Work Text:
Today Mycroft is idling in bed. He is sat up with a book in his lap, wearing a modest dressing-gown, and looking like any respectable gentleman ought to. Beside him, Albert lies barely covered by the sheets. And, even though this time Albert is asleep, Mycroft finds him infinitely distracting. Those pale limbs are enticing even though Mycroft has only recently enjoyed ravaging Albert. There is something terribly compelling about forcing himself to gentleness, for long enough for black and purple marks to fade, to return to pristine porcelain, only to savage Albert once again. It’s maddening. Yet Mycroft continues to indulge himself in this cycle of brutality, of marking, of ownership. Because Albert is his; there is no disputing that. Whether covered in brutal handprints or utterly untouched, Mycroft is certain that Albert belongs to him and nobody else.
If he was a normal, pedestrian and mundane man he might only be able to isolate one emotion that drives him. He would probably only pinpoint obsession as the root of all his evils. But he is so much more than that; he knows that obsession blends into love, into desire, into blinding possessiveness. He wants to cherish Albert, worship him, as much as he wants to let his gaze sweep over a tear streaked face and trembling limbs mottled with the promise of blossoming bruises. He wants to beat Albert senseless and satiate his lust as Albert struggles back into consciousness; he wants to press devoted kisses to Albert’s hands and kneel as he presents his dearest love with flowers. He wants to do both of those things with an equal passion.
Settling his book aside Mycroft moves across the bed and pushes the sheets down from Albert’s hips. Today, Albert’s skin is flawless, every inch of his body is beautifully pale, almost translucent. If he leans in for a closer look Mycroft can trace the blue lines of veins and amuse himself by brushing his fingertips over a soft smattering of hair. It has taken him three weeks of unwavering patience to get to this point. Watching the red blotches of blood under the skin changing to that delightful purple and black, then fading into a strange green, to yellow and finally vanishing entirely. If he were a lesser man Mycroft is sure he would question his own fascination with the changing colours of the marks on Albert’s skin.
But he has been patient and that fragile canvas has been prepared for his touch so that is the only thought that dominates his mind. He cups a buttock and gives it a light squeeze; that elicits a slight frown across Albert’s sleeping features. He moves his hand to the other side and squeezes harder, holding that grip for long enough to hear Albert start to awake at the pressure. Now he is at a juncture; he could start to mark out his territory or he could take Albert right now, when he’s barely awake. Both options have their appeal. Turning the decision over in his mind Mycroft glances quickly about the room; he doesn’t actually have anything prepared to beat Albert with. But he has always been a resourceful man so he unties his dressing-gown and pulls the velvet tie from its loops. He folds it in half and runs his hand over the material. It’s soft enough and it will do so he brings it down sharply against Albert’s backside. In future he must remember to keep a leather belt close by, because if a light touch such as this has Albert crying out and jerking his hips upwards, then a firmer material will be all the better. He carries on with steady blows and frowns at the lack of evidence against Albert’s skin. Still, it can’t be helped, so Mycroft settles a hand on the back of Albert’s neck to hold him in place, and tries to make better work of his blows.
Albert’s skin is reddening, slowly. Much too slowly for Mycroft’s liking. So he gives up with the velvet tie and discards it in favour of his palm. That produces a better response; Albert let’s out what can only be described as a squeal and Mycroft pushes himself up on his knees to allow himself more space to swing his hand.
