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Hiding it is easy.
It wasn’t always, of course. There were days early in his career when Mycroft thought he couldn’t stand it one more minute. That he’d combust, fall apart, break down if he couldn’t get someone to put him on his knees and send him spiraling down into a comfortable haze of submission. Some days he needed it so much he even considered one of those clubs, places where a sub could go to be discreetly taken care of, for a fee. There’s nothing wrong with such clubs, of course; they are legal and popular and safe. Some are better run than others, but they are all well regulated and clean.
Mycroft can’t take such risks, though. If he is to be the power behind the throne (and he is, he absolutely is, thank you) then he can’t afford anything even remotely submissive in his past. He had a few years, a few precious years as a very young man when he allowed himself to have that sort of social life but as he advanced in politics, he had to cut out everything else. He simply couldn’t get above a certain level as a submissive. Nobody wanted to follow a man who liked to be tied down and ordered about. Nobody respected someone who would drop to his knees if you just told him to in the right tone of voice.
If he really was, as he claimed to be, a “minor official” in the British government, it would be fine. True, most politicians and leaders are dominants, but plenty of smaller, less authoritative offices are held by subs. They do (technically) have equal rights. But Mycroft has always aspired to more, and if he has to deny a portion of himself to get it, that is a necessary sacrifice. These days, he barely thinks about it. There are the dreams, sure, but they’re easy enough to ignore. He keeps his focus on the work and freezes out everything else.
Mycroft knows all the proper mannerisms. He keeps his chin up and his shoulders back when he walks. He stares others down, makes his eyes hard and commanding, he speaks with a cold, deliberate cadence. He gives the constant impression of power and the tiniest hint of threat. He can speak to dominants without a hint of hesitation, can meet their eyes and hold his ground. It requires constant effort to maintain the front, but he’s done it for years and it’s second nature.
He has never met a dominant that makes him question whether the sacrifice was worth it. That is, until he met Greg Lestrade.
The first time, Sherlock has been arrested. The record says interfering with a crime scene, and Mycroft can read between the lines well enough to know Sherlock was making a nuisance of himself, insulting police officers, and generally having no consideration for the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Sherlock is a natural dom (he’s always had all the genetic luck in the family) and he wears it so well he can usually bully his way into most places. It would have taken an officer of strong will to arrest him.
Mycroft has already made the necessary arrangements to have Sherlock quietly released, but he decides he needs to meet this officer. Someone who could stand up to Sherlock might also be able to manage him, to corral some of that manic energy and genius into a useful purpose. So Mycroft strides confidently into Scotland Yard the next day, knocks on Inspector Lestrade’s office door, and walks in without waiting for an answer. He has long since determined that one of the keys to acting dom is being just a bit rude most of the time.
Lestrade is sitting behind his desk, and he looks up as Mycroft enters. His gaze is steady, assessing, a long sweep from the floor up. He has the firm, challenging gaze of all doms, but his eyes are an unexpectedly warm dark brown, and his mouth quirks into a smile. “Hello,” he says. “Guess you must be the brother.”
Mycroft blinks. There’s something about the easy confidence Lestrade radiates that makes him want to drop down, to sit beside him on the floor and rest his cheek against Lestrade’s thigh and just wait, quiet in his head, to be given an order. Most doms are all posturing and swagger, but this one, oh. This one…
Lestrade raises an eyebrow, and Mycroft realizes he’s just frozen, standing there, staring. “Yes,” he says, gathering himself. “Mycroft Holmes. I understand you’ve met Sherlock.”
Lestrade snorts. “The whole Yard ‘met’ Sherlock. He’s hard to miss. And I gather we have you to thank for springing him.”
I’m sorry, Mycroft almost says. It’s right there on the tip of his tongue, and he swallows it back. Doms do not apologize, him least of all. “Yes,” he says instead. “Sherlock’s observations about your crime scene—they were accurate, were they not?”
“Oh, yeah, along with his observations about my sergeants, my office, my dry cleaner, and what I had for breakfast. Doesn’t exactly have an off switch, does he?” Lestrade’s easy grin is still there, belying the sharp words. It’s inviting, that smile, encouraging Mycroft to join in, to relax, to fall under his spell.
“Perhaps not,” Mycroft allows. “Properly channeled, his talents could prove beneficial to you. As you may be aware, yours is not the first crime scene he has… I believe the term is ‘crashed.’ But it is the first one he’s been arrested at.”
Lestrade’s gaze doesn’t flicker. “He had it coming. You won’t convince me otherwise.”
“I’m sure he did,” Mycroft replies. “Sherlock has a forceful personality. None of the previous officers he has met could properly contain him. You, however, have demonstrated that you can. Would you be willing to accept his assistance, on an informal basis, on cases in the future?”
Lestrade gives him a considering look, and then stands, coming around his desk to perch on the edge. Mycroft fights the urge to drop his eyes. “He told me you’d be coming,” Lestrade says. “He even said you’d suggest this.”
Mycroft nods. “I surmised as much. Then you agree?”
“Didn’t say that.” Lestrade draws himself up, eye level with Mycroft, and takes two steps forward. He’s in arm’s reach now, he could put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and push him down, drop him to his knees, and Mycroft locks his back straight and grits his teeth. He forces himself to hold fast, to keep his face schooled into the required cold stare. “I’m willing to consider it,” Lestrade says. “But he’s got to work with us. I won’t have him running off with evidence or taking the law into his own hands.”
