Original Story Title: Being Executioner
Original Story Link: http://senket.livejournal.com/16976.html
Original Story Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade
Original Story Rating: NC-17
Original Story Warnings: references to child abuse and rape. Seriously fucked-up stuff. Be careful.
Remix Story Title: Eight Minutes
Remix Author: sc010f
Remix Beta: shefa, bluestocking79, annietalbot
Remix Britpicker: N/A
Remix Story Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade
Remix Story Rating: NC-17
Remix Story Warnings: References to child abuse
Summary: When things become too much, Mycroft needs an outlet. But first he needs to convince Gregory of that.
It is getting to be too much for him. Again. Cigarettes, breathing exercises aren't helping. The nightmares are getting worse. If he waits much longer, there will be flames. The placid exterior begins to ripple, rupture.
Mummy's calling him. She's upset. He can't avoid her phone calls. As much as he wants to.
He finds himself eating when he's working. He snaps at Brigitte for thinking too loudly. He's losing control.
He hears Him call in the night. Quiet, seductive, and louder and louder, He crowds out all the other thoughts, becomes the only noise he hears.
You did this, Mycroft. You made your mother upset. You let it happen. You allowed it. You are disgusting. Fat. Ugly. And do you know what happens to fat, ugly boys? What happens in the dormitories, Mycroft? Are you a grind, nancy-boy? And who taught you that? Who, Mycroft? Whowhowhowhowhowho?
He wakes up, sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his skin. He's hard, whimpering. He spends the rest of the night sitting at his desk, trying to juggle the CIA and Mossad. It doesn't end well. As dawn breaks, he's hollow-eyed and foul-breathed. And he may just have broken something. He's not sure.
He lights a cigarette, sucks in the smoke.
Disgusting. Look at you. Your brother… not so much, though. Maybe I should go next door. You whimper too much. Make too much noise.
No, no, please. Not Sherlock. Not him. Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease, I'll be good. Please.
Mycroft could hire somebody, he knows men who are discreet enough. He’s done it before, but it's not the same. It can't be. He's paying to trust them, and it's not enough.
Even Sherlock's begun saying things – not that John notices: the one terrible time when Mycroft threatened to order Sherlock to perform a simple task.
"I'd like to see you try."
You think you have power over me? Sherlock's body language clearly said. You took it for me and you liked it – that doesn't mean that you get to come prancing around asking for favors.
It was all Mycroft could do to walk away.
Korea was a disaster.
By the end of the week, seven American Navy SEALS were dead, as well as three members of the SAS and fourteen members of the North Korean general staff.
Oh, young Mycroft, you have been bad, haven't you? And so has your brother. And do you know what happens to bad boys? They need to be punished. Punishedpunishedpunishedpunishedpunished.
Mycroft nearly sobs his orgasm into the toilet in his office.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Gregory trusts you. Let's see if he loves you. See if he'll do this for you. Quiet you down. Snivveling nancy-boy. Grind. You want it. You need it. Needitneeditneedit.
Mycroft washes his hands, leaves the bathroom and makes a phone call:
"Gregory, I'm sending Brigitte round to collect you. I'd like to have a brief chat.
"Yes, it's quite important.
"No, it's not about Sherlock.
"Yes. The Sigerson Papers again.
"Excellent, I will see you in thirty minutes."
When Gregory arrives, Mycroft has made certain he is ready. He will give him ten minutes.
Eight minutes remain.
There isn't enough air in the room when Mycroft finishes speaking. He knows Gregory can feel it, too and waits for the rejection. The reaction. Something.
Gregory is still staring at his hands. His jaw is set.
He's angry. Good. You deserve his anger. Rejection. You should reject me. Tainted. Foul. Out of control. Deserve it. Grind. You like it. Likeitlikeitlikeit. Something’s wrong with you. I can fix it.
Gregory opens his mouth and shuts it. He opens his mouth again and raises his head. The carriage clock on the mantle chimes the quarter hour. Mycroft has exactly seven and a half minutes before the door opens and Brigitte ushers in the Lebanese ambassador.
"God… you ask me that and… Christ…. You look…. There's not a hair out of place. Like you just asked me to have a drink with you. To go down the pub," Gregory blurts out.
Mycroft knows how he appears – the frozen mask of polite interest. Eyebrow quirked.
