Title: The Wrath Of Mycroft
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Pairings/Characters: Sherlock/Mycroft brotherly love. No incest! (this time anyway *cackles*)
Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING: sexual abuse by older man for younger boy, abusive language and behaviour, physical abuse, swearing, creepiness, pervy-ness.
Spoilers: The usual.
Summary: During one of the Holmes's annual Christmas parties, a new guest takes an unhealthy interest in Sherlock. But he has figured without the wrath of Mycroft…
The Holmes's always organise a huge Christmas party; they have the biggest manor in their Cheshire neighbourhood, so it seems only fair that they do something with it. Plus Mummy gets bored, and when Mummy gets bored, Mummy likes to party. She's always been social that way, she loves to sort that sort of thing out, and she's very good at it. Sherlock will never understand it.
He puts up with the chaos of the Christmas party though, because Christmas also means that he can go home from university and Mycroft takes a break from his London life and goes up to the manor for a month. It doesn't mean he stops working, but having someone there with whom Sherlock can bicker and have a halfway intelligent conversation with relieves him more than he will ever admit. They spend most of the time beforehand helping Mummy sort out everything, though most of the time they are more of a hindrance than a help. Mummy will never let them forget the time she left them to organise the flowers for three hours, then walked in to find them deep in an argument about the value of different kinds of pollen on a person's clothing, the flowers still in boxes and utterly forgotten. After that, she arranged the flowers herself.
The more well-known and liked guests sometimes come to the Holmes household a week or so beforehand; there's Mary Stimpson, the best cook in the neighbourhood, with her very large, perfectly entertaining family, all of whom help Mummy with the Christmas feast, then there's the Fulham family (very rich), the Hawkes's (very clever) and the Thompsons (very gossipy). It's lucky the manor is so big and Sherlock can have his room private, or he would go completely crackers.
A few days before, the rest of the guests arrive, and Sherlock and Mycroft hang around outside the manor during those days, watching and observing everyone that turns up, then arguing about the deductions they make late into the evening when everyone else has gone to bed. There are old faces and there are new faces, because absolutely everyone in the neighbourhood is invited, even the newcomers.
One of these newcomers is called William Jackson, a bachelor of about thirty-five, a dealer in stocks and shares, nouveau riche they call it, with short dark hair and an inscrutable gaze. When he turns up in his new Mercedes, the Holmes family are there to greet him, but throughout the introductions, all he does is give Sherlock long, considered stares.
They talk about him in Mycroft's room later than night.
"Too self-confident," Mycroft says, correcting the grammar in his latest report from his PA in red pen.
"Self-confident," Sherlock agrees. "And gay."
"Yes, gay. The - "
" - shoelaces, yes."
Mycroft circles a word and writes for the last time, it's goverNment under it. "He likes you," he says.
Sherlock thinks about the long stares and the way his skin crawled when he was under them. "I don't like him," he retorts.
Jackson does three things consistently when he is staying at the Holmes's; he boasts constantly about his various successes, he argues with everyone and he turns up everywhere Sherlock happens to be. He also invades peoples personal space like no one Sherlock has ever met, including himself, and he always finds himself trying to back away from his presence. All his memories of Jackson are always of a face too close, of eyes too penetrating; it makes him itch with discomfort.
No one seems to notice much, and, apart from Mummy's light "Jackson seems quite enamoured with you, Sherlock!", they continue to not notice, they are too busy, there is too much happening at once. Sherlock says nothing, because there is nothing to talk about, you can't complain about someone just because they like you and have a personal space issue, at least not without looking like a whiny child, paranoid for no reason. He thinks no one at all is going to notice apart from him, until the card game happens.
Mummy is quite Victorian in her tastes, and will often suggest brandy and poker after dinner, so they all retire to the living room most nights and gather around the card table. Jackson never plays; he hovers around, watching, and always drinks a lot. Sherlock plays because he is good at it; so does Mycroft.
Tonight, Jackson seems to be drinking more brandy than usual, and at one point, when Sherlock and Mycroft are at loggerheads, he suddenly gets it into his head that he is an ace at poker, and decides to hang over the back of Sherlock's chair and give him hints. He puts his arm very obviously over the back of Sherlock's chair, his thumb and the tips of his fingers resting at the collar of Sherlock's shirt, and whispers into Sherlock's ear with brandy-soaked breath in an attempt to be quiet. Sherlock; trapped between Jackson's trailing fingers on one side and the hiss of hot, alcoholic breath on the other, struggles not to fidget and to keep calm.
At one point, Jackson's lips brush his ear and he can't quite stop himself from twitching, and when he looks up, a little wildly, he sees that Mycroft is watching the proceedings with narrowed eyes.
He looks back down, oddly guilty although he is doing nothing but feeling uncomfortable, too stubborn to silently beg for help.
When they all retire to bed afterwards, Mycroft catches Sherlock by the wrist three steps from his door, stopping him.
"Are you all right?" he asks, sounding nothing but concerned.
