cold months, also a royal tribute, but more meaningfully for Mycroft with the Holmes crest chiselled into the stonework next to the royal emblem. All of them understated - no bright colours, or velvet or over adorned flourishing edges to collect dust.
Mycroft, as all the Holmes had, subscribed to the idea that if you had to tell people how powerful you were, you weren’t. The room was proof that power did not need to be ostentatious to exist - and none of the privilege few who made it through the door doubted where the true British Government resided.
From this room Mycroft had chosen Prime Ministers, destroyed MPs and Lords, and collapsed governments both at home and overseas, yet a casual inspection of the building plans and trip to the exterior waiting room displayed nothing any mid-level departmental secretary would fight for, belonging to a long time, low level bureaucrat and part-time diplomat, as required.
Fools the lot of them.
Mycroft was well aware of his abilities. He could start a war in an instant, prevent one in a day, and finish one in a week, if he was willing to pay the price. (These things were always harder to resolve than create, itself a damning commentary on the human condition.) He could have a complete dossier on anyone on his desk in a day, a week absolute maximum if they were no one important and the basic profile hadn’t been compiled. An hour if they were military or government. Thirty minutes for Special Forces, Cabinet or MI6 - and 20 minutes of that was printing and transporting the hard copy.
And none of this was helping with his current predicament.
He could negotiate a deal between different feuding countries to everyone’s perceived benefit...yet he couldn’t figure out what to do about one New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector.
With concerted effort Mycroft managed not to frown at his phone. He was pleased with Gregory’s response. As much as he disliked admitting it, there had been no small amount of heart-thudding consternation while he waited to see whether Gregory Lestrade would choose to take the offered path of egress.
Gregory had clearly been uncomfortable since their liaison, though the Submissive hid it well and it was bothering him less as time went on - why at the last dinner he’d even smiled a proper Gregory-smile. He’d handled Mycroft’s insinuation well, though he’d been shocked at the suggestion that he should maybe regard Sally Donovan in such a light, so clearly the lingering effects of whatever Estrus induced affections Gregory had held were fading. With time Gregory would completely move past the lingering sense of obligation his inherent nobility required he display and things would go back to normal between them.
Now all Mycroft had to do was do the same.
It had been harder than he had thought it might be, making that suggestion to Gregory. Sally Donovan was a good woman and everything he’d learnt about her indicated that she would be very compatible with Gregory - his Alpha nature would surely make up for the fact that she seemed to prefer Dominants despite claiming not to be gay. He was after all a very strong and admirable Alpha, and surely that would be enough. She was most certainly a better choice than the few Submissives Gregory had flirted with at the pub since December. He’d stopped keeping track after Gregory’s third night out, telling himself it was because it was a waste of resources rather than admit that he couldn’t handle the continual heart pounding terror when Gregory reciprocated with his own flirtatious comments and the sharp relief when he didn’t take them home.
No, Gregory would do much better with someone like Sally Donovan, and Mycroft would always have the satisfaction of having brought them to the point where they realised it. That would make up for the churning sensation in his stomach. Next time he suggested it, he would absolutely not be relieved when Gregory brushed off the idea as laughable and would expend effort convincing him of the idea’s merits.
With an angry growl he turned his mobile over and opened the first file. There was no need to text back, and soon this lingering sentimentalism would fade too. He hoped it cleared up faster than that damn stomach bug he picked up in Mexico. He’d only recently been able to face his breakfast again and he suspected he’d somehow developed a psychosomatic aversion to eggs - the smell of one reminded him of that worse than usual week and made him want to vomit. He had ended up switching from properly balanced breakfasts full of protein, including eggs, to fruit instead. Grapes and yoghurt specifically, and so far he’d decided he quite fancied the grapes and now kept them at the office for whenever he felt peckish, unfortunately an increasingly common occurrence. Stress eating had always been his downfall, though more in his youth than now, and if he didn’t stop soon he’d have to get new suits tailored and wouldn’t Sherlock love that, but every now and then he just really wanted a grape or three, especially if they came with tabasco sauce.
Mycroft was halfway through the last of the reports, Sherlock’s daily activities (which he always left for last in case his brother’s latest reckless act left him in no mood to finish his actual tasks), before Gregory’s name came up. Apparently John had decided it was an appropriate time for Sherlock to hear Gregory’s lecture leftover from his appalling behaviour the week before, and a whole page was dedicated to the time, length and subject matter of Gregory’s visit to 221B. At the sight of the Submissive’s name Mycroft felt an odd pang in his chest.
Stupid, he thought, pushing it away. There was no reason to feel lonely. Gregory wasn’t gone; they were meeting next Thursday for dinner again. They’d missed the Arsenal game Gregory had been threatening to drag him to for six months now, but that didn’t matter. It was probably best, given Mycroft’s profession, that he kept their relationship slightly less familiar than it had been. Ultimately Mycroft couldn’t afford to have close friends, and as was clearly evidenced, Gregory had got too close. He’d known this for a while now and had let his self-indulgent behaviour go, addicted as he was to the give and take that was their relationship.
Did those reasons really apply anymore? He couldn’t usually let people get too close in case they discovered his secret, but Gregory already knew and -
No, of course they still applied. It was incompatible with his work. Full stop. Too many close associations and people became targets, weak points to be exploited against him. He couldn’t afford that, especially with the way the global climate was at the moment and the utterly incompetent government he had to work with. At the end of the day, after all, Mycroft relied on other people and he was only as good as his tools - none of which were currently very impressive. He couldn’t afford the time, if nothing else. Sherlock was more than enough to keep track of.
The good Detective Inspector understood the demands of a profession that was both a vocation and life choice. He would understand why Mycroft needed to step back from being such close friends. They would serve optimally as friendly acquaintances. It was enough.
It hadn’t been enough before. Before he’d wanted, needed, to see as much of Gregory as possible. The Thursdays he was unable to keep their rendezvous had been icy black holes in his life. Gregory had been his warmth and light, his time to relax and be Mycroft, not Holmes or Mr Holmes or Sir or any of the other titles thrown in his direction over the day.
Mycroft, just Mycroft, and occasionally when Gregory slipped, My, though Mycroft suspected if the Submissive ever learnt exactly how often that endearment had passed his lips over the past couple of years he’d die of shame.
Mycroft licked his lips. Since finding out Gregory was a Submissive it had gone from a friendly nickname, too casual for Gregory to truly feel comfortable with awarding him, but heart-warming nonetheless, to a much more meaningful endearment. Had Gregory cared that long, or had the name changed meanings for him too?
My.
Mine.
It didn’t matter. He’d survived without such an unreasonably demanding relationship for over thirty years prior to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He could and would do it again.
Oh, but Gregory had looked good in his bed, body flushed from their exertions, hands restrained behind him and come here eyes begging for more of whatever Mycroft would give him, tender or harsh. So strong, so gentle, so biddable...
No.
Mycroft waded through the rest of the inconsequential tasks he had to do, and if he avoided finishing the report on Sherlock it was merely because he trusted his assistant to have everything in hand. Arum would have alerted him to any urgent items and it was getting late. He had no doubt she’d appreciated going home soon, and she made a point of not leaving until he did.
Although...he leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath in he forced every muscle to relax in turn. It had been some time...
‘Sir?” Her voice drifted gently to his ears.
He’d always liked her voice. Nice and low, not squeaky and thin like so many women. A pleasant voice, one capable of so many subtleties and persuasions.
He knew she saw the change in his mood as soon as his half-lidded eyes reached her face. He made it take time, travelling up her legs, along the smooth sweep of her hip, the less than gentle and entirely generous swell of her chest, her neck, hidden mostly by her hair, until finally her eyes. She smirked as she read him in a well-trained glance and her body language changed subtly. Ready to play, but she was going to make him work for it.
“My dear.”
He deliberately pitched his voice lower than usual and enjoyed watching her shiver entirely from the sound. No dominance, not yet. Not until she agreed, which she had yet to do. Sometimes she’d drag it out for hours before making that vital change and consenting. There was certainly something to be said for playing with a Switch.
He would only ever use Dominance when she was in the Submissive dynamic. The one time they’d tried while she stayed Dominant had been intense and explosive, but too dangerous to do again. She was not a low level Dominant, which made her such a glorious Submissive when she did chose to reverse her dynamic, and the conflict had almost overtaken the sex.
She always made him work for her change, using charm, seduction, all the tools the less Dominant and Submissive members of society who weren’t far enough on either side of the scale to have partners begging at their feet used. He enjoyed the challenge.
Which she knew, and tonight was going to be a challenge, he could tell.
Perfect.
“Are you finished with those files?” Her voice was just that little bit huskier now, and he was not imagining the slight sashay of her hips as she glided to the edge of his desk.