I need this, Gregory. Please. I've been so bad. Bad. Awful. Terrible. I need you to punish me.
"And would there be a … safe word?" he asks.
Six minutes and forty-seven seconds.
"We will not be requiring one," Mycroft replies. "Do I take it that your answer is 'yes'?"
"No. Yes. No… I don't know. I need time."
Six minutes and twenty seconds.
"You have five minutes," Mycroft counters.
You remember when he said that. Five minutes. Fiveminutesfiveminutesfiveminutes, Mycroft. Five minutes lad, and you've been so naughty.
"Christ, Mycroft, you can't ask me… This is serious psychological stuff and I'm not… I'm not a psychiatrist."
"I'm not asking you to be a psychiatrist, Gregory. It's merely an extension of our… intimacy."
"And this happens to you often?"
"Rarely. Enough, though to be troublesome."
"And you've seen someone about this?" Gregory asks.
Mycroft lifts his other eyebrow.
After all these years? Come now, Gregory. I have techniques for this. Buried, of course, but who would trust a cracked government official? One who seeks counseling? You are thick, sometimes.
Thick. Stupid. Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid. Just like you. Vile. You upset your mother. Protecting that little swot of a brother. Vilevilevilevile. Takeittakeittakeittakeit.
"Mycroft, I can't… look, I l… like… oh, fuck it, I think I may love you and I can't let you do this to yourself and…"
"Then, Gregory, if you do love me. Please. Do this for me. There are times, Gregory, when it is what I need. And you're the only man I can trust. The only man I have chosen to trust with this."
And I can make you disappear if I have to Mycroft thinks as he watches Gregory's face fall. Do you even realize the power you have over me now?
But Mycroft can also hear Him:
That's what you deserve, lad. You've been so bad, so very bad. And you know you want to be good.
Three minutes, twenty seconds.
He wishes that… no. Gregory has seen enough. Knows what he needs to know.
Vile. Horrible. You deserved every second of it. And you liked it, didn't you, lad?
Gregory is staring at the floor again.
"I love you," Mycroft says. The bugs won't pick up any of this conversation. He's made sure of that. He wouldn't have chosen to have it here, otherwise, behind his massive oak desk, in the afternoon, sandwiched between meetings. It is, other than his bedroom, the safest place in the world right now.
Gregory jerks his head up.
"I love you," he says again.
Please, please, please. I'll be so good. Goodgoodgoodgoodgood. Better. I'm better. Betterbetter, daddy…
One minute, thirty seconds.
"How will I know?" he asks. "When… when this needs to happen?"
Mycroft smiles tightly.
"It will be apparent. When the need strikes. Just watch the news."
Gregory starts and stares at him.
"I know that you love me, Gregory," Mycroft says. "And for that… I… thank you."
Gregory looks haunted.
"It will not get out of hand, Detective Inspector," Mycroft says, offering his hand to shake. "And we will be in touch."
Brigitte opens the door without knocking.
"The Ambassador," she announces.
Gregory takes Mycroft's hand. A clammy palm against his own, a tight squeeze and then another. Their code.
Brigitte motions the ambassador to a seat and takes her chair.
Gregory nods and leaves.
Mycroft turns to the ambassador as the door clicks quietly shut behind Gregory. Relief floods through him as the voice quiets, his mind shifts gears, his jaw loosens and he returns to his work.
Outside his office, Greg leans against the wall, willing the world to stop tilting on its axis.
The next time he sees Mycroft, it's for their date at the opera and it's as if nothing has changed. They watch the performance, have a drink after, go back to Mycroft's.
Mycroft rocks into him, whispering words of love, lust, desire. He's gentle and tender and it's perfect, normal.
The next time Greg sees him is three weeks later and there has been serious trouble in Tunisia.
Mycroft is grey. He barely speaks over dinner.
"You know I love you, Gregory," Mycroft whispers outside the restaurant.
He waits in Mycroft's bedroom, as he disappears into the en-suite.
"What should I say?" Greg asks before the door shuts.
Mycroft doesn't answer and Greg shucks off his shoes and socks.
Eight minutes later, the door opens and Mycroft is standing before him, penitent, trembling.
Oh, oh, God.
Greg feels sick.
Oh, oh, God.
"Little Mycroft, have you done wrong?" Greg makes himself ask.
And it begins.
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