He doesn’t know how long he keeps at it or how many blows he has landed. He hasn’t bothered to keep count. What he does know is that Albert’s bottom is red and his skin is hot to the touch. There is also a distinctive red mark on the back of his neck where he has struggled. Mycroft isn’t entirely content with the outcome but, he is aware that that is due to lack of planning on his part, rather than any disobedience on Albert’s. He can hear Albert gasping for air and briefly considers encircling that pale throat with both hands, but really, if he wants to do that it will take planning and at least some consent. So, left with few options, Mycroft retrieves the lubricant from a bedside draw and digs his fingers into the gelatinous concoction. He sets the jar aside swiftly, then parts Albert’s buttocks with one hand to give him a better view as he pushes two fingers inside without preamble. Albert’s hips jerk and Mycroft thrusts his fingers in and out a few times before deciding that that will be enough. He watches as Albert clutches at the pillow and turns his face into the material in preparation for muffling his cries. Mycroft strokes himself, spreading the lubricant down his hard length with a few swipes of his hand, and then, spreading Albert’s buttocks again, positions himself and simply forces his way in. Beneath him Albert let’s out a muffled wail, and Mycroft steadies himself on the bed with one hand, while he wraps the other around Albert’s throat.
“I want to hear you.”
Obligingly Albert lifts his head and Mycroft takes a second to appreciate Albert’s obedience, before he begins thrusting roughly, violently, concerned only with his own pleasure.
When he rolls off Albert and flops down onto his back, Mycroft realises that he can feel trembling skin against one hand. He pulls his fingers away from Albert’s throat and stares, breathlessly, at the red mark that will definitely become an alluring bruise in a matter of days. Next time he will prepare better and when he leaves marks on that delicate skin it will be with absolute deliberateness.
Of course Mycroft is only ever gentle in the following two weeks. He admires the marks he has left but he has the patience to let them heal to ensure that this canvas is spotless when he begins again.
“What are you planning on doing to me?”
Albert stands close and tilts his face up towards Mycroft in a move deliberately designed to draw Mycroft’s eyes to the mark he has already left.
“I will beat you.”
“Oh?”
Mycroft takes hold of Albert’s wrists.
“I will bind you.”
“Such promises….”
“I think a blindfold might be in order.”
“Mmm.”
“And… well, let me keep something of my surprise for you, dear.”
The planning part in the end is quite simple; it’s the logistics and implementation phase that starts to aggravate Mycroft. He has been counting down the days and now, of all times, he is summoned to Buckingham Palace for late night consultations with Her Majesty, her ministers and a few other individuals that Mycroft recognises as not ever having held any sort of official position at all. And what are they discussing? What is of such great import that the mechanism of Empire must interfere with Mycroft’s own plans? Shipping routes. Nothing but petty, moronic, spats over who has the right of way in specific shipping lanes and, granted, one stupid fight between a French captain who’d fancied himself a latter day Napoleon and a British one who’d clearly decided that the only sensible response to that was to play the part of Admiral Nelson. If Mycroft had his way he’d have the both of them executed; the old fashioned way, kneeling on a platform for public viewing and awaiting the blow of the headsman’s axe. But of course in this day and age diplomacy is the weapon of choice, so all Mycroft can do is sit silently with his arms folded, at this table of gentlemen, who are troubling over nothing more intricate than whether to use ‘vous’ or ‘tu’ as far as he is concerned.
It’s during the third night of this that Mycroft stands up from the table and announces that he needs some fresh air. The Queen, who has been watching over the bickering silently, agrees that a short break will help matters along and thus dismisses her courtiers. Mycroft hopes that she hasn’t called for tea because then there’s every likelihood that this discussion will go on all night.
By the time he finds his way outside he’s scowling as he lights his cigarette. This is most definitely not how he hoped to spend his evenings this week and it doesn’t even matter that Albert is always so very understanding of Mycroft’s absences from their bed.
“Holmes! You’ve a face like thunder; what’s going on?”
“Grenville.”
Mycroft acknowledges the other man with a slight inclination of his head. The last thing he wants to do is talk to anyone right now.
“So, what is it?”
Grenville stands too close and elbows Mycroft jovially.
“Nothing.”
“Ha! Sounds like trouble at home!”
“What-“
“Got some pretty thing waiting for you at home, haven’t you? And here we are counselling the Queen.”
Mycroft stares at his barely smoked cigarette and recalls that there’s an ashtray just inside the door he will walk back inside through.
“Remind me; was it the Grenville side that that lack of caution comes from or was it the family that the Lady Hester married into?”