Wrong.
No, glorious. She kept her body in very good shape, she wasn’t just there for filing, and the visual she presented perched on the edge of his desk was astounding. Her skirt only slightly rucked up by her pose, and already she could have most people, Alpha, Beta, Omega or Female, on the ground begging. He’d seen it, but then, he wasn’t most people.
His eyes wondered lazily over her figure as he reclined in his chair affecting nonchalance. This would be very good. It was overdue.
In defiance of a slight twinge of discomfort he leant forward and smoothed her hair back from her neck. To check the scratch she’d received during training that morning, of course. If his fingers lingered over the newly revealed expanse it was naturally only a coincidence as he traced the thin, fading line. Not that either of them believed that.
“I do believe I am, my dear.” His hand fell away, knuckles lightly grazing the top of her collar bone as they passed.
“Then should I lock them away for the night, Sir?” The return move - the slightest moving of the shoulders to push her chest forward, the questioning tilt of the head to accidentally reveal more of the neck, the slow, but deliberate hand motion to reveal the smooth and vulnerable skin of the inner wrist.
“I suppose so,” He murmured, “though I was considering reviewing some of the policies before leaving tonight.”
She leant forward to collect the files on the desk. The movement pushed her body tantalisingly close to his, just ruffling the sleeve of his jacket. With a sultry look and a definite swing of the hips she sauntered out of the room.
Mycroft allowed a tight smile to spread across his lips. She was without a doubt the perfect blend of challenge and reward, danger and satisfaction, predator and prey. He enjoyed the hunt as much as claiming his prize and she always gave a good chase, refusing to roll over to his every whim, but Submitting so beautifully when she did.
Just like Gregory.
He pushed the thought away. While the combination of Alpha and Submissive had created a uniquely stimulating and invigorating experience, it would not be happening again.
The distinctive sounds of the filing cabinet retreating back into the wall filled him with satisfaction. If she was closing the false front it wouldn’t be long now. Almost as if his thoughts had summoned her she appeared in the doorway. He drank in the sight of her. Somehow without changing anything her previously decorous office attire now looked positively sinful. She didn’t hurry, placing each black stiletto precisely in line as she moved back to the desk and him. He wondered if her stockings went all the way up to her waist or if he’d been lucky enough to pick a day with suspenders. She looked ravishing in suspenders.
“Do you think this review might take long, Sir?” Sultry. Definitely sultry. She stopped and leant over, placing one palm on the desk, the other delicately on her waist.
It gave him a very good view down her steel grey blouse. Mmmm, the black lacy one that was practically no barrier at all. He liked that one. He’d given it to her about a year ago and had very much enjoyed its trial run. Without any shame at all he slid the top button out of its hole, letting her top gape wide open to give him a better view.
“My dear,” he purred up at her, “I expect it will take hours.”
She met his gaze with a heated one of her own. “Then I suggest you take your jacket off, Sir. No point getting creases if we’re going to be working.”
No one’s voice should be able to make taking his jacket off sound like removing the final layer of clothing rather than the first. With a single smooth step she moved to the corner of his work space and held out her hand. Mycroft shrugged it off and used the brief window she was turned away to let a frown flit across his face. That gaze, that voice... usually when their eyes met like that there were almost corporeal fireworks. Obviously he was still not back to normal after- well this would help with that.
Arum finished fussing with his jacket and Mycroft mentally cursed as he realised he’d just missed what would have been a delightful show of leg and limb. Time to stop drifting, put the past behind him, and return to the here and now.
Suddenly impatient and loath to drag out their usual game, he gestured her closer. With a smirk which screamed ‘You can do better than this’ she acquiesced. Another button on her blouse slipped loose as her fingers ran provocatively down the front of her shirt. The firelight made the steel grey glint and shimmer, emphasising the matt black slowly coming into view as each button unfastened letting him see more and more of her body.
Oh yes.
“So what did you want to review, Sir?” She didn’t stand in front of his desk like before, but moved behind it and lifted herself gracefully onto its surface. One stocking clad leg dangled, the other crossing over at the knee giving a tantalising glimpse of thigh under the black pencil skirt.
Oh and it was a suspender day. Delightful.
Mycroft settled back in his chair, keeping the ever so slight imperious lift to his chin. She would read the ultimatum, the warning, Dominant to Dominant, that he was in charge. “I was hoping, my dear, that you would be able to help...streamline things.” A lazy finger traced small circles on her ankle.
“Is that so?” She answered his challenge with one of her own, pushing him back with her shoe and oh so coincidently spreading her legs before him. “With what, Sir?”
Without warning Mycroft leant forward and pulled her off the desk and onto his lap. She let out a small gasp which quickly turned to a breathless moan as he nuzzled her neck.
“I do believe you’d be the person to ask about which files we reviewed last time. We wouldn’t want to repeat a review now, would we?” He finished his statement with the smallest of nips, barely catching the skin of her neck with his teeth.
She didn’t smell quite right. New soap maybe?
One hand moved up her lean thigh, pushing her skirt up to her waist and moving to clasp the round globe of her buttock. Lace, very high cut, which matched the bra. The other hand finished undoing the buttons on her shirt as he laid gentle kisses, interspersed with warning nips, along her collar bone. She gentle arched into his caress. Almost there. She’d flip and be his soon.
“I might just be able to help there, Sir.” She was most delectably breathless with just the slightest of catches in her voice. He would have been disappointed with more, given the extensive training she’d had.
He circled one nipple flicking over the nub with dangerous softness. The more gentle the caress now, the more extreme the sex later. The lace felt slightly rough under his finger, catching on his slight calluses, but allowing him to feel the warmth, softness and texture of her skin. It was an arousing combination.
When it was erect and straining though the lace, he lifted her breast and drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. He knew from experience that the almost non-existent lace shield between his tongue and her nipple did nothing more than add to the sensation, and bit down in warning as she started to rock against him. She may have chosen the position, but this was his game.
“I’m sure you can, my dear.”
He kept his nibbles and licks light and teasing in direct contrast to the hand kneading her buttock with strong fingers and the occasional hint of manicured fingernail. Her own hands were stubbornly locked to her sides to prevent her touching him until she surrendered and he granted her permission. She really was very well trained, but she wouldn’t last long. Maybe through the stimulation of her other breast, which must be positively tingling in anticipation now, but unlikely that she would be capable of restraining her Submissive attributes for that extended period.
Would he use the crop or the paddle? Nipple rings? No, he felt like occupying himself with her lush breasts, filling his mouth as much as possible as he drove into her and made her scream and shudder around him. Couldn’t have her too sensitive if he planned to do that. Well, maybe just a little... and there were new ones sitting in his locked desk drawer they hadn’t played with yet.
He yanked her hips forward, moving her centre of gravity towards him and forcing her hands to the desk behind her to stay balanced as he kept her upper body in place. It was rather unsettling, somehow wrong, having she pressed up against his half hard groin, but he ignored the sensation in favour of switching to her neglected breast and dragging nails down her back. Kitten scratches, she knew his claws, and the barely there reminder of what was to come was more effective than any firmer touch at this stage of the game. She let out a soft mewl and her elbows trembled, but she stubbornly kept her ground.
Mycroft smiled predatorily into her chest. He did love a challenge.
He drew back and gently blew across her soaking bra. With a gasp she broke and his mouth was captured in a burning kiss. No, no, no. Yes, yes, yes. He forced himself to keep going and sucked on her lower lip in desperation. Yes, this was right, this was perfect. She’d switch to Submissive now and he’d pull her to bits and enjoy the process too.
“Mycroft.”
He abandoned her mouth and worried at her neck, just enough to leave a mark which would fade by morning. Definitely the crop. The paddle was just not enough for tonight, didn’t have the sharp edge he craved. Such a pity he’d have to keep it light, but he did need her at work tomorrow. Maybe he’d make her ride him for a few hours instead. Yes, while the little vibrating clamp stimulated her clitoris. That would be perfect.
“Mycroft.”
His teeth dragged over the spot on her neck before moving towards her ear. Her voice was so amazing when she orgasmed, a low throaty moan full of breathy hitches as each wave washed over her. She sounded almost as good as -
No.
“Mycroft. Stop.”
It wasn’t so much the dominance that stopped him dead in his tracks as the fact that she was still Dominant. Normally the kiss was her surrender, her signal and consent. Why...?
She tilted his chin up to look down into his eyes. The Dominant in him snarled at the fact this gave her the high ground, made every move an automatic confrontation because she hadn’t Switched and it was a Dominant above him, not a Submissive, but Mycroft ignored his baser instincts.
Whatever she saw, she sighed and kissed his forehead. “You need to stop hiding behind me.” There was a tiny note of regret in her voice.