Sherlock has never been able to ask for anything, and he can't put this sort of thing in words - it works entirely outside of his logical mind.
He snaps, "I'm fine," and wrenches his hand from Mycroft's, fleeing into his room.
Jackson eventually gets Sherlock alone, which Sherlock has been desperately trying to avoid happening, on Christmas Eve, when Sherlock is sent out to the back of their very large garden to gather more firewood for the living room fire. He is so preoccupied with how cold it is, and with the patterns of frost on the grass, that he doesn't notice Jackson following until he is halfway down the garden, and by then it is too late to turn back.
Sherlock ignores him, pretending not to see him there, and busies himself with collecting the wood, and as a result he only realises this tactic doesn't work when Jackson's heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He forces himself not to jump, not to turn around, not even when Jackson's voice speaks very close to his ear once more.
"Just how long are you going to keep this up, hmm?" he says in low tones.
Sherlock's heart is hammering with panic; he picks up a few more logs of wood, forcing his hands not to shake. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says calmly, dismissively.
Jackson's hand tightens considerably, nails biting so hard into Sherlock's shoulder that Sherlock gasps with sudden pain and shock, and drops half the wood.
"Don't play games with me," Jackson snarls, not letting go of Sherlock's shoulder despite him trying to shrug his hand off. "I know you want me, I know you do, so don't. Play games. With me." His nails dig further into Sherlock's skin with every word, and soon he can feel blood trickling down his shoulder under his shirt. He hisses and goes still, and Jackson seems to take this as an acquiescence, because he hums a little song under his breath and says, "Good."
He drops his hand and retreats back down the garden, and Sherlock is left to rub his shoulder and calm his racing heart in peace.
He says nothing and tries to act normally, but its still probably not quite a coincidence when Mycroft enters his bedroom just as he is changing shirts for dinner and thus sees the bruises on Sherlock's shoulder.
"What the hell is that?" he cries, rushing forward. He only uses such extreme phrases in extreme cases, when he is truly and honestly shocked, and that doesn't happen often.
Sherlock tries to shrug the new shirt over his shoulder and mumbles "Nothing," but Mycroft just pulls the shirt back again.
The bruises are clear finger marks, the index and middle finger of which are still bleeding a bit from the nail marks. Mycroft's face goes very still.
"Did he do this?" he asks in a icily calm voice.
Sherlock scowls; bats away Mycroft's hand. "I can handle this."
"Yes, I can see that," snaps Mycroft.
"Myc," says Sherlock. He only ever calls Mycroft 'Myc' - his childhood name for his brother, when 'Mycroft' was too big a word to utter - when he is being really insistent. Mycroft's eyes narrow at the sound of it.
"It's not a problem," continues Sherlock and buttons up the shirt with steady hands. Mycroft's fingers linger where the bruises are, so cool and comforting in comparison, but he says nothing more, and when Sherlock turns to leave the room, he lets him go.
After brandy and poker after dinner again, Sherlock goes to his room to find Jackson sitting perched on the bed, waiting for him, his intense eyes very dark and dangerous. Sherlock can smell the brandy from the doorway, but he's not going to run away and give Jackson the satisfaction of knowing he's scared.
He steps in and closes the door.
"Is there something you want?" he says, just as Jackson stands up and takes two heavy steps towards him.
"You know what I want," Jackson says, "And I know what you want." And once more he is so close that Sherlock can feel his breath on his face.
He takes a step back, although he knows he should stand his ground. "You're deluded," he informs him calmly.
Jackson steps forward and Sherlock steps back. "Deluded am I?" Jackson mocks. "What else am I then, huh? What else do you think I am? You're so clever, you tell me."
He takes another step forward and Sherlock takes another back. He should say nothing, he should let this slide, but he has never been able to resist the chance to show off, and he has never stepped away from something dangerous. "You're rich but scared of being rich and everything it entails, so you compensate by boasting about how rich you are," he says, as they continue to move across the room. "You're scared of being alone, so you compensate by making yourself overbearing. You're a coward in every sense of the word, living a life that you don't understand, can't control and fundamentally hate. You're a creep who can't get anyone so goes for those weaker than you, better than you, because you wish you were like them, or you wish they were like you, ugly and corrupted - "
His back hits the wall just as Jackson's hand comes round and slaps him hard around the face. Sherlock's head spins, his own hand goes to clutch at his cheek, but Jackson's hand gets there first, grasping Sherlock's chin in a painful vice and twisting his head back around so that he can clash his mouth onto Sherlock's. The kiss is hot and heavy and painful, and Sherlock tries to turn his mouth away, but Jackson is stronger than him and pushes him against the wall, forcing his tongue into his mouth. Sherlock does the only thing he can think of and bites down heavily on Jackson's tongue; Jackson pulls away swearing in pain, and just at that moment the door opens and Mycroft steps through.