Without waiting for a reply Mycroft strides back inside. Insufferable. He is stuck overseeing these fools who are one misplaced trema away from starting a war. He wants, more than anything, to go home, to be done with this nonsense. He is exhausted from three long nights of this and they seem to hold up the process at every step.
Back in the council room, Mycroft regrets his wasted cigarette and lights another as he stands at the end of the table.
“There needs to be an apology. But we will apologise for the boorish behaviour that is sometimes attributed to sea captains, as we understand that every sailor no doubt defends with ardour, the….”
“Prestige of their homeland.”
Her Majesty supplies with an amused look; he makes a small bow in thanks.
“Appreciating the panache displayed by such fine sea fairing folk we can only but praise their forthrightness, and excuse any misinterpretation of their patriotism, as the fault of the passion with which it was displayed. Thus we gratefully return to you Captain… whatever his name is and toast to his courage. Et cetera.”
Mycroft watches as the designated scribe at the table finishes scribbling down what has become a dictation rather than a general suggestion.
“Will that suffice, Your Majesty?”
“Quite perfectly, Mister Holmes.”
In the carriage on the way home Mycroft finally dares to look at his pocket watch and then realises that he doesn’t really need to guess at the time at all; the sun is starting to rise and the earliest of the morning birds are already singing their regular rounds of, what Mycroft imagines to be, arch comments and drawing room insults. He’s not sure if that’s better than the ravens at the Tower though; every time he’s been there they’ve had a tendency to walk around behind him and occasionally judge him with a loud and unexpected croak. He’d actually tried turning around and doing his best impression of croaking back at them once, but they’d only made that trilling sound in response to him, that sounded distinctly like they were laughing.
The house is quiet and Mycroft seriously considers the possibility of just sleeping downstairs so as not to wake Albert. He knows that Albert understands the nature of his job, he knows that there will never be any arguments or recriminations for his mostly unsociable hours, it’s just that these last few days have reminded him of why he’s never pursued any romantic entanglements… a romantic entanglement, just the one. And now he has his one desire… well, he supposes that he’s afraid of messing it all up. He’s worried that one day he will come home and find what? Albert in bed with another man? Mycroft knows very well how to go about breaking someone’s neck and he knows that with such a tactic it really won’t matter if his victim is six foot and six inches tall anyway. But what if it isn’t… what if it’s someone else, someone he’s never even noticed? Someone who can give Albert the time and attention he deserves. What then? What could Mycroft even suggest as a counteroffer?
He should go upstairs to bed. He should stop thinking pointless thoughts about things that… are yet to happen. He should. Besides, Mycroft is yet to find a problem that a cocktail didn’t help with, by a rather broad definition of the term, so he heads into the parlour to make himself a drink. Alcohol may not be the solution but it certainly is a solution after all.
Which is why about a half hour later Mycroft looks up from the array of bottles and whisky glasses in front of him, each glass containing a different combination from said bottles, to find Albert staring at him from the doorway.
“I was trying to see if the juniper flavour would be-“
“Come to bed, dear.”
Somehow it sounds like a command, and when Albert simply turns and leaves the room to head back upstairs, Mycroft hurries to follow him.
Mycroft wakes, in his estimation, after only a handful of hours sleep. He tries to sit up and then realises that Albert is half on top of him, nose pressed to Mycroft’s clavicle, one hand thrown out to the side and wrapped around Mycroft’s bicep. One of Albert’s feet is strategically hooked around one of Mycroft’s ankles too so he really is going nowhere. But he should. For the sake of his duty to Queen and country he really should get out of bed.
The door opens almost soundlessly and a servant quietly tiptoes towards the bedside table with an envelope. Mycroft holds his hand out for it. The servant quietly tiptoes away as Mycroft tries to open said envelope without dislodging Albert entirely. It is a short note from the palace, from the Queen’s equerry, Lord Marchmain himself, thanking Mycroft on the Queen’s behalf for his dedication to resolving ‘that small issue’ so diligently last night. It doesn’t really say much more but Marchmain is given to speaking mostly between the lines, which is precisely why he is the Queen’s equerry. And Mycroft understands that this is as close as he will get to an official sanction of his taking a few days off.