Mycroft said nothing, knowing she would continue. He refused to fuss with his shirt sleeves, or his askew waistcoat, as his mind raced down multiple avenues attempting to arrive at an explanation which made sense.
She took pity on him. “I’m not who you want to be sitting here with you like this, am I?”
“Yes you are,” He growled playfully and pulled her down for another kiss.
Her mouth was generous and soft, too soft. He snarled into the kiss and dragged his teeth over her lips before thrusting his tongue back to dance with hers. Wrong, wrong, wrong, Right!
With a grunt of despair he tried to pull her back when she eventually disengaged their mouths.
“It won’t work” She mumbled into his mouth. “You can kiss me forever, it won’t make me him.”
Mycroft froze and pulled back. She watched him, a hand gently disentangling his from her blouse.
“I don’t know what you mean.” He whispered, suddenly very hoarse.
Surely... he hadn’t told her anything.
“Yes, you do.” Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Mycroft said nothing. “I saw the CCTV footage, Mycroft. You should have mentioned you’d gone into Heat. I would have rescheduled your overseas commitments and booked a Doctor’s appointment.” Ever his PA. “Have you had an STD test?”
“It was nothing.” Mycroft crossed his arms and flicked his head dismissively. Nothing. Glorious days of nothing.
“Nothing that took four days. Have you had a health check? I sincerely doubt you were using condoms.”
“The good DI is hardly the kind to sleep around and pick up something.” She gave him an incredulous look. “Yes.”
He was on the receiving end of a disbelieving look instead. Legitimate, he supposed, as she normally scheduled all these things for him.
“I am perfectly capable of running my own tests, my dear, even if I normally choose not to.” He wasn’t sure quite why he’d been so reluctant to go to his specialist, one of the handful of people who knew his true gender. “It was nothing, anyway.”
“No, it wasn’t, and you need to stop hiding behind me and admit it.”
“I’m hardly holding onto your apron strings and cowering, my dear.” Mycroft didn’t have to try to put a sneer in his voice.
The idea was preposterous. He was a Holmes and a Dominant and regularly ran the Government, when he had the time. He would never hide behind a Switch in his employ.
She merely raised an eyebrow, implacable as ever, as she finished buttoning her blouse. Somehow Mycroft suspected he may have had the last glimpse he’d ever get of that lingerie set. “So you didn’t imply to Detective Inspector Lestrade that you and I were in a relationship.”
Mycroft mimicked her posture. “I said nothing of the sort, my dear.”
She sighed and slid gracefully off his lap. “No, you merely implied it.”
Mycroft knew better than to outright contradict her. She was his PA for a reason. It was her job to uncover small pieces of information not normally and easily accessible. The restaurant security would have presented no more a challenge than lip reading the camera footage.
“At most I implied we’d had intercourse, which we have. Frequently, almost regularly, even.”
In the dim light her look was even more inscrutable than usual as she strode out of the room, his efficient PA again, albeit with a rumpled skirt and crinkled shirt.
“That is not what you implied at all, and you are aware of it, Sir.” The sound of her rummaging through her desk reached him. “You need to face this, Sir, before it compromises your ability to function.”
“We didn’t Bond.” Mycroft detested how defensive he sounded. It was pathetic. “There is nothing to deal with, as I have said. We didn’t Bond, I am on my suppressants,” he didn’t mention that he hadn’t been able to keep them down because of the stomach issues, “and Gregory Lestrade and I have reached an understanding about the status of our relationship.”
She favoured him with a sympathetic smile as she glided back through the room. “You don’t have to Bond to care more than you should, Sir. No!” She held up her palm. “Don’t deny it. You’ve denied it for years. I won’t let you hide behind me anymore when it comes to relationships, and,” She took a deep breath and placed a slim box on his desk, “take that when you get home. I think we both already know the answer. I’ll reschedule everything for tomorrow, there isn’t that much, so you can take the time to sort this. You need to, Sir.”
With that she turned and walked out of the office without giving him time to reply, barely pausing to say good night at the door.
Mycroft threw his weight hard against the back of the chair. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He was not... and he did not... and there was no way... No. Caring was not an advantage. Love even less so.
He was not in love with Gregory Lestrade.
He did not need Gregory Lestrade.
He most certainly did not need that.
With an impatient huff he strode to the small antique side table next to the fireplace. The cut crystal decanter threw little rainbows along its edges, the dark brandy inside swirling like a liquid gemstone.
This was why Mycroft loved the dim world of firelight. Everything became more in the wavering ambience - colours became richer, shadows became darker, and the whole world existed on the knife’s edge of a trembling, flickering glow.
He wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. He usually savoured the feel of the heavy crystal stopper, perfectly shaped the capture the light and refract it between icy planes until the crystal glowed, but tonight he ripped it off the decanter and poured a very stiff drink without sparing a single thought beyond its removal. It was just not fair! His body, his PA... what was going to betray him next? His mind? His heart? He sneered at the thought and tilted his head back to drink.
The brandy flowed delicately over his tongue and he took the time to roll the small sip around his mouth before swallowing. Excellent. As well it should be, being older than him. Mycroft lifted the glass for another sip and paused, the little box glaring accusingly at him from the desk. He turned his head away and took the sip, watching the flames as they danced and writhed over the logs. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good this time.
With a snarl Mycroft threw the remains of his drink into the fireplace. The fire snapped and crackled as the alcohol briefly made the flames flare, before settling down into their usual undulating movements. It was only through the greatest of efforts that the 150 year old crystal tumbler didn’t join its contents in the grate.
Instead Mycroft slammed it down on the table and stalked back to his desk leaving the brandy uncapped. Once there, he defiantly pushed the little box into the bin and seated himself delicately in his chair.
Arum was over exaggerating the situation. He was fine, there was nothing wrong with him, he was hiding from nothing, and everything had been on track to go back to normal operating efficiency, until she threw this spanner in the works. No matter, a few months and he had no doubt she’d see how wrong she’d been when there was no change and come to him. It wasn’t like he needed the sex, it was merely a pleasant distraction. Nor did he need her. There was no reason she was required in the least. It made it more interesting, but her presence was not necessary.
In fact, why not? He’d roused himself for a session, so why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t like anyone would interrupt him should he choose to indulge, and if she did find any traces, well, it just reinforced the message.
He didn’t need anyone. People were a means to an end. Even if that end was a sentimental one they were still means to an end, and if you eschewed the end, you no longer required the means. He’d let himself grow lax, but here was a wakeup call, a warning revealing to him how far he’d let his guard slip. No more.
Mycroft repeated this to himself as he lazily let his hand wonder down his vest. He didn’t require anyone to fulfil his body’s needs.
Sure fingers opened the buttons one at a time with quick, efficient flicks.
He most certainly did not require anyone to fulfil his heart’s needs.
His left hand rested on the arm of his chair as he resisted the urge to move more quickly up and bring the other limb into play.
He had set aside the selfish requirements of his heart when he decided to be the Dominant he was meant to be to his family and the world.
Reaching the final clasp he drew a lone finger up the line of shirt buttons revealed underneath and gently traced around each nipple, avoiding the more sensitive nub to focus on the areole.
He had his brother to care about him and to care about in return.
His nipples had been feeling more sensitive lately and he felt a small tremor as his finger wondered a little too close and bumped into the rapidly hardening flesh.
He had no need of further intimate relationships when he already had such an important person in his life.
Unable to resist the impulse he tugged and bit his lip to refrain from letting out a small moan at the feeling.
He had chosen this, abrogated his personal life for his professional one.
Before he realised he’d moved, his left hand had started to cup his swelling groin through the fabric of his trousers.
He had embarked on a personal mission to be the best, to offset the disappointment he could so easily have been to his family.
His hand tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and stumbled slightly through undoing his belt as his right hand began to caress his right nipple, the left now well and truly sensitised.
He had managed, he was sure, to make them proud and perform his duties to his family and to the government.
The sound of his fly being unzipped was extraordinarily loud in the otherwise silent room.
He had made himself everything that could be asked of him, resurrecting the flagging Holmes reputation in service and striving to reach pinnacles not dreamed of by his predecessors.
Without removing his trousers his hands pushed his pants down just enough to free his leaking erection.
He had protected his brother, despite all Sherlock’s best efforts to the contrary, and he had protected his country, despite all Britain’s best efforts to the contrary.
The slightest stroke up and down and already a scintillating pleasure was dancing through his lower regions. He hadn’t felt this charged since Gregory had been kneeling - no.
Mycroft adjusted his position to allow his knees to fall open wider and give himself easier access. He let his head fall back, eyes closed, as he started a rhythmic stroke, occasionally curling over the head of his cock, mostly teasing, not quite completing the movement. Playing, and playful.
