Suitable Partners

This is Holmescest. Rape and rape apology, coercion, abuse, domestic violence, mind and body fucks. This is not role-play BDSM between consenting parties either, this is actual physical abuse and humiliation with not a safe word in sight. Dark!Mycroft. There will be hurt/comfort Johnlock eventually, but that's a long way off and there will be lots of hurt first. You have been warned.

Sherlock called Mycroft his arch-enemy to other people, not to his face. In public, Sherlock indulged himself in little shows of defiance which amused them both. In private, he would never dare to be so bold. When they were alone Sherlock would obey Mycroft's every command, the few that he ever bothered to give. Sherlock was well trained by now and did not require many commands; he was nicely broken in.

The first time John was kidnapped by Mycroft it was a warning. Mycroft was telling Sherlock in their own private language that John did not belong to Sherlock. Mycroft could take John away from Sherlock whenever he felt like it, and John would not even be aware of the danger. Sherlock understood the message, and later that week he voluntarily presented himself at the Diogenes Club for Mycroft's inspection.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the bedroom, fully dressed and blindfolded. He hated the blindfold, but they both knew that it was necessary. They had discovered very early on that Sherlock had no control over what deductions spilled out of his mouth. The only way to prevent him from displeasing Mycroft was to either blindfold or gag him. They had likewise discovered that one or the other was ideal – using both together was likely to provoke a panic attack in Sherlock ever since that time when Mycroft had fallen asleep and left him bound and gagged for too long.

Mycroft accepted Sherlock's limitations with resignation. He was used to the defects of his brother and had learned to work around most of them. Occasionally he would lose his temper and beat him bloody, but that happened very rarely these days and he always sent him a particularly nice present afterwards.

Mycroft walked around behind Sherlock, partly to enjoy the view but mostly because he knew that Sherlock did not like being observed when he was unable to observe in return. Mycroft enjoyed keeping Sherlock just a little bit on edge and unsure of what to expect. He always trembled so deliciously after he had been given a fright.

Silently, Mycroft slid up behind Sherlock and whispered in his ear from less than ten centimetres away, "John does not belong to you."

Sherlock repeated dutifully, "John does not belong to me."

Mycroft prompted Sherlock again, "You do not belong to John."

Sherlock could say the rest without help, "I do not belong to John. I belong to Mycroft. No one else will ever want me. I am grateful to Mycroft for taking care of me. Let me please you, Mycroft. What would you like today, Master?"

Sherlock stood still, only the faintest tremor visible in his fingertips, which was more emotion than he had displayed for months. Mycroft noted the change and wondered if there was something about John which created such a strong response in Sherlock. Anyway, back to the present moment – what would he like today?

Mycroft assessed his own mood dispassionately. He was angry, a little bored and frustrated with the diplomat from South Korea. He was not in the mood for sex, not even with Sherlock. He needed to relieve his feelings more directly. He spoke aloud, not for Sherlock's benefit, but to see him shiver. "Today I think we will play with the paddle."

Mycroft did not always require Sherlock to acknowledge his commands verbally. His complete physical capitulation was easy to read in his body. What value were words when his total submission was required? Mycroft moved to the table and took up the paddle before standing directly behind Sherlock in the middle of the room. Mycroft slapped the paddle against his hand just lightly enough to make a sound. When Sherlock only trembled without otherwise moving, Mycroft sighed with impatience and waited for Sherlock to take the next step.

"For fuck's sake!" Mycroft finally exploded, "Do I have to tell you everything? How many years have you been doing this and you still can't get it right? You are lucky I put up with you! No-one else would! Drop your pants right now or this affair is over!"

Sherlock started violently and with trembling fingers he tore all his own clothes off and threw them into a corner of the room. Mycroft would have allowed him to keep his shirt on, but Sherlock was too upset now to listen to further instructions. The threat of being left alone always did that to him and Mycroft bit his lip with vexation at himself. Sherlock would be too wound up now to put on a good show. He could never react naturally when he was too frightened. He would be too busy trying to second-guess what sounds and responses Mycroft would want.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his own nose to force back his incipient headache. Should he just put it all off and try again another day? He wasn't sure if even paddling Sherlock's arse black and blue would make him feel better. Still, Sherlock was here and naked, and it would be a shame to have cleared his diary for nothing. Maybe a little mind fuck first? Would that be enough of a pick-me-up for him to enjoy the rest? It was always worth a try.

