Chapter Text
Bristling in anger, Mycroft Holmes slams the door of the small room behind him, tears off his jacket and hangs it on a hook on the wall. With a snarl, he loosens his tie, pulls it over his head and stuffs it into his suit pocket. In a flurry of fingers, he unbuttons his waistcoat, folds it up and places it on the small side table under the coat hanger. When he releases the top two buttons of his shirt from the eyelets, he exhales loudly. It is the first time that day he can really catch his breath. He instantly feels the tension in his shoulders slip away in a tingle down his limbs as if he's been harnessed with a heavy burden all day.
He did not want to spend another moment in his office. He did not want to look any more into the emotionless faces of the clerks and endure their trivial ramblings. The strain it causes is mercilessly pushed into a corner of his mind, ready to strike out and take everything it can grab into the abyss with him. But he cannot go that far. Under no circumstances can he allow his laboriously constructed façade to crack, for his credibility to be questioned, for his inner fragility to be perceived. He has had to fight against it every day.
A man in his position is unable to live a life other than this harsh reality. At every turn pursued by countless pairs of eyes that dissect, analyse and assess him. No misstep is allowed, because it would be the last step of his career. And yet, he is only human. Without a doubt, he, Mycroft Holmes, better than anyone else could, manages to shed his humanity and become what the Queen and Country need. A machine. A man of ice. A head that is not tied down by the base needs of the body.
Only here, in this small room, does Mycroft succeed in escaping these self-imposed constraints for a short period of time. Only in here, locked in by himself, set apart from the rest of the world, can he allow himself to be human. Unseen, he can climb from the underground garage into a private elevator and come straight to this room. Almost lovingly, he lets his gaze wander around the small room. Around this other dimension that surrounds him like an eggshell. Four walls, one door, five square meters of freedom. Black damask and red carpet.
On the wall opposite the door is a desk, in front of it a comfortable high-backed armchair with a swivelling foot. Mycroft sits down, braces his arms on the sides, and leans his fingertips together. Thoughtfully, he looks at the four black monitors that cover the wall behind the desk, enjoying the moment of silence, the subliminal anticipation. He turns on the screens via a table top console. The lobby, the bar, one of the corridors and a deserted room are on display, the image crystal clear. The system is set to broadcast and every ten seconds the images change to another location, showing guests and employees.
The monitor on the lower left jumps back into the empty room, but the picture blurs until it is completely unrecognizable. A poison green 44 appears in the middle. Mild interest makes Mycroft grab for the tablet, which is located next to the keyboard. He skims over the schedule of this evening. Guests who have special requests usually call beforehand to forward their wishes to the staff. These can be requests regarding the room, the equipment or a particular fantasy. Such bookings are already listed in the calendar so guests know what to expect.
However, it is possible that someone will spontaneously come in and book a room. These appointments are immediately added by the staff in the calendar and so, are visible to the users on the tablet. Room 44 is a standard room, simply furnished with a double bed and adjoining bathroom. No noteworthy extras. Without much expectation, Mycroft confirms appointment 44 and activates the lower left screen.
A young couple in their mid-twenties has already arrived in the room. Laughing and snogging, they stumble towards the bed and fall into it. Mycroft turns on the sound for this screen and leans back, watching the exuberant scene with mild interest. After only a few seconds, the man's hands have disappeared under the woman's blouse, who giggles excitedly.
"You mean someone is looking at us right now?" she asks in a mixture of nervousness and excitement, biting expectantly on her lip. Her partner laughs, a bit unsettled and nods. Sexual adventure to revive their relationship. His idea, or hers? They slide over the bed so they can both lean back against the headboard.
"Look, there's a camera," says the man, pointing to the left of the bed, "and there's another." This time he points directly at Mycroft, whose eyebrows rise. This couple is obviously here for the first time. Curious, looking for an adventure. Unreliable. Such people often tend to back down at the last moment, because in the end, it is too scary to be watched by someone they cannot see for themselves. They never see you. Gritting his teeth, Mycroft watches as the woman stands on the mattress and reaches for a camera which is attached over the headboard, and waves her hand in front of it.
"Hello! Is there someone in there? Yoohoo! Can you see me?!"
Her laugh is vapid and her attempt to compress her breasts to give the audience what she thinks is a provocative look falls flat. Mycroft sighs, rolls his eyes and turns off the sound. Once again, he picks up the tablet and, hoping to get another chance, flies over the rest of the evening's appointments should that couple prove utterly useless.
In an hour, a woman has registered for a room equipped with various toys from the BDSM area. He has known the name she has given herself for some time now. Although the lady owns her own establishment, she comes here once a week to play with people of both sexes. In her eyes, this may mean she loses a customer to them, but she might simply like the change of scenery from time to time. Mycroft has no particular interest in her, but memorizes the appointment in case nothing else happens this evening.