His hand brushed against the material of his shirt, the rustle of silk joining his breathless sighs. It was almost enough to imagine there was someone with him, that the hand caressing him was not his own. Oh, it was so easy to see in his mind’s eye, so tempting to imagine the occasional sounds as the fire popped and sighed came from human lips and the caress of his clothing instigated by human hands.
Why not? Fantasy always heightened the overall satisfaction with the experience.
Letting his right hand fall from his chest, Mycroft pushed his trousers and pants down to his knees carefully making sure to never miss a stroke with his left. Gravity helped them glide down his legs once they made it passed the impediment, but Mycroft let himself imagine they were aided by human hands.
Anthea, he had so enjoyed her as Anthea, slowly began to draw a single deep red, manicured finger over his testicles, the two sacks tingling at the sharp pressure of her nail as it wound its route down and along the sensitive inner skin of his thighs. Her steel grey blouse was decorously buttoned, but the angle provided Mycroft with a full visual of the black bra hidden beneath, breasts barely contained by the thin lace sheathe. The contrast between her hair and clothes, so prim and proper, and her bra and her smile was all the more titillating for its strength.
Her hand wrapped around his cock and in his mind Mycroft let his fall to the sides of the chair. He’d give her the illusion of control for the meantime. It would be interesting to see how she’d take the opportunity, and he had things planned for when he deemed she had played enough.
Slowly Anthea’s fingers wondered, brushing tantalisingly close to the sensitive glans as her grip on the shaft loosened. Oh she was feeling playful, the teasing strokes even more enticing when they were barely felt. Releasing him completely she drew her nails up the shaft like a claw before running a single very firm finger across the head. Mycroft didn’t try to stop his hips bucking into the contact. Let her read his body and use the knowledge to please him.
Her other hand was tracing little circles on his thigh, drawing ever closer and closer to his testicles only to brush past with the merest puff of air to the other leg. Back and forth, back and forth until Mycroft was aware of the two sacks as he hadn’t been before. He could feel their weight, hanging low and heavy, growing heavier by the second with the slightest of throbs as the blood thundered through his body. Anthea’s hand passed teasingly back again and his balls had obviously developed muscles as they endeavoured to move into the contact. A throaty chuckle greeted the effort and the slightest non-existent brush of lips sent sparks ricocheting over the flesh.
Oh she was glorious. His cock was achingly hard as her lithe fingers left it moving back up to his nipples to pinch and drag against his shirt. He felt a whimper, but locked it deep inside. He would not give her more satisfaction than his body was forced to provide. He was in control, he controlled what she knew.
Her fingers scratched across his perineum and he let out an involuntary gasp. With a low chuckle she began to stroke and interrogate the spot, drawing breathless hitch after reluctant breathless hitch from his bitten lips. Her hand left his chest and in a swift and deadly motion gave him a single hard stroke.
Mycroft’s hands convulsed on the arms of the chair, hips bucking up into her fist. He tasted iron and copper. With a gasp he drew vital air into his lungs, chasing the hazy grey of oxygen deprivation from the edges of his vision.
A single broad finger traced across the marred flesh, calluses rubbing the abused expanse before dipping just inside to meet the tip of Mycroft’s tongue. He tasted his own blood and sensuously twined his tongue around the digit. Two could play at this game. He was rewarded with a deep rumble and a millisecond longer with the finger before it dragged out of his mouth, imperfect nails catching on the stinging wound and making him hiss.
He curbed the impulse to lean forward and capture the finger, still resting on the edge of his lip, again. To draw it back where he could play and make its owner suffer the same, burning need he had. Another finger, the middle finger with the ring finger trailing behind, ran up his chin, index finger never releasing the pressure on his lip. The three hovered there on the brink, refusing to move that little bit nearer within range of his ministrations. They held there, paused on the precipice of eternity, until as one they both moved.
The pleasure of those fingers, of laving them, of dragging his teeth across their lengths, of soothing calluses and scars with his tongue, was almost sufficient for Mycroft to lose track of the hand still stroking his penis until with a dextrous twist and swirling stroke he was forced to gasp and release the fingers as sensation flooded through his body.
Burning he was burning. The fire had migrated from the ornate grate to under his skin, guided by strong hands and a husky voice, which even now made its satisfaction known with the slightest of approving sounds, knowing full well that Mycroft would hear and understand the fulfilment that flavoured every atonal note as his Submissive pleasured him, their own gratification taken from his.
His attention was drawn back to his body as fingers gently circled his opening before one slowly and achingly penetrated him. Mycroft deliberately relaxed his body, accepting the intrusion though it was never an area she had experimented in before. His body welcomed the penetration wholeheartedly and he felt her almost lose the stroke as he writhed under her clever finger. A second finger joined the first, determinedly massaging him open with the most minimal amount of discomfort possible. They left him feeling stretched to an extent he hadn’t thought possible and he instinctively tightened.
“Just relax.” He felt the words against his thigh, the sound lost into the skin leaving him with impressions and no further clues. Bossy little Submissive. Unusual, but then he rarely gave her this level of autonomy.
His thoughts were derailed as she pressed against the spot she had been so dedicatedly ignoring. He could feel the fireworks exploding behind his eyes as his body jerked which only forced his cock more firmly into her caress.
Oh he was close, so close. As if sensing his thoughts the fingers began moving faster and faster. No more stretching or massaging, they were now stroking deep into his insides pressing lightly against the small bundle of nerves on every pass. The timing of the other tortuous hand was so perfect that every instance he moved with the questing fingers he was forced deeper into her grip intensifying the experience.
The feel of the hands had changed, giving him the impression his partner was no longer kneeling decorously before him, but leaning over him, foreheads almost touching, breath running hot across Mycroft’s lips, mingling with his own. Would he be kissed as he came, his moan swallowed by those beautifully shaped bows and provocative tongue? Suddenly he wanted very much to find out. He leant up for the kiss.
“Come for me, My.”
At the sound of Gregory’s infantile nickname for him Mycroft’s eyes flew open, dispelling the fantasy even as he came with a shudder over his shirttails in long glistening strands, sparks flashing through his vision.
He sat there, unable to even reach for his handkerchief to clean himself up as his sensitised body shuddered through the last of one of the most intense orgasms he’d experienced, certainly the most explosive by his own hand. The fire flickered and danced, but he didn’t see it or the glinting swirl of the brandy or the echoing grace of ages past trapped in the bookshelves and ceiling. He saw nothing, the sense of sight completely lost to him as his mind repeated his own evocative fantasy back to him, final line by final line.
“Come for me, My.” “Come for me, My.” “Come for me, My.”
Over and over again, the words pounded around his mind. When had the exercise got away from him? Gregory’s voice, Gregory’s name, Gregory’s hands, Gregory’s acts.
All his.
Eventually Mycroft Holmes stirred and cleaned himself up. He methodically tucked his shirt back into his trousers, paid special attention to the buttons on his vest, smoothed non-existent wrinkles from the trouser leg.
Then he sat in the dim office until the fire died to embers, its flickering light extinguished as it burned out leaving him surrounded by darkness.
Then he sat there some more, stubbornly ignoring his own thoughts, listening to the silence.
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Previous - Next
Comments and critiques are loved xx
Title: Though I Walk through the Valley (4/38)
Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Warnings: Gratuitous sex and incredible self ignorance and denial of self (ie. Mycroft being Mycroft)
Author's Notes: Finally, a small glimpse into Mycroft's mind for everyone.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10
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Nonsense. Next week, my shout. - GL
The message sat there, a glowing light in an otherwise rather dim office. He always preferred the lights down low; all that he required to work was the fire and a single desk lamp. Arum (apparently the current theme was floral. He would have preferred Lilly, but Arum it was) kept the lights turned up during the day, but acceded to his wishes in the evening. It was the closest the office had to a natural light cycle as there were no windows (too much of a security risk).
Mycroft steepled his fingers as he studied the mobile glowing on the antique walnut desk. The screen lasted through only a few more seconds of his gaze before it switched off in power saver. He kept staring at it, but didn’t reactivate the screen. There was no need - he had the message well and truly committed to memory.
Arum was moving around the exterior room that acted as a small antechamber to his office performing all the mundane tasks she was in charge of as his secretary and PA in addition to her more specialised duties. It was only a small room, big enough for her desk, a couch, the vast array of filing cabinets, another fireplace, three bookshelves ostensibly full of legal texts and accounting reports, and a large leafy potted plant (Ficus benjamina or the Weeping Fig, he believed). From the sounds that filtered through he suspected she was reviewing the daily reports and prioritising them: things he needed to be told about in a single line, things he needed to be told about in a paragraph, things he needed to read a full summary for, things he needed to read, and things he needed to read and deal with. He already had the summary report on his brother, along with a note that the report writer had been scheduled for a Continuous Learning Seminar on grammar. She really was incredibly efficient. His life would be so much more difficult without her.