Mycroft sighed loudly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm a bit on edge today."

Sherlock knew better than to reply with anything that could be interpreted as confirmation. "I live to please you, sir. How can I help?"

"Just take the blindfold off for a minute." Mycroft deliberately allowed his speech patterns to relax into something less formal. "Want a drink?"

Sherlock took off the blindfold, but kept it gathered in the palm of his left hand. He would probably be putting it on again later anyway. "Yes, please. A drink would be lovely. What can I have?"

Mycroft waved his hand at the table in the corner of the room. "Help yourself to anything cold you like."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and went to inspect the table. Mycroft never allowed him tea or coffee but being permitted to choose for himself was quite a concession. His hand hovered over the whiskey bottle for a moment, then descended slowly as Mycroft did not speak to stop him. Sherlock poured himself a generous shot and added water to his glass. Wise choice, Mycroft reflected. His brother really was quite clever in his own way, and nearly as untrusting as Mycroft. Ice would have introduced a lot of potential new pain elements. If Mycroft wanted to play with ice he would have to get it himself. Not today, at least.

As Sherlock and Mycroft sipped their drinks they chatted lightly about current affairs and political scandals. Except for the fact that Sherlock was naked it could have been a perfectly ordinary afternoon visit to the office by any younger brother. Mycroft surreptitiously checked the time. He could allow ten to twelve minutes for this phase. Investing his time now would pay off later.

Mycroft planned the next stage of the scene. Should he break routine, just to see how Sherlock reacted? Why not. He could live a little. If the scene went to hell he would just get Sherlock back again next week. With one more loud sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and started unbuttoning his waistcoat. He tossed both onto the bed and sank down into the seat of a wingback chair near the drinks table. He rubbed the back of his own neck. That should be a clear enough hint.

Sure enough, Sherlock stepped up behind the chair and asked softly, "Would you like me to rub your shoulders?"

"Just for a few minutes," murmured Mycroft. "I'm expected at a meeting by half three." Mycroft watched under his lids for any of Sherlock's tells. The boy was getting better, Mycroft had to give him that. He put down his drink on the table and came to stand behind the chair without any change of facial expression. His hopeful wishes were expressed only in the slightly increased alacrity of his step as he moved behind Mycroft.

Sherlock knew better than to make any demands or requests of Mycroft. He simply placed his warm hands on Mycroft's shoulders and started to massage through the shirt. It was a fact acknowledged between them that if Mycroft wanted his shirt off he would take it off himself. It was rare enough for this kind of tender touch between them without adding bare skin as well. He liked the contrast between skin and clothing and almost never removed more of his own than was necessary for their coupling. Mycroft tried to remember the last time he had taken his shirt off with Sherlock. It had been several years, at least. Had it been while Sherlock was still at university? He could not remember and was not interested enough to spend further time considering the issue.

He tilted his head back to stretch his neck and looked up at Sherlock, allowing a smile to cross his face. "Thank you, that feels better."

Sherlock nodded without speaking and let his hands fall to his sides. He understood a dismissal when he heard one.

"You know," Mycroft sighed, "I'm tired today. Should we just call the whole thing off and try again next week?"

"Whatever you like, Master." Sherlock knew better by now than to fall into such an obvious trap.

"Yes, of course. Why don't you get dressed and go home, and I'll call you next week."

Sherlock moved slowly across the room to his pile of clothes, as if he expected Mycroft to change his mind at any moment. Which, of course, he did. He shrugged into his shirt without buttoning it and started sorting through the pile of clothes looking for his underwear. He found his socks and pulled them on. He couldn't help glancing at Mycroft and the thoughts were plain to read in his movements. Are you really letting me go? Or do you just want me to dress so you can strip me again?