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Mycroft replies. “I trust you’ll keep him in check.”
Lestrade gives him a wry smile. “If anyone can.” He leans in a little, closing on Mycroft, crowding into his space. It’s an obvious aggressive move, a display of dominance, and Mycroft swallows but doesn’t budge. “How about you?” Lestrade asks. “Can I keep you in check?”
Yes, Mycroft thinks. Yes, yes, please. He narrows his eyes. “I’m not a sub,” he says, his tone icy. “You’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not,” Lestrade says. He stays close a moment, making his point, and then turns and slides casually back into his chair. “Tell Sherlock if he wants to help on a crime scene, he can call me.” It’s a clear dismissal, but Mycroft hesitates in the doorway, his head full of rushing confusion and his heart thumping heavily. Lestrade doesn’t look up from his paperwork. Eventually, Mycroft turns and walks out in a daze, drifting out of the building and into a waiting car without seeing any of it.
*
It’s bad that night, bad in a way it hasn’t been in years. Mycroft can feel it buzzing under his skin, aching in his chest. He even resorts to using the cuffs he keeps secreted away in his room, buckling himself into place, carefully strapping his legs down first and then securing his wrists to the bed. Usually being tied soothes him, quiets the need, even if they’re the sort of cuffs he can release himself with a quick twist. It’s not enough now though, it only seems to sharpen the craving without satisfying it. He wants a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down. A firm, steady voice telling him exactly what to do. He wants to give up control, to release all the responsibility and relax and trust in someone else.
Eventually, he sighs and releases the cuffs, then puts them away. He paces for a while. He picks up a random file, one of the many jobs he’s working on, but he can’t focus on it. It’s too early to go to sleep, far too early, and he doesn’t have a chance of actually sleeping anyway. He’s too keyed up, too distracted. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Lestrade, that steady, quiet look on his face. Confidence, authority, power, and all worn so easily, fitting so perfectly over his skin. Mycroft can’t help a certain bitter envy that it comes so naturally to the other man when he himself has to work at it every minute of the day.
The notes on Sherlock’s arrest and subsequent release are on his kitchen table. Lestrade’s file, as the arresting officer, is attached. And his phone number is in his file. His work phone, but a man of Mycroft’s resources can easily locate his mobile. What would happen if he called Lestrade? If he admitted what Lestrade clearly already knew, and asked him to come over? Would Lestrade take him down with consummate skill? Mycroft thinks he would. And oh, it would be such a relief. He’s denied this for so long, locked it away, but it’s awake now and clamoring desperately for attention.
He sinks into a kitchen chair, closes his eyes, and pictures it. Lestrade would stalk into his flat as if he owned it, and everything in it, Mycroft included. He’d exude that calm dominance, that utter certainty of his place at the top of the food chain. He’d take Mycroft by the shoulders and push him down and Mycroft would sink to the floor. He’d rest his face against Lestrade’s leg, feel those hands in his hair, that soothing voice telling him to just let go, just relax. He would sink lower and lower, drifting, sliding into the welcoming white nothing. All the noise in his head would fade. The constant effort to keep up the act, the nonstop stream of observations and plans and decisions, all taken out of his hands.
There would be no need to plot out his next move, no requirement to spin a dozen possible scenarios, evaluate each one, and choose the most advantageous before every word, every gesture. He’s always in such perfect control and it sits so heavy on him, so painfully tight. Mycroft makes a small sound, soft and wanting, and presses a hand over his mouth before he can make another. He can’t, he can’t. Too much to risk, everything he’s worked for, he can’t possibly take that chance. Not for one moment of weakness, one night of indulgence. No matter how badly he needs it.
*
So Mycroft fights it back. He has a bad night, a sleepless night, but it’s not the first and won’t be the last. It is followed by a bad week, the craving always tugging at him, nipping at his heels, darting in to catch him like a punch in the gut when he’s least expecting it. He seems to see happy subs everywhere. At the office, the new secretary wears a slim black collar, high on her throat. Just the sight of it, the thought of that snug, reassuring pressure, fills him with longing. At a meeting, a man walks quietly around, serving tea and coffee, and when he’s done, he folds himself up at the feet of the woman leading the meeting, and she puts a hand in his hair. The look on his face, so peaceful, makes Mycroft’s chest ache and his eyes sting.
He’s gotten very little sleep since he first met Lestrade, and after ten days, it’s beginning to tell. His assistant gives him concerned looks. He nearly misses a crucial detail during a foreign policy negotiation, and she clears her throat, very quietly. He picks up the cue and carries on without anyone the wiser but it is a near thing. After the discussion is complete, she sits beside him in the car, phone in her hands as always, but her fingers are still and her eyes are on him instead of the screen.
“Sir?”
He raises a questioning eyebrow. It is something of an achievement, he knows, that she addresses him that way. It’s uncommon for doms to use such titles of respect between themselves, and of course she doesn’t know his secret, or she’d never say such a thing. Usually this knowledge cheers him a little, that he has the honest respect of this woman, who is a sharp-edged and dangerous dom in her own right. He can’t muster the energy for it today, though. “Yes…” He sighs. “What is it this week? Melanie?”
“Melissandre, sir,” she says. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine,” he says. “Well done, good attention to detail during the meeting.”