He stops when he catches sight of them pressed up against the wall, Sherlock with a scarlet cheek, Jackson clutching at a bleeding mouth, both of them breathing heavily. Jackson steps away from Sherlock but the damage has been done, Mycroft's mouth has gone very thin and very straight, and for Sherlock that is more glaring than a held up warning sign.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Mycroft says smoothly, always the blank-faced professional, always charming and unflustered. "But I was just wondering if I could borrow Sherlock for a moment."
Sherlock glances surreptitiously at Jackson, but Jackson is too busy moaning about his mouth and glaring at the carpet. He slides hastily past him and towards Mycroft, feeling like he's just been let off a death sentence.
They leave the room and walk down the corridor towards Mycroft's room in silence, Mycroft clutching at Sherlock's arm with gentle force.
Mycroft only speaks when they are safely in his own room and he has locked the door, and when he does, his voice is very low and very dangerous.
"You," he says slowly. "Are an idiot."
Sherlock prods at his cheek sulkily - Jackson has really done a number on it - and sits himself down on Mycroft's bed. "I wasn't going to let him get the better of me," he snaps.
Mycroft sighs, crosses the room and takes Sherlock's chin in a very different manner to Jackson; precise, cool and gentle, inspecting Sherlock silently. He runs a soft finger down Sherlock's aching cheek and Sherlock closes his eyes; relaxes into the feeling.
"It would have been safer to run away," Mycroft says, more tenderly this time.
Sherlock doesn't say anything; there's no point saying that he is too proud, that he is too addicted to dangerous situations, for him to even think of that. Mycroft knows this all already, and they both hate stating the obvious. Instead, Sherlock leans into Mycroft's comforting touch.
"It won't happen again," he says quietly.
"You can bet it won't," Mycroft replies grimly.
Sherlock's eyes fly open. "Don't tell anyone - you can't - "
Mycroft tuts, but says, "I don't need to. I have my own methods."
Later, when Sherlock goes back to his room, Jackson has gone to his own bed for the night.
Christmas Day is spent in a haze of anxiety and stubbornness for Sherlock, because Jackson only ever keeps his distance when Mycroft is in the vicinity. The rest of the time he leans into Sherlock even more than usual, he stays even closer than usual, and his eyes remain fixed on Sherlock's still red cheek (Sherlock told Mummy he'd tripped and fallen against his desk. Mummy - all too used to such lies - just flashed him a disbelieving but resigned look, and Mycroft changed the subject.)
Once Christmas Day has officially become Boxing Day, everyone starts to amble - rather drunkenly - to bed, but Mycroft stops Sherlock outside his door.
"Go to my room."
"Do what I say." Mycroft very rarely uses such a tone of voice, but when he does, it is a tone that cannot, and will not, be disobeyed. Mycroft is the most frightening person Sherlock has ever met when he uses that voice. Sherlock slopes off obediently to Mycroft's room and Mycroft enters his.
He's perched on the end of Sherlock's bed, umbrella in hand, when Jackson stumbles in.
"Good evening," Mycroft says pleasantly.
Jackson stares at him. "I was looking for Sherlock."
Mycroft's smile stays resolutely in place. "Oh, I'm sure you were." He waves his umbrella at a chair placed opposite him. "Do sit down."
Jackson is clearly an idiot, because instead of running for the hills, he sits down.
They stare at each other.
"Now," Mycroft says, finally breaking the silence. "I'm going to make this easy for you. I could make it very difficult, but because I am such an amiable person, I'm not going to." He pauses. "Not unless I have to, of course."
Jackson rolls his eyes expressively. "This is ridiculous - "
"Either," Mycroft continues, interrupting him, "You leave Sherlock - my brother - alone, and I mean forever, or I will use all that is in my power to stop you."
Jackson scoffs; takes in Mycroft's unassuming stance, his neutral expression, his umbrella. "Is that meant to be a threat?" he jeers.
Mycroft meets his eyes levelly. "It would be," he says, "If you knew just what I had in my power."
Jackson lets out a bark of laughter. "And what would that be?" he says.
Mycroft tells him.
Sherlock is half asleep when Mycroft finally comes back into his own room and slips under the covers. Sherlock glances at him; he can't make out much in the dark, but he can make out enough.
"It worked, then," he says.
"Go to sleep," Mycroft replies calmly, settling himself down.
Sherlock crawls a bit closer, so that his forehead is just touching Mycroft's shoulder, so that he can just feel Mycroft's warm. He closes his eyes.
"Thanks," he murmurs, almost indecipherably.
Mycroft's hand finds his in the darkness and gives it a nearly imperceptible squeeze. "Shh," he orders, and they fall asleep like that.
The next morning Mummy reports to them - in confusion - that Jackson left in a rush early that morning, citing 'personal problems'.
"Good riddance," says Father. "I didn't like him anyway."
Mummy hums an agreement. "I think we'll forget to invite him next year."
Sherlock and Mycroft don't look at each other, but their ankles bump together under the table, and the rest of their Christmas is spent in joyful perfection.