Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: Darkfic, drug-addiction, prostitution, incest, dub-con, possible triggers, read at your own risk.
Notes: Written for MMOM Day 3. Brilliant beta by filthgoblin. Takes place pre-series. Prompt from daasgrrl.
Summary: Mycroft reacts to a piece of news about his brother.
Mycroft wasn’t remotely shocked when Genevieve brought the news that Sherlock was now actively working as a prostitute in order to support his drug addiction. He was only surprised that it had taken this long. Although perhaps he should count the three months of living rent-free at Cyprian DeLouche’s home in Belgravia as the beginning of Sherlock’s selling himself, in which case, his estimate would have been right on schedule. Certainly Cyprian must have been demanding favours and couldn’t have been shy about lending Sherlock out to his criminal cohorts either.
As his assistant recited the details of precisely which streets and parks in which Sherlock had been observed plying the whore’s trade, Mycroft glanced out the window, taking brief notice of the drizzle that was beginning to come down.
“Shall I go on, sir?”
Mycroft nodded. He knew Genevieve was uncomfortable, but she was new to the position and he was still in the process of training her, which mean exposure to the darker side of humanity, which Mycroft dealt with every day. She needed to overcome her squeamishness and Mycroft needed to hear the full report, both for his own edification, and perhaps as a kind of punishment.
He let her finish up with the more graphic details, including the specific acts that Sherlock had been observed performing, the amounts he was collecting, and the inevitable and immediate outlay for drugs that tended to follow. How Sherlock must be enjoying his own debauchery, knowing full well that Mycroft had eyes and ears everywhere. Each time he spat a mouthful onto the grass in St. James Park, or went through the junkie’s ritual of shooting up, he was taking careful aim his brother, his parents, his class and or whatever new demon he’d chosen to add to his list of adversaries.
Watching Genevieve’s body language, Mycroft could tell she had something to say. It probably wouldn’t shed much light on the situation, but Mycroft thought it would be better to find out what was on her mind, lest she choose to break protocol and share it elsewhere.
“In school, some of us would joke that if things ever got too bad we could go on the game. And then I’d think, at least it’s not so bad for the boys.”
He watched as she let her discomfort with the thought move through her back and shoulders, before shaking her head in disgust at what she’d previously imagined about the “rent-boy” life.
“It’s a bit tawdry, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Ms. Boulez. It’s extremely tawdry. It is a dark and dirty and foul situation. What made you think it would be anything else? My brother, who possesses what is possibly the finest intellect in the world, is currently selling himself in order to support an addiction to a chemical that he specifically uses to numb that intellect. There’s nothing exciting or romantic or remotely erotic involved in the transactions. I assure you, he will not be finding “true love,” if such a thing exists, in an avenue or alleyway. He will not be rescued by a Prince Charming, nor will he actually enjoy anything that he does or is forced to do out there. Perhaps you need to upgrade your taste in entertainment from whatever brand of fiction you are currently reading or watching that’s given you these notions.”
Genevieve blinked, and Mycroft detected a hint of a wobble in her lower lip, but she stood her ground and covered it well. The girl definitely had potential, Mycroft thought approvingly. Perhaps he’d been slightly out of line. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that he had such strong feelings on the matter.
“Uh, shall we arrange for an arrest? I’m sure our friends at the Met could have him picked up on some charge.”
“To what end, exactly?”
“To get him off the streets and into a treatment programme.”
Mycroft smiled indulgently.
“No point. Not yet, anyway.”
He knew a few things about addiction and quite a bit more about his brother. Sherlock was in no way ready to be helped. Not while he still had the illusion of control over the situation. His youth, his looks, his self-esteem, as well as his conviction that he could think himself out of trouble. The image of himself as the pretty young thing, able pick his clients and dictate what he would and would not do. All of that would need to be stripped away and Mycroft had no doubt that it would, without a single bit of assistance from him. Perhaps a single beating from a disgruntled customer would do the trick, but Sherlock was a stubborn fellow. He would have to hit a very low bottom, as they said in the recovery racket.
“Are you sure?”
“Keep me posted.”
With Genevieve gone, and a pile of more pressing matters ahead of him, Mycroft determined to put the matter from his mind until there was a more proper time to consider it. A time when he could be alone with his memories of Sherlock from better days.
He picked up a memo from the Deputy Prime Minister’s office, his hands immediately itching for a large red pencil in which to address not so much the misapprehensions about the state of national security, but the poor choices in phrasing and several mistaken homophones. He used to go over Sherlock’s early essays, and while they tended to be grammatically pure, he would occasionally find a write/right or threw/through error, which being the solicitous older brother, he’d point out for the boy’s own good.
After nearly ten minutes of trying to figure out exactly why Mr. Clegg believed the greatest danger to the British people was an impending attack from Turkmenistan when things were actually far more unstable in Tajikistan, he put down the paper and admitted to himself that Sherlock loathed having any weaknesses pointed out to him and started putting errors into his written work merely to bait Mycroft. In other words, the better days were an illusion.
It was a typically vicious calculation on Sherlock’s part; that he would destroy himself not only with narcotics, but by selling the part of himself that he personally valued least but which he knew Mycroft prized highly. After all, it was Mycroft himself who’d first directed that smooth hand and supple wrist, teaching Sherlock how to relieve his own frustrations and then taking advantage of Sherlock’s willingness to perform the act on his older brother in return for certain considerations. That wasn’t even remotely comparable to the current state of affairs he reminded himself. Just a bit of brotherly love, and Mycroft did love his brother so very much.