“Mmm?”
“I do believe that Lord Marchmain has given me the day off. Tomorrow too.”
“Marchmain?”
Albert lifts his head, hair tumbling into his face, that he makes a fairly futile attempt to push out of the way.
“Yes.”
“Oh, I suppose that would make sense. Better use of his time than continually sending messengers to Morocco.”
“Morocco?”
“Mmm”
Albert lays his head back down against Mycroft’s shoulder, clearly having given up on sorting his hair out or staying awake any longer. Mycroft supposes he could do with some more sleep too now that he has the rest of the week off, so he lets the letter fall to the floor beside the bed, and then manhandles Albert onto his side so that Mycroft can better wrap his limbs around his lover.
They sleep through until mid-afternoon and Mycroft is glad of the opportunity to rest. He recalls, years ago now, spending his nights awake either attending secret meetings or dealing with neglected paperwork, trying to sleep briefly in the carriage that carried him to his next meeting, smoking continually in an effort to keep himself focused and ignore the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He recalls in particular a day, where he’d been ferried about around the Midlands to speak with captains of industry and minor nobles alike, when he’d finally, finally, been afforded the comfort of a private train carriage back to London. And he’d pulled the wrapping paper that had once contained an eccles cake out of his pocket as a reminder that that was all he had eaten for the last forty-eight hours.
Rest and no notion of the troubles of state suit him well enough. He’s spent long enough dedicated to his task that he must be owed this at least. Still, before this, before everything had changed, Mycroft knows he would have soothed his exhaustion away with a few hours’ sleep, a strong cup of tea and cigarettes. It would never have actually occurred to him to rest, which, in retrospect, strikes him as wildly dysfunctional.
“Stop that.”
“What, dear?”
“Ruminating. You’re troubling yourself over unnecessary things again, I can tell.”
“Yes, I suppose you can.”
“The universe is nothing but emptiness and the futile meanderings of sentience. Why should anything deserve special consideration within it?”
“Indeed.”
Mycroft rolls over onto his back, pulling Albert with him. Albert props himself up on an elbow and trails his fingers down Mycroft’s sternum.
“It gives you some comfort, I think; the notion that in the end none of this may matter.”
Albert hums in agreement and lowers his head to follow the trail of his fingertips with his mouth. Mycroft watches intently and then tangles his fingers in Albert’s hair to stop his progress down beneath the covers.
“Oh?”
“I had something else in mind.”
“Is that so?”
The teasing light in Albert’s eyes turns into something more serious as he stares up at Mycroft.
“I intend to mark you.”
“More than before?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely more than I have ever done before.”
Albert presses a kiss to Mycroft’s stomach and gasps as Mycroft’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling him up.
“What will you do to me, my lord, my Caesar?”
“I will leave my mark on your delicate skin, I will hurt you until you beg me to stop, I will… do so many terrible things.”
“Will you make me bleed?”
There is a strange longing in Albert’s tone as he asks.
“No, never. I have no wish to tear your soft skin.”
“Pity.”
“No. That is the one thing that we will not do.”
And Albert’s expression transforms again, this time compliant and consoling, as he looks up at Mycroft through artfully lowered eyelashes.
“At least, it will not be what I intend to do deliberately. My wicked Cleopatra; you tempt me to ruin.”
“Then tell me, tell me what you will do to me.”
“Of course. But first, and perhaps we ought to have done this long ago, we must establish some boundaries.”
Albert sits up and frowns. Mycroft sits up too and takes Albert’s hands in his, kissing them reverently.
“We should at least, from the way I am given to understand these things should go-“
“Mycroft.”
“I was merely laying out my argument, dear.”
“Mycroft, you utterly darling man, I am quite familiar with certain French and Austrian authors if that is what you are eluding too.”
“Ah.”
“So?”
“I… don’t think either of them address the point I was going to get to.”