He should finish reading the transcript of the latest conversation between the Americans and the Koreans. It was sitting in its inconspicuous manila folder right there at his elbow. The Budget was ready for his review underneath it, and the list of candidates for Prime Minister after the next election that Arum had compiled at his request was waiting in his inbox. He didn’t move, giving himself just a little longer.
The fire popped and the logs shifted sending up a small cloud of sparks. The fireplace was one of the sole indulgences in his office and one of the few overt indications of the power wielded from this room. Let the Cabinet Minsters occupy their sweeping halls with grand windows and huge spaces. When Mycroft needed to impress and didn’t want to open his sanctuary he merely borrowed one of the rooms for as long as he needed. Anyone who came here had power impressed upon them in spite of the lack of grand features.
Besides, this office was old and had been occupied by a Holmes since the building was rebuilt in 1840. Of course, the family had enjoyed rooms in Westminister Palace longer than that, but the current furnishings dated to the rebuilding works after the fire. He had contemplated moving his office, to Number 70 next to 10 Downing St for example, but had decided too much would be forfeit. Being called in for a discussion rather lost its sting when the Prime Minister only had to walk next door.
And the history! Oh the history that would be sacrificed. The floor to ceiling hand carved bookcases, nothing flashy, merely the royal crest carefully carved into the sides and the border at the top; the ceiling with an English Rose of ruby inlaid at the centre and wood lovingly maintained for almost two hundred years so it shone; and of course, the marble fireplace which was so useful during the cold months, also a royal tribute, but more meaningfully for Mycroft with the Holmes crest chiselled into the stonework next to the royal emblem. All of them understated - no bright colours, or velvet or over adorned flourishing edges to collect dust.
Mycroft, as all the Holmes had, subscribed to the idea that if you had to tell people how powerful you were, you weren’t. The room was proof that power did not need to be ostentatious to exist - and none of the privilege few who made it through the door doubted where the true British Government resided.
From this room Mycroft had chosen Prime Ministers, destroyed MPs and Lords, and collapsed governments both at home and overseas, yet a casual inspection of the building plans and trip to the exterior waiting room displayed nothing any mid-level departmental secretary would fight for, belonging to a long time, low level bureaucrat and part-time diplomat, as required.
Fools the lot of them.
Mycroft was well aware of his abilities. He could start a war in an instant, prevent one in a day, and finish one in a week, if he was willing to pay the price. (These things were always harder to resolve than create, itself a damning commentary on the human condition.) He could have a complete dossier on anyone on his desk in a day, a week absolute maximum if they were no one important and the basic profile hadn’t been compiled. An hour if they were military or government. Thirty minutes for Special Forces, Cabinet or MI6 - and 20 minutes of that was printing and transporting the hard copy.
And none of this was helping with his current predicament.
He could negotiate a deal between different feuding countries to everyone’s perceived benefit...yet he couldn’t figure out what to do about one New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector.
With concerted effort Mycroft managed not to frown at his phone. He was pleased with Gregory’s response. As much as he disliked admitting it, there had been no small amount of heart-thudding consternation while he waited to see whether Gregory Lestrade would choose to take the offered path of egress.
Gregory had clearly been uncomfortable since their liaison, though the Submissive hid it well and it was bothering him less as time went on - why at the last dinner he’d even smiled a proper Gregory-smile. He’d handled Mycroft’s insinuation well, though he’d been shocked at the suggestion that he should maybe regard Sally Donovan in such a light, so clearly the lingering effects of whatever Estrus induced affections Gregory had held were fading. With time Gregory would completely move past the lingering sense of obligation his inherent nobility required he display and things would go back to normal between them.
Now all Mycroft had to do was do the same.
It had been harder than he had thought it might be, making that suggestion to Gregory. Sally Donovan was a good woman and everything he’d learnt about her indicated that she would be very compatible with Gregory - his Alpha nature would surely make up for the fact that she seemed to prefer Dominants despite claiming not to be gay. He was after all a very strong and admirable Alpha, and surely that would be enough. She was most certainly a better choice than the few Submissives Gregory had flirted with at the pub since December. He’d stopped keeping track after Gregory’s third night out, telling himself it was because it was a waste of resources rather than admit that he couldn’t handle the continual heart pounding terror when Gregory reciprocated with his own flirtatious comments and the sharp relief when he didn’t take them home.
No, Gregory would do much better with someone like Sally Donovan, and Mycroft would always have the satisfaction of having brought them to the point where they realised it. That would make up for the churning sensation in his stomach. Next time he suggested it, he would absolutely not be relieved when Gregory brushed off the idea as laughable and would expend effort convincing him of the idea’s merits.
With an angry growl he turned his mobile over and opened the first file. There was no need to text back, and soon this lingering sentimentalism would fade too. He hoped it cleared up faster than that damn stomach bug he picked up in Mexico. He’d only recently been able to face his breakfast again and he suspected he’d somehow developed a psychosomatic aversion to eggs - the smell of one reminded him of that worse than usual week and made him want to vomit. He had ended up switching from properly balanced breakfasts full of protein, including eggs, to fruit instead. Grapes and yoghurt specifically, and so far he’d decided he quite fancied the grapes and now kept them at the office for whenever he felt peckish, unfortunately an increasingly common occurrence. Stress eating had always been his downfall, though more in his youth than now, and if he didn’t stop soon he’d have to get new suits tailored and wouldn’t Sherlock love that, but every now and then he just really wanted a grape or three, especially if they came with tabasco sauce.
Mycroft was halfway through the last of the reports, Sherlock’s daily activities (which he always left for last in case his brother’s latest reckless act left him in no mood to finish his actual tasks), before Gregory’s name came up. Apparently John had decided it was an appropriate time for Sherlock to hear Gregory’s lecture leftover from his appalling behaviour the week before, and a whole page was dedicated to the time, length and subject matter of Gregory’s visit to 221B. At the sight of the Submissive’s name Mycroft felt an odd pang in his chest.
Stupid, he thought, pushing it away. There was no reason to feel lonely. Gregory wasn’t gone; they were meeting next Thursday for dinner again. They’d missed the Arsenal game Gregory had been threatening to drag him to for six months now, but that didn’t matter. It was probably best, given Mycroft’s profession, that he kept their relationship slightly less familiar than it had been. Ultimately Mycroft couldn’t afford to have close friends, and as was clearly evidenced, Gregory had got too close. He’d known this for a while now and had let his self-indulgent behaviour go, addicted as he was to the give and take that was their relationship.
Did those reasons really apply anymore? He couldn’t usually let people get too close in case they discovered his secret, but Gregory already knew and -
No, of course they still applied. It was incompatible with his work. Full stop. Too many close associations and people became targets, weak points to be exploited against him. He couldn’t afford that, especially with the way the global climate was at the moment and the utterly incompetent government he had to work with. At the end of the day, after all, Mycroft relied on other people and he was only as good as his tools - none of which were currently very impressive. He couldn’t afford the time, if nothing else. Sherlock was more than enough to keep track of.
The good Detective Inspector understood the demands of a profession that was both a vocation and life choice. He would understand why Mycroft needed to step back from being such close friends. They would serve optimally as friendly acquaintances. It was enough.
It hadn’t been enough before. Before he’d wanted, needed, to see as much of Gregory as possible. The Thursdays he was unable to keep their rendezvous had been icy black holes in his life. Gregory had been his warmth and light, his time to relax and be Mycroft, not Holmes or Mr Holmes or Sir or any of the other titles thrown in his direction over the day.
Mycroft, just Mycroft, and occasionally when Gregory slipped, My, though Mycroft suspected if the Submissive ever learnt exactly how often that endearment had passed his lips over the past couple of years he’d die of shame.
Mycroft licked his lips. Since finding out Gregory was a Submissive it had gone from a friendly nickname, too casual for Gregory to truly feel comfortable with awarding him, but heart-warming nonetheless, to a much more meaningful endearment. Had Gregory cared that long, or had the name changed meanings for him too?
My.
Mine.
It didn’t matter. He’d survived without such an unreasonably demanding relationship for over thirty years prior to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He could and would do it again.
Oh, but Gregory had looked good in his bed, body flushed from their exertions, hands restrained behind him and come here eyes begging for more of whatever Mycroft would give him, tender or harsh. So strong, so gentle, so biddable...
No.
Mycroft waded through the rest of the inconsequential tasks he had to do, and if he avoided finishing the report on Sherlock it was merely because he trusted his assistant to have everything in hand. Arum would have alerted him to any urgent items and it was getting late. He had no doubt she’d appreciated going home soon, and she made a point of not leaving until he did.