She nods slowly. “It’s usually not necessary. Sir.”
Mycroft is so tired he’s even tempted to slide to the floor of the car and put his head in her lap and apologize for making a mistake. Perhaps she will punish him, or perhaps she will stroke his back and tell him he’s forgiven, and either way the terrible weight will be gone and he can relax. Instead, he grits his teeth and sits up straighter, staring her down. “It is always necessary to pay attention,” he says. “I’m glad to find that you were. This time.”
She stiffens and the warm concern vanishes from her face. He knows the implication is that he was testing her, and that she’ll take it as a challenge and be even more vigilant. To the good, because he expects he’ll make more mistakes if he doesn’t get some sleep soon.
They spend the rest of the ride in silence. She pokes busily at her phone, and he stares out the window, trying helplessly to think of a way out.
*
His flat feels more like a cell than home that night. He’s trapped, unable to escape the constant craving, but unable to give in. He uses the cuffs again, ties himself as tight as he can, and he presses up against the straps until they bite into his skin. The pain is a distraction, but not enough. He’s still in charge, still the one making the decisions. It’s nothing but a tease. The scent of a delicious meal when he’s starving, without being allowed a taste.
Mycroft nearly sobs in frustration and yanks himself out of the cuffs, leaving them on the bed. He shrugs into a dressing down, bare underneath, and stomps into the living room. He paces. His gaze falls on the file, still sitting on the kitchen table, with Lestrade’s information in it. It’s early evening. He’s probably still at work. Maybe just getting ready to leave. Mycroft could call, could tell him to come over. He could say he wants to discuss Sherlock. Lestrade would see what he needed the moment he walked through the door. He would take charge, and surely that wouldn’t be Mycroft’s fault. That wouldn’t count as giving up, as breaking.
But no, no, no. He can’t. He’ll get past this, it’s been bad before and he’s made it through. Not this bad, true, this is years of pent up denial and loneliness all spilling out, but he can beat it. The best thing, he decides, would be to throw the file away. To burn it, destroy it. Remove the temptation. If he needs to get in touch with the Inspector for some actual work related reason later, he can always obtain the information again. He sits at the table, opens the file, spreads the documents out. He’ll just pick out the one with Lestrade’s contact information. When he comes to it, though, he freezes because there’s a picture attached to the file. A small black and white headshot, paper clipped to the personnel file, and Lestrade’s steady gaze stares up at him.
Mycroft reaches out with a trembling hand and trails his fingertips over the picture. Ridiculous. Utterly absurd that he’s worked himself into such a state that even a picture can leave him breathless with want. He is Mycroft Holmes, he’s the British Government, the man pulling the strings, always the most dangerous man in the room. He is not weak, he’s never allowed himself to be weak, and giving into his nature as a sub is surely weakness. He has always known that to be true. He always thought, if he tried hard enough, if he played the part to total perfection, that eventually he would actually overcome it. That he would lose this need to submit.
He folds his arms and puts his head down on the table and bites his lip hard. Maybe, just once… no. Once would never be enough. A taste and he’d want more. If only he’d never met Lestrade, never felt that intense and immediate connection, he could go back to his livable denial. But he can’t go back, that much is obvious. Existing in this limbo of constant wanting, his mental sharpness and stability crumbling fast, is intolerable. It can’t be allowed to continue.
The only other choice is to go forward.
Mycroft gets his phone, and before he can second-guess the decision, he calls Lestrade. He’s answered on the third ring, and just that voice, low and calm, makes something loosen in his chest. “Hello?” Lestrade says.
“Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft begins, and then stops. He didn’t plan what he was going to say. Impossible. He always knows what he’s going to say. But his mind is blank now, stuck in neutral, spinning aimlessly with exhaustion.
“Mycroft,” Lestrade says, his tone gone warm and intent. “Something you need?”
“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Yes. I… can you…” He can hear his voice shaking but he can’t make it stop.
“Tell me where you are,” Lestrade says. It’s crisp, clear, a direct order. It’s beautiful.
Mycroft rattles off his address. He doesn’t say anything else. He wasn’t asked for anything else.
“Stay there,” Lestrade says. “You have a sofa? Course you do. I want you kneeling in front of it when I get there. Hands behind your back, overlapping, hold your wrists. I want your head resting against the sofa. Leave your door unlocked. Don’t move until I get there. You understand?”
“Yes,” Mycroft says. He’s already drifting, reveling in the directions. Every detail mapped out, every decision taken out of his hands. All he has to do is what he’s told. He feels light, as if he might float into the air at any moment.
“Good,” Lestrade says. He sounds pleased, approving. It’s a balm and Mycroft soaks it up eagerly. “That’s good. I’ll be right there.”
Mycroft unlocks the door, then settles in front of the sofa. Hands behind his back, gripping his own wrists, knees comfortable on the thick rug, weight resting back on his heels. The sofa is cool and soft against his face. He closes his eyes and dozes easily, peacefully.
The next thing he feels is Lestrade’s hand, firm on the back of his neck. Lestrade sits on the sofa and draws Mycroft closer, until his cheek is resting against the other man’s thigh. He trails his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. It is exactly as he imagined, and yet so much better. He could not have imagined the wonderful sense of quiet that falls over him, the tremendous relief, how very easy it is to sit still at Lestrade’s feet and think of nothing at all.