“No?”
“No. What I was thinking, what will be essential in this, is that you have a way of letting me know to stop. And not something so obvious as asking it of me.”
“I see.”
“My darling, I want to- what I want to do to you- it’s… obscene.”
“Door.”
“What?”
“Door. It’s a one syllable word that I’d have no reason to say otherwise, not while you are doing unspeakable things to me.”
“Alright, so we are agreed on that.”
“That was easy enough, wasn’t it, dear?”
Albert rests his forehead against Mycroft’s. He is smiling and Mycroft squeezes his hands gently. Perhaps this will not be so difficult after all.
“What next?”
“When I said that I wanted to hurt you… I, ah, took the liberty of gathering up a few things to try that with.”
“The riding crop, leather belt and terrifying wooden paddle you tucked away in the bottom draw?”
“Terrifying?”
“Oh, yes. Most terrifying.”
Not that Albert sounds anything but delighted by the prospect of it.
“And did you find… any other things then?”
“There are other things?”
“Not much more than what you’re used to. But I did- would you like to do this now or think on it a bit?”
“What else do we need right now?”
“Firstly, you need to be naked and then I shall blindfold you.”
When he’d contemplated this, all of this, the scoping of his plan, Mycroft hadn’t really considered the idea that the preparation might be another enthralling part of the experience. Naked and blindfolded Albert looks entirely too vulnerable and Mycroft has to take a moment to calm himself, and remember that he has been planning this for long enough not to waste the opportunity now. Of course he can ravage Albert, blindfolded and naked, held down by nothing but Mycroft’s own strength another time, but not now. Not after all this preparation.
Enjoying the view, Mycroft circles Albert. Leaning in he sniffs curiously; fresh soap, but when he slides a hand up into Albert’s hair he can tell it hasn’t been washed today. Interesting.
“Did you prepare yourself for me?”
“Yes.”
The response comes out in a gasp.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Oh?”
“You were sleeping.”
“Indeed.”
“I got out of bed around the time you seemed to be snoring to the tune of Rule Britannia in your sleep.”
Mycroft chuckles at that but lands a solid smack against Albert’s backside anyway.
“And did you clean yourself thoroughly?”
Of course he did but Mycroft wants to ask the question anyway.
“Yes.”
“I’m gratified to hear that. Now, my sweet, let’s get you up onto the bed.”
A bit of careful manoeuvring leaves Albert kneeling on the bed, legs spread a little wider than really required for balance. Mycroft takes another moment to slow his breathing and settle himself into utter calm. Picking up that familiar corset, Mycroft climbs up onto the bed and fastens it around Albert’s waist. The metal clasps at the front are the easy part; it’s the ties at the back that, when pulled tight, will constrict Albert’s breath. Mycroft looks over the currently loose corset and considers the logical equation he’s proposing. He quickly decides that Albert’s hands need to be bound and pulled above his head before Mycroft sees to it that the corset is appropriately constricting.
Standing back Mycroft casts his eye over his handiwork. Albert’s wrists are bound and suspended above his head by the long rope that hangs from a ceiling hook Mycroft had especially installed. In theory he can claim that it is no more than a hook for a chandelier but it’s not as if anyone dare ask anyway. He debates picking up where he left off but allows himself to be diverted by the newly fashioned collar that he has hidden away until now. It looks simple enough in its construction but it is in the details that the craftsmanship shines through. The collar itself is the smoothest leather, but inside there is a sensible layer of padding, and on the outside, set into the leather itself in a wide band is a strip of dark green velvet. This collar also, unlike the other one, buckles closed lending a certain firmness to the idea of Mycroft closing it around Albert’s throat. There are even three larger rings set in the outside, should Mycroft come up with new and interesting ways to keep Albert in place.
Mycroft places the collar against Albert’s neck and listens to the sudden intake of breath at the sensation.
“A new gift for you, my sweet.”