His gaze wanders back to the couple in room 44, who have started peeling off each other's clothes. Through their body language and excited faces, Mycroft can tell that their conversation is still about whether they are actually being watched by someone or if it's just a trick. Mycroft gives them another five minutes to blow the whole thing off. Too strange, too weird, too peculiar.
A movement on the lower right screen, which shows the foyer, attracts his attention. He stops his review of the other monitors and looks at the newcomer with mixed feelings. The camera filming the scene is placed diagonally behind the guest, showing a middle-aged man in a grey jacket and black pants. Broad shoulders, straight back, silver-grey hair. Mycroft swallows audibly. This cannot be true. With trembling fingers, he changes the monitor on the bottom left to the foyer, to the camera which is attached behind the employee at the counter.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?!
Mycroft turns the sound up. Goosebumps run down his neck, down his back to his toes. What happened? Why the hell is the inspector here? Has there been some incident? Should he get out of here before he becomes involved in things that will inevitably end in disaster? Mycroft struggles to take a deep breath. No, no, it must be something else. Lestrade is not here in an official capacity. No trench coat, no jacket, no police badge. Undercover?
"... for the first time here and am a little nervous. Can you give me some tips?" Lestrade asks calmly. He has one arm on the counter and the other on his hip. Contrary to his words, he is not nervous at all.
"Of course, sir. There is no reason to be nervous. Everything that happens here happens in agreement of all involved. You tell me what you are looking for, and I will do my best to fulfil your wish. If you do not have anything special in mind, you can choose something from our offer." The employee hands Lestrade a tablet and switches it to the menu with a pen, which Mycroft cannot see through the screen. "The green options we can offer you directly, the white options need a little time to prepare, but you can spend the interval waiting in our bar. Unfortunately, we do not offer the red options at this time."
Lestrade hums in understanding and scrolls through the menu.
"Are the events actually recorded?" Lestrade asks a moment later without taking his eyes off the screen.
"Yes, sir, but only for the duration of your stay. Once you leave, the images will be deleted to protect the privacy of our customers. The recording is for security purposes only."
"I understand."
Undeterred, Lestrade studies the offer, tapping a box here and there to read the information below and make his choice. Finally, he straightens up and hands the device back to the employee with a smile. He thanks her and looks at the screen, then nods curtly.
"Thank you, sir. The preparations will take about twenty minutes. Please take a seat at the bar. I will bring you the key when your room is ready."
Lestrade nods and thanks her, goes past the counter into the back of the foyer. Mycroft watches with trepidation every step the inspector takes and follows him across the establishment through the eyes of the various cameras, hardly daring to breathe. Still, an uncertainty about him niggles at the back of his mind that New Scotland Yard has sent one of their best men here to get information for a case. But that is impossible. Mycroft has this facility checked regularly and would be notified immediately if anything was wrong. Does the inspector know something he does not? Is that even possible?
On edge, he watches as Lestrade sits down at the bar and orders something to drink. Moments later, a glass slides over the counter. He takes a sip and lets his eyes slip through the room. Beside himself, there is only one woman in the bar, sitting alone at a table, leafing through a magazine she does not really read. She looks up and her eyes meet those of Lestrade, who smiles in a friendly manner. Is that ... Is this the sort of woman such a man would be interested in?
Mycroft looks back and forth between the two screens, examining their body language. The woman wears a tight red dress that reaches to her knees. She has her legs crossed and slightly bent. The chocolate brown hair curls over her shoulders. Curiosity is written over her face. She leans forward a bit to invite Lestrade to speak to her, but he turns away and looks down at his drink. Maybe she is not his type?
Letting go of the breath he had been holding, Mycroft leans back in his chair. All this excitement plays with his nerves, but it is not half as unpleasant as he first feared. It's more like a kind of fluttering feeling in his stomach, a barely tangible tension he does not know how to classify. Never before has someone he knows come here, or had access to his outrageous private life. He feels caught, insecure and he has to keep reminding himself that Lestrade's presence has nothing to do with Mycroft's tendency to voyeurism. There is nothing that can betray him as long as he stays within these four walls while Lestrade is out there.
Grinding his teeth, Mycroft waits for the moment the employee arrives at the bar and hands Lestrade the key card. Lestrade thanks her with a friendly smile and walks over to the elevator without looking at the woman in the red dress again. Definitely not his type. Mycroft switches to the camera in the elevator. Heart pounding, he chokes as he realizes the lift stops on the same floor he is on. Can he be any more unlucky? Now he really has no choice but to stay here until Lestrade had left the building. In no way can he risk being caught in the corridor.
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