Lestrade gives him time to sink deep. He murmurs quiet things: “Good, you waited just as I said, well done, I’m very pleased. Just be still now, that’s right, lovely. I’ll take care of everything.” Eventually, his tone grows harder, and his hand becomes firm on Mycroft’s nape. “I’m going to ask you some questions now,” he says. “You’re going to answer them.”
“Yes,” Mycroft says. The note of command in Lestrade’s voice goes right through him, reaches something parched and wanting that cries out for more.
“You’re a sub,” Lestrade says.
It’s not really a question, but Mycroft nods anyway. “Yes, yes,” he says. More relief, just to admit it out loud. It’s been so long.
“You keep it a secret. Pretend to be a dom. For your job?”
“Right,” Mycroft says. “Have to.”
“How long has it been since you had someone take care of you?”
“Years,” Mycroft says. “I was twenty the last time.”
Lestrade curses softly under his breath. “I knew it was bad when I saw you but I had no idea it was this bad. You do a good job hiding it.”
Even this is praise and Mycroft smiles and rubs his cheek against Lestrade’s leg. Some distant part of him is worried about his secret getting out but it’s faint and unimportant. He doesn’t need to worry about that right now. Doesn’t need to worry about anything. Lestrade will take care of it.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “First, you’re going to get some sleep. I’m staying with you tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday, do you have work? Never mind if you do, you’re to call off.” He pushes Mycroft by the shoulders until he’s upright. “Stand up and walk into your bedroom.”
Mycroft obeys, floating down the hall, barely feeling his feet touch the floor. Once inside the bedroom he stops, swaying, waiting for further instructions. Lestrade picks up the padded leather cuffs still sitting on the bed, and smiles. “Come lie down,” he says. “On your side, facing me.”
Once Mycroft is on the bed, Lestrade uses the cuffs to bind his hands together in front of him. He sits on the bed, back propped against the headboard, and tugs Mycroft close. Mycroft curls up, half in Lestrade’s lap, his face pressed into the other man’s side. He feels deliciously secure, tied and held and so very sleepy. The cuffs are a reassuring weight, but Lestrade’s hand on his back is even better.
“Good,” Lestrade says. “Rest now, you’ve got yourself too worn down. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Mycroft nods and drops easily into sleep.
*
It takes a long time to come to the surface. He’s aware of light first, and warmth on his face; late morning sunlight. Then he feels the cuffs still on his wrists, and the weight of a blanket over his shoulders. The surface under his face is warm and firm and carries a faint spicy scent. He turns his head, rubbing his jaw against the soft cloth, and a hand strokes down his hair and squeezes gently at the back of his neck.
Mycroft smiles and leans into it, but only for a moment. The sleepy haze clears fast; he hasn’t slept so well or so long in years and he feels husked out and off balance. His muscles are too relaxed and don’t want to obey him properly, and he has to try three times before he manages to slide off the bed and onto his feet. He realizes he’s still wearing the cuffs, and he thumbs the release catch, twisting out of them.
Lestrade stays on the bed, sitting back against the headboard, and regards him. He’s got a faint line pressed on one side of his face and his hair is poking up at odd angles. His shirt is rumpled, the first two buttons undone, and his jaw is dark with stubble. He slept, Mycroft deduces, at some point during the night, but woke up first and chose to stay close. He looks warm and soft and inviting and Mycroft wants nothing more than to crawl back onto the bed and stay with him until he is told what to do next.
He doesn’t do that, though. He stands up straight and tugs his dressing gown around himself, tying the belt. He lifts his chin and assumes his familiar cloak of cold disdain. Lestrade watches this and raises an eyebrow. He looks, of all things, amused, and Mycroft bristles.
“Inspector Lestrade,” he begins.
“Call me Greg,” Lestrade interrupts.
Mycroft shakes his head. “That would not be appropriate, I’m afraid. I’m sure you realize this cannot happen again.”
The indulgent look fades, and Lestrade’s eyes grow hard. “It can,” he says, “and it will.”
Mycroft shivers and drops his eyes. He takes a breath, sets his jaw, makes his expression cool and blank. “While I appreciate the… assistance you provided, I am not in a position to engage in that sort of behavior.”
“Not what you said last night,” Lestrade points out. He’s still sitting on the bed. It is utterly unfair that he can fill the room, own it entirely, when he’s not even standing up.
“Last night, I was…” Mycroft can hear his voice start to tremble and he forces it level. “I hadn’t been sleeping well. I was under stress. It affected my judgment. I can’t afford to…”
“Stop,” Lestrade says sharply. Mycroft stops, his mouth closing with a snap. Lestrade rolls gracefully off the bed and stalks over to him in a sinuous, predatory stride. Mycroft doesn’t realize he’s backing up until his shoulders hit the wall behind him.
“Inspector,” he tries again. “I can’t allow you to—“
“No,” Lestrade says. He crowds into Mycroft’s space, pressing him against the wall. “Stop talking. This idiotic self-denial thing you’ve got going on? It’s killing you and I won’t stand for it.”
“I don’t belong to you,” Mycroft says.
“You do,” Lestrade says. “You want to. You need it.”
Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment and swallows. “Yes,” he whispers. “But I can’t have it.”
Lestrade’s palm smacks the wall beside his head and he scowls, frustrated. “You can. There is nothing wrong with being a sub. I don’t care if you’re the bloody King of England.”