He watches as Albert swallows nervously, and delights in taking his time smoothing the leather against Albert’s skin until his fingers reach the buckle at the back. Mycroft takes care in fastening it and lightly runs a finger around the rim of that leather circle to check its tightness. He lets Albert take his time getting use to the newer, stiffer, leather. Watches as Albert leans his head sideways a little, testing the range of motion and the tightness of this new restraint.
“Tight enough?”
“Yes.”
Albert’s reply is already somewhat breathless, and they haven’t even started yet. Mycroft now turns his attention to tightening the corset, swiftly, roughly and with the finesse of a man long practiced at the task. He runs his hands over Albert’s backside, down his thighs and along his calves. Decision made Mycroft retrieves ankle restraints and the metal rod especially fashioned to go with them. Final pieces in place, Mycroft retreats from the bed and looks over the entire setup with a critical eye. He could honestly just take Albert right now as he is but, so he reminds himself, there has been time and effort that has gone into the preparation of this so he ought to make some use of it at least.
Mycroft gathers up his implements and sets them down on the dressing table for inspection. The riding crop looks lovely but he finds that he simply isn’t in the mood for it. The belt first then. He picks it up, folding it in half and settling the buckle and folded end into the palm of his hand. This will just be the beginning. Some other time Mycroft knows he will have the patience to enjoy a slow beginning, that he will stroke the folded leather across Albert’s skin and watch him shiver in anticipation. He will take his time then and perhaps, with a little rearrangement, he might even indulge in the idea of licking freshly spilled absinthe off Albert’s chest. When he has the patience for it.
Right now though he has no time for such delicate teasing. He wants what he wants and he will take it. The sound of his strides back towards the bed are perhaps the only warning Albert gets before the leather belt cracks down against his bottom, immediately leaving a livid red stripe. Albert instinctively tries to pull away but Mycroft has thought of that, and the metal rod which keeps his feet spread is also tied to the end of the bed, giving him little leeway to pull himself forward. Mycroft pauses as he watches Albert realise just how immobilised he is, and then he swings his arm back for another blow.
He is sweating by the time he stops, his arm aching, the shape of the belt buckle having made an imprint on the skin of his palm. On the bed, Albert’s entire body is trembling, his arms hang limply from the ropes that keep him upright and his head has fallen forward as low as the collar allows. Mycroft has listened to Albert cry out, to the few times he’s been able to form words and gasp out ‘no’ and ‘stop’, he’s even heard what sounds like a sob that Albert has deliberately held back. All these things are a step in the right direction but Mycroft isn’t quite done yet. He gives Albert’s reddened and tender behind a hard squeeze.
“No!”
Mycroft squeezes harder.
“Please. Please, please, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, sir, don’t- I can’t- I can’t take anymore!”
“What an obstinate little thing you are.”
Mycroft strokes his hand over reddened flesh and listens to Albert panting. He has an idea now, or rather he has confirmed his first impression, so knows what his next move will be. Leaving Albert be, Mycroft returns the belt to the table and picks up a sharp knife to cut the robes that hang Albert from the ceiling, but not the ones that bind his wrists.
He watches Albert topple over, forearms against the bed, but still quite reasonably immobilised. Mycroft picks up the paddle and inspects it for any flaws. There’s no need to check the wooden finish over again but he uses the action to buy himself time to steady his own breathing and regain his self-control. This is the only means now to remind him that he must remain in control not just of himself but of this entire situation.
Returning to the bed he rests the paddle against Albert’s bottom and holds it there.
“You know what I’m going to do next, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.”
Mycroft settles his other hand on Albert’s back and waits for Albert’s breathing to calm.
“Such a beautiful, obstinate, little thing, aren’t you?”
He brings the paddle down swiftly without giving Albert any time to reply. Mycroft doesn’t let up when he hears a loud sob. Swinging the paddle is far less vigorous exercise than the belt so he knows he will be quite content to keep this up for a while. In fact, readjusting his grip, he actually picks up the pace of the blows. Albert lets out a strangled cry as Mycroft speeds up, and then, at last, there is the sound of loud, desperate, sobs that Albert can no longer hold back. This is what Mycroft has been waiting for. He strikes Albert a few more times for good measure then stops and, as calmly as he can manage, gets off the bed. Returning the paddle to its place on the table Mycroft can hear Albert weeping. This time Mycroft finally coats his hand in gelatinous lubricant, spreading it carefully over his erection, as he makes his way slowly back to the bed.