Although...he leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath in he forced every muscle to relax in turn. It had been some time...
‘Sir?” Her voice drifted gently to his ears.
He’d always liked her voice. Nice and low, not squeaky and thin like so many women. A pleasant voice, one capable of so many subtleties and persuasions.
He knew she saw the change in his mood as soon as his half-lidded eyes reached her face. He made it take time, travelling up her legs, along the smooth sweep of her hip, the less than gentle and entirely generous swell of her chest, her neck, hidden mostly by her hair, until finally her eyes. She smirked as she read him in a well-trained glance and her body language changed subtly. Ready to play, but she was going to make him work for it.
“My dear.”
He deliberately pitched his voice lower than usual and enjoyed watching her shiver entirely from the sound. No dominance, not yet. Not until she agreed, which she had yet to do. Sometimes she’d drag it out for hours before making that vital change and consenting. There was certainly something to be said for playing with a Switch.
He would only ever use Dominance when she was in the Submissive dynamic. The one time they’d tried while she stayed Dominant had been intense and explosive, but too dangerous to do again. She was not a low level Dominant, which made her such a glorious Submissive when she did chose to reverse her dynamic, and the conflict had almost overtaken the sex.
She always made him work for her change, using charm, seduction, all the tools the less Dominant and Submissive members of society who weren’t far enough on either side of the scale to have partners begging at their feet used. He enjoyed the challenge.
Which she knew, and tonight was going to be a challenge, he could tell.
Perfect.
“Are you finished with those files?” Her voice was just that little bit huskier now, and he was not imagining the slight sashay of her hips as she glided to the edge of his desk.
Wrong.
No, glorious. She kept her body in very good shape, she wasn’t just there for filing, and the visual she presented perched on the edge of his desk was astounding. Her skirt only slightly rucked up by her pose, and already she could have most people, Alpha, Beta, Omega or Female, on the ground begging. He’d seen it, but then, he wasn’t most people.
His eyes wondered lazily over her figure as he reclined in his chair affecting nonchalance. This would be very good. It was overdue.
In defiance of a slight twinge of discomfort he leant forward and smoothed her hair back from her neck. To check the scratch she’d received during training that morning, of course. If his fingers lingered over the newly revealed expanse it was naturally only a coincidence as he traced the thin, fading line. Not that either of them believed that.
“I do believe I am, my dear.” His hand fell away, knuckles lightly grazing the top of her collar bone as they passed.
“Then should I lock them away for the night, Sir?” The return move - the slightest moving of the shoulders to push her chest forward, the questioning tilt of the head to accidentally reveal more of the neck, the slow, but deliberate hand motion to reveal the smooth and vulnerable skin of the inner wrist.
“I suppose so,” He murmured, “though I was considering reviewing some of the policies before leaving tonight.”
She leant forward to collect the files on the desk. The movement pushed her body tantalisingly close to his, just ruffling the sleeve of his jacket. With a sultry look and a definite swing of the hips she sauntered out of the room.
Mycroft allowed a tight smile to spread across his lips. She was without a doubt the perfect blend of challenge and reward, danger and satisfaction, predator and prey. He enjoyed the hunt as much as claiming his prize and she always gave a good chase, refusing to roll over to his every whim, but Submitting so beautifully when she did.
Just like Gregory.
He pushed the thought away. While the combination of Alpha and Submissive had created a uniquely stimulating and invigorating experience, it would not be happening again.
The distinctive sounds of the filing cabinet retreating back into the wall filled him with satisfaction. If she was closing the false front it wouldn’t be long now. Almost as if his thoughts had summoned her she appeared in the doorway. He drank in the sight of her. Somehow without changing anything her previously decorous office attire now looked positively sinful. She didn’t hurry, placing each black stiletto precisely in line as she moved back to the desk and him. He wondered if her stockings went all the way up to her waist or if he’d been lucky enough to pick a day with suspenders. She looked ravishing in suspenders.
“Do you think this review might take long, Sir?” Sultry. Definitely sultry. She stopped and leant over, placing one palm on the desk, the other delicately on her waist.
It gave him a very good view down her steel grey blouse. Mmmm, the black lacy one that was practically no barrier at all. He liked that one. He’d given it to her about a year ago and had very much enjoyed its trial run. Without any shame at all he slid the top button out of its hole, letting her top gape wide open to give him a better view.
“My dear,” he purred up at her, “I expect it will take hours.”
She met his gaze with a heated one of her own. “Then I suggest you take your jacket off, Sir. No point getting creases if we’re going to be working.”
No one’s voice should be able to make taking his jacket off sound like removing the final layer of clothing rather than the first. With a single smooth step she moved to the corner of his work space and held out her hand. Mycroft shrugged it off and used the brief window she was turned away to let a frown flit across his face. That gaze, that voice... usually when their eyes met like that there were almost corporeal fireworks. Obviously he was still not back to normal after- well this would help with that.
Arum finished fussing with his jacket and Mycroft mentally cursed as he realised he’d just missed what would have been a delightful show of leg and limb. Time to stop drifting, put the past behind him, and return to the here and now.
Suddenly impatient and loath to drag out their usual game, he gestured her closer. With a smirk which screamed ‘You can do better than this’ she acquiesced. Another button on her blouse slipped loose as her fingers ran provocatively down the front of her shirt. The firelight made the steel grey glint and shimmer, emphasising the matt black slowly coming into view as each button unfastened letting him see more and more of her body.
Oh yes.
“So what did you want to review, Sir?” She didn’t stand in front of his desk like before, but moved behind it and lifted herself gracefully onto its surface. One stocking clad leg dangled, the other crossing over at the knee giving a tantalising glimpse of thigh under the black pencil skirt.
Oh and it was a suspender day. Delightful.
Mycroft settled back in his chair, keeping the ever so slight imperious lift to his chin. She would read the ultimatum, the warning, Dominant to Dominant, that he was in charge. “I was hoping, my dear, that you would be able to help...streamline things.” A lazy finger traced small circles on her ankle.
“Is that so?” She answered his challenge with one of her own, pushing him back with her shoe and oh so coincidently spreading her legs before him. “With what, Sir?”
Without warning Mycroft leant forward and pulled her off the desk and onto his lap. She let out a small gasp which quickly turned to a breathless moan as he nuzzled her neck.
“I do believe you’d be the person to ask about which files we reviewed last time. We wouldn’t want to repeat a review now, would we?” He finished his statement with the smallest of nips, barely catching the skin of her neck with his teeth.
She didn’t smell quite right. New soap maybe?
One hand moved up her lean thigh, pushing her skirt up to her waist and moving to clasp the round globe of her buttock. Lace, very high cut, which matched the bra. The other hand finished undoing the buttons on her shirt as he laid gentle kisses, interspersed with warning nips, along her collar bone. She gentle arched into his caress. Almost there. She’d flip and be his soon.
“I might just be able to help there, Sir.” She was most delectably breathless with just the slightest of catches in her voice. He would have been disappointed with more, given the extensive training she’d had.
He circled one nipple flicking over the nub with dangerous softness. The more gentle the caress now, the more extreme the sex later. The lace felt slightly rough under his finger, catching on his slight calluses, but allowing him to feel the warmth, softness and texture of her skin. It was an arousing combination.
When it was erect and straining though the lace, he lifted her breast and drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. He knew from experience that the almost non-existent lace shield between his tongue and her nipple did nothing more than add to the sensation, and bit down in warning as she started to rock against him. She may have chosen the position, but this was his game.
“I’m sure you can, my dear.”
He kept his nibbles and licks light and teasing in direct contrast to the hand kneading her buttock with strong fingers and the occasional hint of manicured fingernail. Her own hands were stubbornly locked to her sides to prevent her touching him until she surrendered and he granted her permission. She really was very well trained, but she wouldn’t last long. Maybe through the stimulation of her other breast, which must be positively tingling in anticipation now, but unlikely that she would be capable of restraining her Submissive attributes for that extended period.
Would he use the crop or the paddle? Nipple rings? No, he felt like occupying himself with her lush breasts, filling his mouth as much as possible as he drove into her and made her scream and shudder around him. Couldn’t have her too sensitive if he planned to do that. Well, maybe just a little... and there were new ones sitting in his locked desk drawer they hadn’t played with yet.
He yanked her hips forward, moving her centre of gravity towards him and forcing her hands to the desk behind her to stay balanced as he kept her upper body in place. It was rather unsettling, somehow wrong, having she pressed up against his half hard groin, but he ignored the sensation in favour of switching to her neglected breast and dragging nails down her back. Kitten scratches, she knew his claws, and the barely there reminder of what was to come was more effective than any firmer touch at this stage of the game. She let out a soft mewl and her elbows trembled, but she stubbornly kept her ground.