“You don’t know who I am,” Mycroft replies. “We’ve met once, a week ago. You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough,” Lestrade insists. “You really think you can just go back to pretending? You think you’re going to be fine because you got one night of decent sleep?”
Mycroft presses his lips into a thin line. “That is none of your concern.”
Lestrade stands straighter, seeming to grow in front of him. He puts a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezes hard. “Down,” he says. “Right now. I’m not listening to this crap another second.”
Mycroft’s knees threaten to buckle but he locks them in place and grits his teeth. “No.” Lestrade starts to open his mouth to speak, and Mycroft cuts him off. “I’m saying no, Inspector. And I don’t believe you’re the sort of dom who carries on without consent.”
Lestrade stares at him, eyes dark and snapping, mouth an angry slant. Then he nods and steps back, dropping his hands to his side. “No,” he says. “I’m not that sort. But you’re saying no for the wrong reasons.”
“My reasons are my business.” Mycroft edges past him, then down the hall, toward the front door. He can hear Lestrade following but doesn’t risk a glance back. He reaches for the doorknob, but Lestrade catches his wrist, holding it still. Mycroft can feel the strength there, how easily Lestrade could pin him, hold him in place, and something twists fiercely in his chest at the thought.
“Listen,” Lestrade says quietly. “I’m not ordering you, that’s not… I know how to take no for an answer. But don’t do this. Please.”
Mycroft sways, and he has to swallow hard against the sharp ache that rises in his throat. “Don’t make this harder than it is,” he says.
“Yeah, okay,” Lestrade says. He looks sad now and Mycroft bites his tongue to stay quiet. “Call me if you need to.”
Mycroft nods. If he speaks now he’s going to beg Lestrade to stay, he knows it. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, his face blank. He watches Lestrade slip out the door, and he doesn’t waver. It is only after he’s gone, footsteps faded away, that Mycroft rests his back against the wall, slides to the floor, and buries his face in his hands.
*
The long night’s sleep (and the soothing drop into submission that went with it) does actually help. Mycroft feels steadier, calmer than he has in a long time. He dives back into his work and clears five different tasks off his list during the weekend. He doesn’t sleep that night, but he’s busy, and missing one night is hardly unusual. He manages a few hours Sunday night. He has the usual dreams, full of longing, but instead of a faceless dom holding him down, they all feature Lestrade. He ignores them, brushes them off as soon as he wakes up. It will pass. He can do this.
When he walks into the office Monday morning, his assistant gives him a nod, as if welcoming him back. She hands him three files, then falls into step beside him as they walk down the hall. “Carliah this week, sir,” she says, before he can ask. “Harry would like to speak with you at the palace first thing. The situation in Beijing has stabilized but it is tenuous. You have three new messages; I handled two of them but you should read the third. You have a ten a.m. meeting with the Home Secretary. We have time to get to the palace before the meeting if we leave now.”
Mycroft nods and takes the next right, headed for a side door. Carliah taps on her phone, and he knows the car will be waiting for them outside. He keeps his head up and his eyes front, wearing the mask. It takes effort, constant concentration, but he has years of practice. Years of work to get where he is, years of discipline.
He is not about to give that up. He may have had one moment of weakness, but that is not an excuse to have more. He’s got it out of his system now. He’s fine.
*
The sense of calm well-being fades slowly, a little each day, like air leaking from a balloon. Every morning, it’s a bit harder to shake off the dreams. By the end of the week he’s down to less than two hours of sleep a night. On Saturday, he wakes at three in the morning, wisps of the dream still clinging to his mind, and is startled to realize his face is damp, his eyes blurry with moisture.
Mycroft scrubs it away and rolls over. He hasn’t woken like that in years but it’s fine. He’s just overtired. It’s the weekend now, and although his job never really stops, he does at least work from home on the weekends. He can have a lie in. He tugs his pillow into place, smoothes the blanket, and tries to blank his mind.
After a few minutes, he rolls to his other side and sighs. The sky is dark outside, the city full of the cool, still quiet of the small hours of the morning. When it’s very late, Mycroft sometimes feels that everyone is sleeping but him. He thinks of all the other subs in the city—about half the population, that’s better than three million people in London alone, if you count all the boroughs. He wonders how many of them are sleeping alone.
Some of them, surely. Maybe even most of them. But right now, on this street, maybe even right next door, there are subs who are sleeping next to their doms. Maybe they are curled on the floor on a rug, maybe they are tied to the bed. Maybe they are bare but for the smooth, soothing weight of a collar. Mycroft touches his own throat, runs his fingers over the skin.
Unbidden, an image forms in his mind. Him on his knees, looking up, serenity written in every line of his body. Lestrade standing over him, watching him with that steady gaze, hands on his shoulders. Then Lestrade curls his hands around his neck, snug pressure, and leaves behind a collar. The image is so vivid he can feel the weight of it, the cool, smooth leather, tight enough to squeeze gently when he swallows.
Mycroft makes a soft sound and rolls again, pressing his face into the pillow. He clenches his fists until he feels a line of small, stinging points on his palms, his fingernails digging into the skin. He makes himself relax, uncurling his fingers, and puts one hand over his eyes. The skin of his face feels hot under his palm, feverish. His head throbs dully.
This thing cannot be allowed to win. Twenty years, twenty years he’s gone without. One chance meeting with one dom is not going to break him.