The timing of the blow took delicacy, and the anticipation was delicious. How to balance the hope of freedom so that it would sting the most when it was taken away? Mycroft bent to unlace his shoes, letting Sherlock see as he slipped them off and stretched out his feet in only his socks. That should reassure Sherlock that the formal part of the encounter was over.

"Leave the underwear off, just put on your trousers. I'll expect to see you dressed the same way next week," said Mycroft calmly. That did it. Sherlock thought he had received confirmation he was really escaping, and his cheeks flushed. He tried to duck his head to hide it, but Mycroft observed every detail, as he always did.

Mycroft rubbed his fingertips over the handle of the paddle resting against the back of the chair, out of Sherlock's sight. Sherlock's movements were getting quick and sloppy now. He was excited as he felt liberty approaching. He buttoned his shirt except for the cuffs, picked up his shoes and waited for Mycroft to dismiss him.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft spoke his name and enjoyed the sudden pallor that spread over his face. "I'll send a car for you next week, to Baker Street. Would that suit?"

Sherlock hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He obviously hated the idea and wanted to conceal everything from John for as long as possible. He was also afraid of saying anything that might delay his escape. Finally he ventured, "It might be more convenient if you just told me what time to be here."

Interesting. He wanted to keep this affair from John enough to enter into negotiations with Mycroft. Unusual move on Sherlock's part. Mycroft waved one long hand without looking up. "That will be fine. I'll call you during the week. You can go." Mycroft counted in his head. Three. Two. One.

Fast and silent as a panther, Mycroft crossed the room and caught Sherlock just as he placed his hand on the door handle. The door was locked, of course, but Sherlock probably did not know that. Mycroft's hand closed over Sherlock's wrist in a viciously tight grip and he dug his nails in for good measure. He could feel Sherlock's pulse accelerating wildly. Mycroft jerked him forward by yanking him off balance. His feet stumbled to keep him upright. Mycroft swung the paddle as hard as possible and it cracked across the lower half of Sherlock's ribs on his left side. He let out a shocked gasp and grunt of pain, and his plump lips formed a comical little heart shape of surprise.

Mycroft felt a thrill at genuinely surprising his younger brother. He followed up his advantage with several more strikes as hard as he could manage across Sherlock's arse. To Mycroft's unexpected delight, Sherlock lost his balance completely and toppled forwards onto his hands and knees, dropping his shoes. Mycroft laughed and struck Sherlock forehand and backhand with the paddle across his buttocks and the back of his thighs until his shoulder developed a slight ache from the exertion and his black mood evaporated completely.

Sherlock was crying silently, on his hands and knees with his head hanging down loosely when Mycroft stopped to catch his breath. "Ah, Sherlock, you are such a tonic! I feel better now."

Mycroft crossed the room and sat in the wingback chair again to replace his shoes. He dropped the paddle beside the chair and picked up his waistcoat and jacket. His step was light and his blood was fizzing with excitement and power. Sherlock always did that to him. On his way out the door Mycroft dropped a fond kiss on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Thank you, love. You are so good for me. I have to go now, but I'll call you next week."

Then he was gone.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment of weakness to collapse on the floor and sob for a few breaths. Then he steadied himself and wiped his face. He wondered if he wanted to inspect the damage, then reflected that he might as well put his pants back on while he was at it. He gathered up his clothes on the way and limped into the ensuite bathroom. In front of the mirror he lifted his shirt and hissed involuntarily at the sight of the bruises already starting to form over his ribs. He probed the darkest spots with his fingertips but there were no specific points of tenderness. He knew from experience that meant nothing was broken, but he would be purple for at least a week.

He splashed some cold water on his face to reduce the redness around his eyes. Mycroft was always very careful never to mark him anywhere it might show. He would be very cross if Sherlock's uncontrolled tears left marks on his face that might raise questions. Sherlock drank a bit of cold water and sat down to tie his shoes. He checked his phone for emails and messages.

After ten minutes he straightened up, lifted his chin and checked himself again in the mirror. He looked good. Tall, handsome and poised with not a trace of tears or bruises visible anywhere. That was their private secret. His and Mycroft's. Only they knew what they were to each other. If the world were to find out, it would try to split them up. It was just the two of them against the world, and it always would be.