Mycroft smiled predatorily into her chest. He did love a challenge.
He drew back and gently blew across her soaking bra. With a gasp she broke and his mouth was captured in a burning kiss. No, no, no. Yes, yes, yes. He forced himself to keep going and sucked on her lower lip in desperation. Yes, this was right, this was perfect. She’d switch to Submissive now and he’d pull her to bits and enjoy the process too.
“Mycroft.”
He abandoned her mouth and worried at her neck, just enough to leave a mark which would fade by morning. Definitely the crop. The paddle was just not enough for tonight, didn’t have the sharp edge he craved. Such a pity he’d have to keep it light, but he did need her at work tomorrow. Maybe he’d make her ride him for a few hours instead. Yes, while the little vibrating clamp stimulated her clitoris. That would be perfect.
“Mycroft.”
His teeth dragged over the spot on her neck before moving towards her ear. Her voice was so amazing when she orgasmed, a low throaty moan full of breathy hitches as each wave washed over her. She sounded almost as good as -
No.
“Mycroft. Stop.”
It wasn’t so much the dominance that stopped him dead in his tracks as the fact that she was still Dominant. Normally the kiss was her surrender, her signal and consent. Why...?
She tilted his chin up to look down into his eyes. The Dominant in him snarled at the fact this gave her the high ground, made every move an automatic confrontation because she hadn’t Switched and it was a Dominant above him, not a Submissive, but Mycroft ignored his baser instincts.
Whatever she saw, she sighed and kissed his forehead. “You need to stop hiding behind me.” There was a tiny note of regret in her voice.
Mycroft said nothing, knowing she would continue. He refused to fuss with his shirt sleeves, or his askew waistcoat, as his mind raced down multiple avenues attempting to arrive at an explanation which made sense.
She took pity on him. “I’m not who you want to be sitting here with you like this, am I?”
“Yes you are,” He growled playfully and pulled her down for another kiss.
Her mouth was generous and soft, too soft. He snarled into the kiss and dragged his teeth over her lips before thrusting his tongue back to dance with hers. Wrong, wrong, wrong, Right!
With a grunt of despair he tried to pull her back when she eventually disengaged their mouths.
“It won’t work” She mumbled into his mouth. “You can kiss me forever, it won’t make me him.”
Mycroft froze and pulled back. She watched him, a hand gently disentangling his from her blouse.
“I don’t know what you mean.” He whispered, suddenly very hoarse.
Surely... he hadn’t told her anything.
“Yes, you do.” Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Mycroft said nothing. “I saw the CCTV footage, Mycroft. You should have mentioned you’d gone into Heat. I would have rescheduled your overseas commitments and booked a Doctor’s appointment.” Ever his PA. “Have you had an STD test?”
“It was nothing.” Mycroft crossed his arms and flicked his head dismissively. Nothing. Glorious days of nothing.
“Nothing that took four days. Have you had a health check? I sincerely doubt you were using condoms.”
“The good DI is hardly the kind to sleep around and pick up something.” She gave him an incredulous look. “Yes.”
He was on the receiving end of a disbelieving look instead. Legitimate, he supposed, as she normally scheduled all these things for him.
“I am perfectly capable of running my own tests, my dear, even if I normally choose not to.” He wasn’t sure quite why he’d been so reluctant to go to his specialist, one of the handful of people who knew his true gender. “It was nothing, anyway.”
“No, it wasn’t, and you need to stop hiding behind me and admit it.”
“I’m hardly holding onto your apron strings and cowering, my dear.” Mycroft didn’t have to try to put a sneer in his voice.
The idea was preposterous. He was a Holmes and a Dominant and regularly ran the Government, when he had the time. He would never hide behind a Switch in his employ.
She merely raised an eyebrow, implacable as ever, as she finished buttoning her blouse. Somehow Mycroft suspected he may have had the last glimpse he’d ever get of that lingerie set. “So you didn’t imply to Detective Inspector Lestrade that you and I were in a relationship.”
Mycroft mimicked her posture. “I said nothing of the sort, my dear.”
She sighed and slid gracefully off his lap. “No, you merely implied it.”
Mycroft knew better than to outright contradict her. She was his PA for a reason. It was her job to uncover small pieces of information not normally and easily accessible. The restaurant security would have presented no more a challenge than lip reading the camera footage.
“At most I implied we’d had intercourse, which we have. Frequently, almost regularly, even.”
In the dim light her look was even more inscrutable than usual as she strode out of the room, his efficient PA again, albeit with a rumpled skirt and crinkled shirt.
“That is not what you implied at all, and you are aware of it, Sir.” The sound of her rummaging through her desk reached him. “You need to face this, Sir, before it compromises your ability to function.”
“We didn’t Bond.” Mycroft detested how defensive he sounded. It was pathetic. “There is nothing to deal with, as I have said. We didn’t Bond, I am on my suppressants,” he didn’t mention that he hadn’t been able to keep them down because of the stomach issues, “and Gregory Lestrade and I have reached an understanding about the status of our relationship.”
She favoured him with a sympathetic smile as she glided back through the room. “You don’t have to Bond to care more than you should, Sir. No!” She held up her palm. “Don’t deny it. You’ve denied it for years. I won’t let you hide behind me anymore when it comes to relationships, and,” She took a deep breath and placed a slim box on his desk, “take that when you get home. I think we both already know the answer. I’ll reschedule everything for tomorrow, there isn’t that much, so you can take the time to sort this. You need to, Sir.”
With that she turned and walked out of the office without giving him time to reply, barely pausing to say good night at the door.
Mycroft threw his weight hard against the back of the chair. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He was not... and he did not... and there was no way... No. Caring was not an advantage. Love even less so.
He was not in love with Gregory Lestrade.
He did not need Gregory Lestrade.
He most certainly did not need that.
With an impatient huff he strode to the small antique side table next to the fireplace. The cut crystal decanter threw little rainbows along its edges, the dark brandy inside swirling like a liquid gemstone.
This was why Mycroft loved the dim world of firelight. Everything became more in the wavering ambience - colours became richer, shadows became darker, and the whole world existed on the knife’s edge of a trembling, flickering glow.
He wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. He usually savoured the feel of the heavy crystal stopper, perfectly shaped the capture the light and refract it between icy planes until the crystal glowed, but tonight he ripped it off the decanter and poured a very stiff drink without sparing a single thought beyond its removal. It was just not fair! His body, his PA... what was going to betray him next? His mind? His heart? He sneered at the thought and tilted his head back to drink.
The brandy flowed delicately over his tongue and he took the time to roll the small sip around his mouth before swallowing. Excellent. As well it should be, being older than him. Mycroft lifted the glass for another sip and paused, the little box glaring accusingly at him from the desk. He turned his head away and took the sip, watching the flames as they danced and writhed over the logs. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good this time.
With a snarl Mycroft threw the remains of his drink into the fireplace. The fire snapped and crackled as the alcohol briefly made the flames flare, before settling down into their usual undulating movements. It was only through the greatest of efforts that the 150 year old crystal tumbler didn’t join its contents in the grate.
Instead Mycroft slammed it down on the table and stalked back to his desk leaving the brandy uncapped. Once there, he defiantly pushed the little box into the bin and seated himself delicately in his chair.
Arum was over exaggerating the situation. He was fine, there was nothing wrong with him, he was hiding from nothing, and everything had been on track to go back to normal operating efficiency, until she threw this spanner in the works. No matter, a few months and he had no doubt she’d see how wrong she’d been when there was no change and come to him. It wasn’t like he needed the sex, it was merely a pleasant distraction. Nor did he need her. There was no reason she was required in the least. It made it more interesting, but her presence was not necessary.
In fact, why not? He’d roused himself for a session, so why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t like anyone would interrupt him should he choose to indulge, and if she did find any traces, well, it just reinforced the message.
He didn’t need anyone. People were a means to an end. Even if that end was a sentimental one they were still means to an end, and if you eschewed the end, you no longer required the means. He’d let himself grow lax, but here was a wakeup call, a warning revealing to him how far he’d let his guard slip. No more.
Mycroft repeated this to himself as he lazily let his hand wonder down his vest. He didn’t require anyone to fulfil his body’s needs.
Sure fingers opened the buttons one at a time with quick, efficient flicks.
He most certainly did not require anyone to fulfil his heart’s needs.
His left hand rested on the arm of his chair as he resisted the urge to move more quickly up and bring the other limb into play.
He had set aside the selfish requirements of his heart when he decided to be the Dominant he was meant to be to his family and the world.
Reaching the final clasp he drew a lone finger up the line of shirt buttons revealed underneath and gently traced around each nipple, avoiding the more sensitive nub to focus on the areole.