It’s so tempting to call him again. He can rationalize it. One night, and he’s recharged for a whole week. Lestrade is obviously not interested in exposing his secret. Besides, he already knows, that damage is done. Better to call him than to risk a different dom. They could come to an arrangement. Mycroft is extraordinarily good at negotiation. It could be a standing appointment, carefully structured, very discreet. Once a week, that’s all.
But no. Mycroft knows better. It’s a slippery slope. Soon once a week won’t be enough anymore. Not enough for him and certainly not enough for Lestrade. It’s clear the man wants all of him. Mycroft can tell himself that he can hold the line, he can say no and send Lestrade away in the morning, but he won’t. Not again, he can’t do it again.
Mycroft curls up, pulls the blankets over his head, and settles in for the long, grim wait for dawn.
*
He shuffles into the kitchen a little after six in the morning. The sky is still mostly dark but he can’t lie there and stare at the ceiling one more minute. Instead, he stands and stares vaguely at the kettle. Exhaustion has caught up with him scarily fast. It takes several minutes before he remembers he has to turn it on.
Mycroft sits at the table, props his chin in his hand, and listens to the kettle whirr and hiss. Some part of him hopes for a crisis, something that will summon him to work and demand all his attention. Another part of him is terrified it will happen and he won’t be able to keep up, too distracted and tired to think.
The kettle clicks off and he pours the steaming water into a large mug, then adds a teabag. He watches the water stain brown. His eyes are gritty, his head sagging forward, chin nearly brushing his chest. He entertains the thought of going back to bed. Maybe this time… no. The sleepiness will lay heavy on him, weighing him down, pressing him into the mattress, but it won’t be quite enough to push him under. Insomnia has been a close companion for a very long time. Mycroft knows its tricks.
Eventually, he fishes the teabag out, and doctors the tea liberally with milk and sugar. He drinks it slowly and watches the sky outside grow lighter. It should be a peaceful moment.
All he can see, though, is a long line of such moments stretching out in front of him. Gray mornings where he is so tired he can barely function enough to make tea. Long days at work where he struggles to hold it together, to focus and maintain the front and keep the secret. The inevitable failures as he deteriorates, the loss of his precious mental sharpness. More mistakes, more of those concerned looks from his assistant, more long nights spent waiting out the dark.
It’s been bad before, he’s had rough patches, but this is different. He can’t just soldier through this and come out the other side. It’s not going to get better. But it has to, something has to, it can’t just keep getting worse, surely if he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other, carries on one day at a time then…
Then what?
Mycroft puts one hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut tight. He takes a measured breath, then another. He swallows against the rising pressure in his throat, fights back the sharp sting in his eyes. He can do this. He can, he can, but he’s just so tired.
He lifts the mug to his mouth, draining the last of it. He’s peering blearily at the specks of tea leaves left at the bottom when there is a sharp knock at the door. He jumps, and the mug drops to the table with a clatter. Mycroft turns and stares over his shoulder toward the door. He stands, bracing a hand against the back of his chair when he sways on his feet.
It’s probably Carliah, come to fetch him for something. Usually she’d text first, but if it was urgent, she could just show up. He has to be ready. Mycroft straightens his back, smoothes his hair. He rubs the damp blur from his eyes. He draws the tattered remains of his composure around him like a thick cloak. He puts on the mask. Then he crosses the room, mustering all the dignity he can in pyjamas and a dressing gown.
When he opens the door, it’s not Carliah. It’s Lestrade. Mycroft freezes, one hand clutching the door frame, the other fisted at his side. Lestrade stares at him across the threshold. He looks ragged, his salt and pepper hair disheveled, the knot on his tie loose and sloppy. His jacket is unbuttoned, his shirt creased and wrinkled, he hasn’t shaved in a day or two and there are dark shadows under his eyes. His steady, assessing gaze is as clear as ever.
After a moment, Mycroft remembers to breathe, and inhales sharply. “I… I didn’t call you,” he says.
Lestrade nods. “Yeah. I needed to see that you’re all right.”
“Oh.” Mycroft can feel himself swaying forward, drawn toward Lestrade, and he holds onto the door frame harder. “Well, I am.”
“You’re not,” Lestrade replies. “Let me in.”
Mycroft steps back, automatic, instinctive. Only one step, though. Not enough for Lestrade to get past. “I’m afraid that would be unwise, Inspector,” he says.
“Just to talk,” Lestrade says. His voice is low, persuasive. “You said no, I get that. I’m not going to try and take you down.”
Mycroft hesitates. Lestrade wouldn’t have to try, that’s the hell of it. Just his presence is tugging at him, wrapping him in soothing quiet, and Mycroft can feel himself slipping. His feet move unbidden, taking him another step back, and Lestrade takes the invitation. He closes the door and eases past Mycroft, deliberately not touching him, and crosses the room to perch on the edge of an armchair. Mycroft follows, and makes it to the sofa before his shaking legs spill him down onto the cushions.
Lestrade leans forward, sweeping Mycroft up and down with those piercing eyes. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he says without preamble. “The first time we met, you were miserable, but you hid it well. The second time, you were falling apart. It’s my responsibility. My fault. I had to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” Mycroft hears himself say. His head feels light, and he’s cold all over. He grips the armrest to keep from sliding to the floor on his knees.
