For sherlockbbc's Halloween Make Me a Monday: "2) Mycroft's a cannibalistic monster on certain nights ("How's the diet?") and Sherlock's the only one who knows (for fear of what might happen if he tells)."
the secrets behind these doors
She was the girl he was meant to marry, but she didn't listen, and now some very expensive trousers are soiled with dirt and blood as he attempts to dispose of the wretched society twit he'd nearly brought into this ... complicated life of his.
It was a bad idea, he reflects, upon looking at her ravaged body, with something akin to pride rampaging through his mild panic.
"That won't work," someone says from up on the bluff, and Mycroft tilts his head up to meet his young brother's cool, cleverer-than-thou gaze. "You'll be found out."
"Will I?" he answers blandly.
"You're pathetic," Sherlock says bluntly, and comes to join him, seizes the shovel from his brother. "You should know better. Really."
Mycroft smiles then, and pats his shoulder. "What would I do without you?" he asks rhetorically.
Sherlock's pulse calls to Mycroft through his brother's long, pale neck. It takes everything within him not to answer it, invite it into his mouth and his own bloodstream, but he takes a breath and releases it, and the hunger along with it.
Sherlock looks at him, and he knows. And there's nothing he can do. But still, there is a line he won't cross. (Yet.)
And people say he isn't the gracious sort.
The hunger is terrible. It has always been terrible. Fortunately, Mycroft is not the sort to be easily cowed by difficult situations.
The best part, by far, is the taste of human flesh. Even if feeding the addiction didn't give him a high that Sherlock's drug du jour couldn't dream of reaching, the meat itself is a treat. Each victim – or, as he generally dubs it, meal – presents a completely individual flavor and texture, some fatty and sweet, others tough with gristle, and he enjoys them all.
His face is wet with hot blood when the door opens, and he's wild in the feeding frenzy, unable to make himself care that he's been interrupted. "Sir," Anthea says serenely, "it's ready whenever you are."
Mycroft brushes a piece of hair back into place, streaking blood across his forehead, and nods blindly, his heart and body roused in the hunt. "Of course," he agrees, and descends on what remains of the remains once the door is closed again.
A shower first, then the acid bath for the bones and viscera, and last a fire for his clothes, and it's as though the young woman who entered the hotel room never existed at all.
"No," Sherlock is insisting, with a troubling amount of concern. "I understand that you're very important," he says poisonously, "but you do NOT get to eat homeless people."
"Sherlock Holmes, champion of the downtrodden," Mycroft says, supremely bemused.
"Take someone useless. One of your politicians, for example," Sherlock advises without a split second's thought on the matter. "No one would notice. In fact, they might throw parties. One less MP, hooray!"
Mycroft frowns. "Now you're just being spiteful."
Sherlock frowns back, deeply, obnoxiously selfish as always. "I need them."
It's a mercy he's fed; he's already raging under the surface, under his perfect calm, but it's so much worse before. "I need them more," he says, and tries to smile to soften the blow, but it's more a show of teeth.
Sherlock stares at his brother for a moment and Mycroft can see the thought cross his mind by the expression on his face (the brutal imagery of near-human teeth tearing flesh from bone, gnawing through skin). Then he defers, resentfully.
"Try not to gorge yourself," he says, "Mummy is so concerned about your health."
Mycroft just smiles, then, genuinely pleased with himself, with what he is, with what they both are. "I'll manage."