He had his brother to care about him and to care about in return.
His nipples had been feeling more sensitive lately and he felt a small tremor as his finger wondered a little too close and bumped into the rapidly hardening flesh.
He had no need of further intimate relationships when he already had such an important person in his life.
Unable to resist the impulse he tugged and bit his lip to refrain from letting out a small moan at the feeling.
He had chosen this, abrogated his personal life for his professional one.
Before he realised he’d moved, his left hand had started to cup his swelling groin through the fabric of his trousers.
He had embarked on a personal mission to be the best, to offset the disappointment he could so easily have been to his family.
His hand tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers and stumbled slightly through undoing his belt as his right hand began to caress his right nipple, the left now well and truly sensitised.
He had managed, he was sure, to make them proud and perform his duties to his family and to the government.
The sound of his fly being unzipped was extraordinarily loud in the otherwise silent room.
He had made himself everything that could be asked of him, resurrecting the flagging Holmes reputation in service and striving to reach pinnacles not dreamed of by his predecessors.
Without removing his trousers his hands pushed his pants down just enough to free his leaking erection.
He had protected his brother, despite all Sherlock’s best efforts to the contrary, and he had protected his country, despite all Britain’s best efforts to the contrary.
The slightest stroke up and down and already a scintillating pleasure was dancing through his lower regions. He hadn’t felt this charged since Gregory had been kneeling - no.
Mycroft adjusted his position to allow his knees to fall open wider and give himself easier access. He let his head fall back, eyes closed, as he started a rhythmic stroke, occasionally curling over the head of his cock, mostly teasing, not quite completing the movement. Playing, and playful.
His hand brushed against the material of his shirt, the rustle of silk joining his breathless sighs. It was almost enough to imagine there was someone with him, that the hand caressing him was not his own. Oh, it was so easy to see in his mind’s eye, so tempting to imagine the occasional sounds as the fire popped and sighed came from human lips and the caress of his clothing instigated by human hands.
Why not? Fantasy always heightened the overall satisfaction with the experience.
Letting his right hand fall from his chest, Mycroft pushed his trousers and pants down to his knees carefully making sure to never miss a stroke with his left. Gravity helped them glide down his legs once they made it passed the impediment, but Mycroft let himself imagine they were aided by human hands.
Anthea, he had so enjoyed her as Anthea, slowly began to draw a single deep red, manicured finger over his testicles, the two sacks tingling at the sharp pressure of her nail as it wound its route down and along the sensitive inner skin of his thighs. Her steel grey blouse was decorously buttoned, but the angle provided Mycroft with a full visual of the black bra hidden beneath, breasts barely contained by the thin lace sheathe. The contrast between her hair and clothes, so prim and proper, and her bra and her smile was all the more titillating for its strength.
Her hand wrapped around his cock and in his mind Mycroft let his fall to the sides of the chair. He’d give her the illusion of control for the meantime. It would be interesting to see how she’d take the opportunity, and he had things planned for when he deemed she had played enough.
Slowly Anthea’s fingers wondered, brushing tantalisingly close to the sensitive glans as her grip on the shaft loosened. Oh she was feeling playful, the teasing strokes even more enticing when they were barely felt. Releasing him completely she drew her nails up the shaft like a claw before running a single very firm finger across the head. Mycroft didn’t try to stop his hips bucking into the contact. Let her read his body and use the knowledge to please him.
Her other hand was tracing little circles on his thigh, drawing ever closer and closer to his testicles only to brush past with the merest puff of air to the other leg. Back and forth, back and forth until Mycroft was aware of the two sacks as he hadn’t been before. He could feel their weight, hanging low and heavy, growing heavier by the second with the slightest of throbs as the blood thundered through his body. Anthea’s hand passed teasingly back again and his balls had obviously developed muscles as they endeavoured to move into the contact. A throaty chuckle greeted the effort and the slightest non-existent brush of lips sent sparks ricocheting over the flesh.
Oh she was glorious. His cock was achingly hard as her lithe fingers left it moving back up to his nipples to pinch and drag against his shirt. He felt a whimper, but locked it deep inside. He would not give her more satisfaction than his body was forced to provide. He was in control, he controlled what she knew.
Her fingers scratched across his perineum and he let out an involuntary gasp. With a low chuckle she began to stroke and interrogate the spot, drawing breathless hitch after reluctant breathless hitch from his bitten lips. Her hand left his chest and in a swift and deadly motion gave him a single hard stroke.
Mycroft’s hands convulsed on the arms of the chair, hips bucking up into her fist. He tasted iron and copper. With a gasp he drew vital air into his lungs, chasing the hazy grey of oxygen deprivation from the edges of his vision.
A single broad finger traced across the marred flesh, calluses rubbing the abused expanse before dipping just inside to meet the tip of Mycroft’s tongue. He tasted his own blood and sensuously twined his tongue around the digit. Two could play at this game. He was rewarded with a deep rumble and a millisecond longer with the finger before it dragged out of his mouth, imperfect nails catching on the stinging wound and making him hiss.
He curbed the impulse to lean forward and capture the finger, still resting on the edge of his lip, again. To draw it back where he could play and make its owner suffer the same, burning need he had. Another finger, the middle finger with the ring finger trailing behind, ran up his chin, index finger never releasing the pressure on his lip. The three hovered there on the brink, refusing to move that little bit nearer within range of his ministrations. They held there, paused on the precipice of eternity, until as one they both moved.
The pleasure of those fingers, of laving them, of dragging his teeth across their lengths, of soothing calluses and scars with his tongue, was almost sufficient for Mycroft to lose track of the hand still stroking his penis until with a dextrous twist and swirling stroke he was forced to gasp and release the fingers as sensation flooded through his body.
Burning he was burning. The fire had migrated from the ornate grate to under his skin, guided by strong hands and a husky voice, which even now made its satisfaction known with the slightest of approving sounds, knowing full well that Mycroft would hear and understand the fulfilment that flavoured every atonal note as his Submissive pleasured him, their own gratification taken from his.
His attention was drawn back to his body as fingers gently circled his opening before one slowly and achingly penetrated him. Mycroft deliberately relaxed his body, accepting the intrusion though it was never an area she had experimented in before. His body welcomed the penetration wholeheartedly and he felt her almost lose the stroke as he writhed under her clever finger. A second finger joined the first, determinedly massaging him open with the most minimal amount of discomfort possible. They left him feeling stretched to an extent he hadn’t thought possible and he instinctively tightened.
“Just relax.” He felt the words against his thigh, the sound lost into the skin leaving him with impressions and no further clues. Bossy little Submissive. Unusual, but then he rarely gave her this level of autonomy.
His thoughts were derailed as she pressed against the spot she had been so dedicatedly ignoring. He could feel the fireworks exploding behind his eyes as his body jerked which only forced his cock more firmly into her caress.
Oh he was close, so close. As if sensing his thoughts the fingers began moving faster and faster. No more stretching or massaging, they were now stroking deep into his insides pressing lightly against the small bundle of nerves on every pass. The timing of the other tortuous hand was so perfect that every instance he moved with the questing fingers he was forced deeper into her grip intensifying the experience.
The feel of the hands had changed, giving him the impression his partner was no longer kneeling decorously before him, but leaning over him, foreheads almost touching, breath running hot across Mycroft’s lips, mingling with his own. Would he be kissed as he came, his moan swallowed by those beautifully shaped bows and provocative tongue? Suddenly he wanted very much to find out. He leant up for the kiss.
“Come for me, My.”
At the sound of Gregory’s infantile nickname for him Mycroft’s eyes flew open, dispelling the fantasy even as he came with a shudder over his shirttails in long glistening strands, sparks flashing through his vision.
He sat there, unable to even reach for his handkerchief to clean himself up as his sensitised body shuddered through the last of one of the most intense orgasms he’d experienced, certainly the most explosive by his own hand. The fire flickered and danced, but he didn’t see it or the glinting swirl of the brandy or the echoing grace of ages past trapped in the bookshelves and ceiling. He saw nothing, the sense of sight completely lost to him as his mind repeated his own evocative fantasy back to him, final line by final line.
“Come for me, My.” “Come for me, My.” “Come for me, My.”
Over and over again, the words pounded around his mind. When had the exercise got away from him? Gregory’s voice, Gregory’s name, Gregory’s hands, Gregory’s acts.
All his.
Eventually Mycroft Holmes stirred and cleaned himself up. He methodically tucked his shirt back into his trousers, paid special attention to the buttons on his vest, smoothed non-existent wrinkles from the trouser leg.
Then he sat in the dim office until the fire died to embers, its flickering light extinguished as it burned out leaving him surrounded by darkness.
Then he sat there some more, stubbornly ignoring his own thoughts, listening to the silence.
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