“Stop lying to me,” Lestrade snaps. “I won’t stand for it. I’m not blind, Mycroft. I can see how bad it is.”
Mycroft shakes his head. “It’s early. I’m… I’m just not awake yet, really.” He gropes for the right words, the right tone of icy distance. “I can assure you, Inspector, there’s no need for concern.”
Lestrade narrows his eyes. “The first time I saw you, I knew you were a sub. You managed to fool everyone else, but I saw through it. Do you know how?”
“I… no,” Mycroft admits. “I have wondered.”
“You did everything right,” Lestrade says. “The posture, the words, the look on your face. Perfect, every bit of it, textbook. It all smacks of trying too hard. I could see you thinking out every move, planning it. None of it came natural. That made me suspect, but what clinched it was that first moment when you stood there, looking at me, and just for a second I could see how much it hurt you to be standing across the room when you really needed to be on your knees.”
Mycroft grits his teeth and shivers. “Be that as it may,” he says, “nothing has changed. I still cannot accept…”
“Why not?” Lestrade interrupts. He’s frustrated, Mycroft can see it in the line of his jaw, the hard angle of his shoulders, but he keeps his voice calm and patient. “Tell me why you can’t be who you are.”
“My position does not lend itself to submission,” Mycroft replies. “I need to command respect.”
“You do,” Lestrade says. “Where did you get the idea that nobody respects a sub?”
“Come now,” Mycroft says, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “You told me you’re not blind. Nor am I. I can see how subs are treated, how they are perceived. I am not the first one who has had to do this, to hide. What I do is important, certainly more important than my own personal needs.”
“So have both,” Lestrade says. “Act the part while you’re working, relax and have what you need when you’re at home.”
“It’s not that easy.” Mycroft rubs a hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to be talking, arguing, thinking right now. He wants to sink under. He wants to crawl across the floor and curl up at Lestrade’s feet and just let everything stop.
“It can be,” Lestrade insists. “Wasn’t it easy last week? Didn’t you feel better?”
“Yes,” Mycroft murmurs, his voice gone thick and strained. “Yes, I… it was…” He shakes his head, closes his eyes. “Please don’t.”
He can hear Lestrade sigh. “Okay, all right,” Lestrade says, soothing. “I’m not trying to push you. But I can’t just… I can’t let this go. Take me through it, I’m listening. Explain what would happen if you gave in, if you let me take care of you. Tell me why it can’t happen.”
“It wouldn’t be enough,” Mycroft says. “You’d start with the evenings, the weekends, but you’d want more. My work is unpredictable, I’m sometimes gone for days at a time, away at all hours. I may have to leave the country at a moment’s notice, and I won’t always be able to tell you where I am or what I’m doing. Doms are possessive, controlling, I know that. You’d want to own me and I can’t let you.” He looks up, meets Lestrade’s eyes. “It is already so very difficult to say no to you. If I start down that path, I won’t be able to resist. I’ll lose myself.”
Lestrade tilts his head a little, thoughtful. “You had a dom once, didn’t you? Years ago?”
“Yes,” Mycroft says slowly. “Why is that relevant?”
“You had to let him go, break it off, when you started your career.”
“Her, yes,” Mycroft says. “Her name was Sasha. It became clear that she would not accept the demands of my work. I couldn’t belong to her fully, and she wouldn’t take anything less.”
Lestrade nods. “And you think I’ll be the same?”
“All doms are,” Mycroft says. “And while you may be remarkable, you are still very much a dom.”
Lestrade gives a soft huff of laughter. “For a guy who’s played the part most of his life, you sure don’t know that much about doms,” he says. “We’re not all the same, no more than every sub is the same.”
“Some differences on the surface, perhaps…”
“No,” Lestrade says, cutting him off. “Some subs enjoy being owned fully. They like it, they want to walk around on a collar and leash, to sit at their dom’s feet in public, to never speak unless spoken to, to be given orders every minute of every day. Sounds like your Sasha needed that sort of sub. You, obviously, are not that sort. Just because you had one bad match doesn’t mean you can’t find a good one.”
Mycroft blinks at him. There is something important in what Lestrade has just said but his mind is so thick with exhaustion that he can’t seem to put the pieces together. “What sort am I, then?” he asks.
Lestrade smiles. “Stubborn. Willful. Really damn smart. And independent. I like all those things, Mycroft. Why would I want to take them away?”
“I… I can’t…” Mycroft’s voice falters and he falls silent.
“Too much,” Lestrade says, nodding. “You’re in no shape to make a decision right now. Let me stay with you, just so you can get some rest, and come at this with a clear head.”
“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Yes, all right.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again Lestrade is beside him on the sofa. There is a tug at his arm, gentle and insistent, and he topples over sideways, ending up curled into the corner of the sofa with his head in Lestrade’s lap. There is immediately a hand in his hair, stroking him, and he drops down with dizzying speed. The tension runs out of his body and he lets out a long, shuddery sigh.
“Good,” Lestrade says softly. “That’s right, that’s perfect. Just rest now, we’ll talk more when you can think properly. I’ll be right here.”
He keeps speaking, and Mycroft soaks up the tone of calm approval but glazes over the words. Sleep rushes up in a black wave and in seconds, he’s gone.