“Naughty little boys deserve to be punished, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you want to be punished?”
“Yes, sir. Please… please punish me.”
“Perhaps later.”
Mycroft hears Albert bite off an inarticulate sound of frustration, as he settles his hands on Albert’s behind. The movement of his weight on the bed is tell enough to indicate that soon they will both get what they want.
“Please, sir.”
“Eager, aren’t you?”
“Please, I want….”
“Want? I think it’s more than that.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, it is. I need….”
“What do you need? Tell me.”
“Your cock, sir. I need you inside me. Please. Please.”
“Yes, it seems you do. You need to have your tight little hole filled, don’t you?”
“Yes! Please, sir! Please!”
“Since you beg so prettily.”
“Please…. Please fill me. I want… I need to feel your seed inside me. I want-“
The rest of the words are lost as Mycroft thrusts his hips forward, barely pressing against constricted muscle for a moment before his slick cock slides all the way in. He moves with enough force that Albert is shoved forward, his face pressed into the bedding. Mycroft gives in to his own need then, finally, to set a frantic, punishing, pace that elicits even more wonderful cries of pain as flesh slaps against flesh.
Mycroft feels dizzy as he pulls out and he watches in a daze as his seed leaks out of Albert’s hole. The spasms of that otherwise tight ring of muscle intrigue him and Mycroft slides two fingers back inside out of sheer curiosity. He hears a weak moan and withdraws; that can wait for another time then. First he needs to… to…. Mind a blank Mycroft manages to move up the bed and sit down heavily again. He unbuckles the collar around Albert’s neck and lets it drop to the floor; the blindfold and ropes around Albert’s wrists go the same way. Albert smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. Mycroft brushes the back of a hand against Albert’s cheek, and then moves back down the bed to take off ankle cuffs and throw them and the metal bar aside. The bar lands on the floor with the loud thud.
Mycroft uses the end of the bed to lean on as he stands up and tries to work out the trajectory needed to reach the dressing table. Mysteriously, there is a second thud, just as Mycroft reaches the table and realises that he actually wants the washstand, which is across the room. He pushes off from the table and stumbles across the room, then manages to dampen a cloth and give himself a sensible wipe. Then he soaks a second cloth and turns back towards the bed, only to find that Albert is actually a little closer, and lying on the floor. Mycroft makes it over to him and, with the uncoordinated nature that is usually applicable only to drunks, he manages eventually to clean Albert off, despite Albert’s determination to remain with his face pressed firmly into the carpet.
“Come on. Need to get you back on the bed.”
Albert mumbles something.
“Darling, I’m… I’m just not… I’m feeling rather lacking in faculties right now. You’re going to have to tell me.”
“Bedcovers.”
“Huh?”
“They’re messy.”
Of course they are. Mycroft solves that problem efficiently by simply pulling the coverlet down onto the floor. They can deal with it later.
“Albert? My love, you can’t sleep on the floor.”
“Says who?”
Mycroft doesn’t have an answer to that so he simply hauls Albert up and back onto the bed. And then struggles to get back up himself. Thankfully after a few tries he manages it and finds that Albert has pushed the light quilts aside so that they both can crawl underneath them.
“Love you.”
Mycroft murmurs as he throws an arm across Albert’s waist and falls asleep.
The next morning Mycroft wakes to the sound of Albert breathing loudly, right into his ear, as well as what actually might be a nightingale, singing its repeating song, seemingly directly at the bedroom window.
“Well, I think it’s crass.”
Mycroft says aloud for the benefit of the noisy bird who is no doubt yelling insults at his window. In response, outside, the bird seems to get even louder.