All right, he thought. The work needed to be done and he needed to clear his mind of distraction. It was simple enough to lock the door and indicate via all of his electronic means of communication that he did not wish to be disturbed.
The rain had increased in intensity. That couldn’t be good for business. His mind turned to a particular neighborhood mentioned in the report and the sight of his brother standing in the downpour.
Poor Sherlock, desperately needing money for a fix, and the wet streets of Soho yielding nothing in the way of customers. Sherlock was never one for crying, but the rain on his cheeks as he took refuge in a doorway might just pass for tears.
He can’t stay there long, before he’ll be told to move on, but it’s enough time for a black Jaguar to pull up and for the passenger in the back seat to take a good look at his potential purchase. Coat collar turned up around his neck and a rather bedraggled looking scarf. He might be over-dressed for the present weather, but the on bad days the chills come on early.
The door opens and an outstretched hand beckons the prey inside. Yes, Sherlock would do his best to maintain his façade of indifference, perhaps looking over the man in the back seat as if he were prepared to reject him and return to the door of the Pink Flamingo, or some other gauche club, when in fact, he was barely hiding the relief of being out of the rain, and possibly within a few strokes of attaining his goal for the evening.
He forced a tweak in the mental narrative. At an unspoken direction, the car would take off at a speed generally not possible in the City, but Mycroft liked the idea of implicit danger in the scenario; he wanted Sherlock to feel the threat of what was happening, to be reminded just slightly that he was not in control. Ah yes, there it was.
Fear flickers in those beautiful hazel eyes made more compelling by the flecks of yellow, even as he commences the usual pedantic negotiations.
Sherlock is hoping to get away with merely a hand-job, the one his older brother had thought him to perform so proficiently, but this customer senses his desperation and bids for something a bit fancier involving his mouth with manipulation of the testicles and a bonus for a finger inserted in the anus.
Facing forward, trying to hide both the disgust and the shaking in his legs that revealed how badly he needed that next shot, Sherlock is holding out for a number that would justify the degradation.
At that point, Mycroft felt his erection asserting itself. Degradation. Such a lovely word to be applied to his younger brother with his delusions of superiority and contempt for all of humanity besides himself, especially those with actual physical longings.
While he believed Sherlock was still capable of love, he’d known for quite some time that Sherlock felt nothing remotely human when it came to the lusts of the flesh. Oh, he could perform the acts, but it was, in the end, always a performance.
So yes, the gentleman in the car will produce enough currency for Sherlock to remain gloriously numb to all the pain and anger he’s internalized, but not until they’ve arrived at a sufficiently ominous secluded location near a deserted stretch of Chelsea Embankment.
The man undoes his trousers and slightly lifts his rear off the seat, leaving to leave room to pull them down to below his knees. He does not remove his boxers. He likes having Sherlock reach into the slit to access his prick. Sherlock is forced to touch the man’s undergarments with his lips and tongue as he exposes the shaft itself, not quite at full hardness; he really will have to work for this.
The thought of Sherlock faced with less than utter adoration - an anonymous john who expected his whore to put a bit of effort into it - was profoundly gratifying.
He had his own cock out now, quite fully engorged and in need of release. Remembering that Sherlock had only learned to perform fellatio after several less than satisfactory attempts made the imagery that much better.
The man is rather well endowed and while Sherlock is doing his job, he is clearly in distress, eyes open and just a hint of real tears as his hands move down to the bollocks, perhaps hoping that he can bring the act to its culmination earlier rather than later.
But he wants that bonus and that means he has to get the man off, in his mouth, and have that finger up his bottom at the same time. He clenches his eyes closed and feels just the hint of fluid seeping out of the corners, and as he nearly gags on the man’s girth and eases one hand under the man’s bottom feeling for his opening. His finger has already been moistened, but he still approaches this action with distaste. It’s one of the things he’s managed to fend off until now, not even for Mycroft…
Mycroft clenched his own buttocks against the finger he’d never be able to get Sherlock to use in that capacity. The expression of pain and disgust and anger on Sherlock’s face as he sucked off the anonymous, potentially dangerous stranger in the black sedan, and fondled his balls with one hand while working that finger against the tight ring of flesh…
Sherlock is gagging a bit, saliva easing what he must do for the only thing he still cares about, the thing that is so alluringly close even as he feels the need retch over what he is doing to get it.
His strokes culminated in the nearly-too-tight squeeze that he’d trained Sherlock to hold until he was finished pumping his release into his hand and a full-bodied sigh of pleasure, even as he let the final sequence of the fantasy play out in his mind to sound of the pouring rain.
Rain drips down on Sherlock, washing the disgust off his lips and hands, the money is safe inside his coat as the car pulls away having dropped him in front of the café where his dealer holds court. He grits his teeth against rising nausea, telling himself he just needs a fix, and then perhaps a hot cup of tea and he’ll be fine. Just fine.
With his mind considerably clearer, Mycroft called for Genevieve to bring him a cup of tea and re-instated all of his communications, sighing at the deluge of bureaucratic drivel that still awaited him, starting with the Deputy Prime Minister and his geopolitical ineptitude. The work was tedious, but at least there were problems that Mycroft could solve immediately.
Unlike his brother.