*
Mycroft wakes a few hours later only because the tea he drank earlier will no longer be ignored. He rolls to his feet and shuffles to the bathroom still mostly asleep, head pleasantly empty. He finishes, washes his hands, and walks back to the living room, all in a white daze. When he reaches the sofa, he stops, and blinks a few times as he registers that Lestrade isn’t there.
He turns, and sees Lestrade sitting across the room, back in his armchair. He must have moved while Mycroft was up. Mycroft nods to himself and takes a steadying breath. He understands this; Lestrade is giving him his space, sparing him from the temptation of slipping back under. Part of him wishes that he wouldn’t, that he would stay and give Mycroft an excuse.
Mycroft squashes that part ruthlessly. He settles on the sofa, leans forward, laces his hands together. He meets Lestrade’s warm gaze. He shakes off the last clinging wisps of quiet, makes his mind focus. It’s much easier than it was earlier; the nap has restored him considerably, and he is still filled with the sense of peaceful well-being that comes with willing submission.
“Good,” Lestrade says, nodding at him. “You’re feeling better.”
“Yes.” Mycroft gives him a faint smile. “Thank you.”
“I understand why you’ve been fighting this so hard,” Lestrade says. “I didn’t get it before, it didn’t make any sense. It’s obvious how much you need it. But you thought this was an all or nothing thing, you thought you could either have your job or a dom, but not both.”
“And… that is not the case?”
“Right. You just had to find the right dom.”
Mycroft stares down at his hands. It can’t possibly be that easy. “You are oversimplifying this,” he says. “While I cannot deny the natural chemistry that exists between us, it takes more than that. You will grow tired of coming second, of me obeying the needs of my position before I obey you.”
“She did quite a number on you, didn’t she?” Lestrade’s gaze is warm, sympathetic, and Mycroft has to bite his lip and look away.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says.
“I’m not asking for your obedience,” Lestrade says. “Not all the time. Definitely not when you can’t give it. Only when you want to, when you need to. It’s not about ownership. When you submit, you willingly give up control, and that’s… that’s fucking amazing, really. A man like you, always so buttoned down, so on top of everything, letting go? It’s incredible. I just want to be there, to be a part of it.”
Mycroft swallows. The distance between them is impossible, far too wide, a chasm in the middle of his living room. “I don’t… I haven’t done this in so long.”
“I know,” Lestrade says. “Seeing how starved you are for it drives me mad. It’s like this itching under my skin, I can barely keep my hands off you. But it’ll work, Mycroft, it will. I’m not saying it will come easy. Probably be a bumpy road. But we can do this. You can have this.”
Mycroft shakes his head, automatic. He’s spent half his life telling himself he can’t. That doesn’t just go away because Lestrade says so. It hangs on him, a millstone, an anchor. “It wouldn’t work. It can’t, I can’t…”
“Think it through,” Lestrade says. “What are your alternatives?”
What are his alternatives? More early mornings like this one, more desperate effort to hold everything together, more insomnia and helpless wanting and frustration? He’s trapped, he’s always been trapped by his own nature. He can’t escape it. He’s brilliant, he can think circles around anyone, but he can’t beat this. Lestrade is offering him a way out, a chance, however slim. He’d be a fool to turn it down.
Mycroft Holmes is not a fool.
“How would it work?” he asks, tentatively.
Lestrade beams. “I’d stay here most nights, when you’re at home, or you’d stay at my place. You can’t sleep properly if you’re not taken down, I can see that. When we’re alone, in private, you’re my sub and I expect you to behave that way. When we’re in public or you’re at work, you can keep your act. I don’t agree with it, but I understand that you’ve got a lot of time and effort invested in that image and it would be difficult for you to come out as a sub now. If you decide you want to later, that’s your choice.”
It’s a lot to take in all at once, but Mycroft is quick, he’s always been quick, and not easily fazed. “My place until I can make sure yours is clear of surveillance,” he says. “You won’t attempt to dominate me or give me an order around anyone else. I am frequently watched. And please be aware that entering into a relationship with me is not entirely without its risks. I do have enemies.”
Lestrade raises his eyebrows and grins. “Okay, seriously, what do you do?” he asks. “Are you secretly James Bond or something?”
A startled laugh escapes before Mycroft can stop it. “No, not exactly. Officially, I hold a minor position in the British government.”
Lestrade looks at him steadily, but his eyes are still sparkling with humour. “And unofficially?”
Mycroft spreads his hands. “Difficult to describe. And not something I can share in detail. I will have some secrets from you, I’m afraid.”
“Okay,” Lestrade says. “Understood.”
“You… really?” Mycroft can still remember how Sasha had railed at him the first time he’d brought home classified documents and wouldn’t let her see them. You’re mine, Mycroft. Everything you do is mine, everything you have is mine, and I’m not about to share you with some job. He shivers and wraps his arms around his middle.
“Really,” Lestrade says, soft. He’s leaning forward, everything in him aimed toward Mycroft, and it seems his hands on the arm rests are the only thing holding him in the chair. “Unless there’s something else you want to talk about, I need to take you down now. Let me hear you say yes.”
Some deeply ingrained habit tugs at Mycroft, skittering in fear, coiling in the back of his mind. Don’t give in, it says. Don’t, you can’t, you can never do this, it’s not allowed. You won’t be able to stop, you can’t trust him, he’ll take you over, he’ll eat you alive. Don’t let go.
But he can, Mycroft realizes. He can trust. He can have this. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.”
*