221_b_baker_street | New Way To Bleed

Title: New Way To Bleed
Rating: R
Pairing: Mycroft/OFC
Warnings: Violence, mild swearing, allusions to sex.

Disclaimer: I do no own anything to do with Sherlock. I have posted this on fanfiction.net under the name of Torytigress92

New Way To Bleed

This is based off a passage in my fic 'Mycroft's Woman', about the aftermath of Reichenbach, featuring Mycroft and Jessica.

Well here it is.

Jessica showed no emotion as she walked through the doors of GlobalDefTech Ltd headquarters in Hong Kong. They had been planning and setting up this operation for months, had involved thousands of pounds worth of bribes and recruiting moles, inserting agents into position, and gaining the trust of the opposition.

The CEO of GlobalDefTech Ltd had been dabbling in illegal biochemical weapons, and MI6 were going to destroy them. Or rather Jessica Hindley was.

It was only her second mission for the British Government since she had infiltrated the private office of Mycroft Holmes, and then turned and helped him capture James Moriarty.

Much had changed.

The raw potential Mycroft had seen in her had been trained and moulded. In the past few months she had been transformed into a perfect weapon for the British Government.

And by the British Government, they meant Mycroft Holmes.

She had been trained to be ruthless, calculating, her natural cockiness turned into cool-headedness, her intellect matured and groomed until her mind could take in detail and extract the necessary data to accomplish what she needed to do, within seconds. She had already been a capable fighter and marksman, but two months training had seen her abilities honed to perfection. What was more, Mycroft had taught her to become truly invisible, how to inhabit the shadows, to hug them, to avoid the spotlight even when it tried to focus on you, in vain. He had taught her much, and given her a new life, by his side.

In a way, Jessica supposed in her private moments, she had been a poor spy. She had allowed emotion to rule her, her obsession turning into something far more dangerous. She was Mycroft Holmes' lover.

Such a position came with obvious risks. Jessica knew that if it became public knowledge, she would be a target to be used against Mycroft. But what few people realised, was that if such a situation occurred, he would sacrifice her without regret, if it served the British Nation.

She would sacrifice herself rather than place him in such a position. She hoped he might feel some sadness over her passing, were it to happen. He might even miss her.

But her head told her not to hope. And she never let that hope show, just as he had taught her.

She let nothing show.

She let nothing show even when she was stood on top of the GlobalDefTech Ltd building, 130 floors above the city streets, the wind plucking at her tightly restrained hair, the stolen documents and blueprints stowed safely in her backpack, the specimens the company owned, and had been planning to sell to the highest bidder, destroyed by several charges placed precisely, to cause maximum damage.

She never let emotion show, even though several AK47s were pointed at her head.

"Miss Hindley," Reginald Powell, CEO and founder of GlobalDefTech Ltd, and a former mercenary himself, smiled unpleasantly as he eyed his prey. "You have been a nuisance."

"We aim to please, Powell," she simply smiled, her grin every inch as unpleasant as Powell's. "But as stimulating as this little conversation is, I really need to be going."

Powell laughed. "The only way you'll be leaving this building, Hindley, is by body bag."

"Allow me to disagree. Goodbye gentlemen, and oh! Mycroft Holmes sends his regards," she waved and let herself fall back over the edge of the roof, the shouts of "NO!" and "Fire!" fading rapidly as she fell in freefall. She managed to flip herself over, counting down in her head, as she spread her arms and legs into a skydiver's cross.

Stolen files weren't the only thing hidden in Jessica's backpack. The lining was stuffed with a parachute, and her extraction waited exactly 100 floors below and five hundred feet from the front of the GlobalDefTech skyscraper.

As it deployed, it jerked her upwards, the air currents filling the chute above her, and seeing her to the ground, landing at a run, as shouts came from the building and police sirens echoed in the distance.

Jessica jettisoned her parachute, sprinting towards a large SUV, windows blacked out and the door open to reveal her two colleagues on the assignment. She simply knew them as 'Raoul and 'Erik'. Her alias was Christine Dyer.

Whoever had done the mission planning clearly had a musical fetish.

Later, while they were sitting in an abandoned warehouse close to the docks, waiting for further orders, Jessica cleaned her gun while 'Raoul' was on the comms to Base Camp in London, and 'Erik' was tinkering on his computers.

The two men were very different. 'Raoul' was a muscular six footer, with a Merseyside accent and a broken nose. 'Erik' was a short, quite scrawny fellow with contact lenses and an Oxbridge accent. One was her operational partner for the assignment, and the other was their technical expert.

"You have any plans for home, Chris?" 'Erik' asked, as the young woman looked up from the table where her gun was scattered into several parts.

"Oh you know, 'Erik'. Places to go, people to see," she shrugged evasively. "Anything juicy happening back home?"

When one was on assignment, home and whatever happened there, had to be placed in a bubble and sealed, ignored. An agent's head had to be focussed entirely on the mission, and nothing else.

'Erik' was then looking at the newspapers, their reports written up and now they were just waiting. It showed how bored 'Erik' was that he was surfing tabloids at all.

"Oh, you know that consulting detective person? Sherlock Holmes?" he looked over to her, eagerly. At the name, Jessica's head shot up, focussing on 'Erik' even as her hands reassembled her handgun unconsciously. "Turns out he's a fraud. He invented a bunch of 'crimes' and even hired an actor to play a criminal mastermind. The actor blabbed, and now Holmes has committed suicide, apparently. According to the Sun. Jumped off St Barts' hospital roof…" he trailed off when he noticed Jessica's white face, and he glanced at 'Raoul' concernedly. He'd only known 'Christine' a month but it had become obvious she was one of the best. No emotion ever flickered out of control, never ruled her, never compromised her.

But now…

"Get on the comms to London. Get me back, ASAP!" she barked, just as the last part of her handgun snapped back into place with a crack.

Silence reigned at the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft sat in his usual chair, with his usual cup of tea, staring at the same newspaper he had been staring at for two days.

Sherlock was dead. His brother, the last of his blood left alive, was gone forever.

And it had been his fault.

The silence which was his most blessed friend at times was killing him. It only echoed the silence, the emptiness within him, a void filled with a silent, screaming pain he had never known he could feel.

He had failed his little brother, his Sherlock, for the young man had belonged to him. His brother gone forever. He almost could not believe it. But it was true, and he had failed.

He had lost his brother.

Looking back, he had lost his brother a long time ago. He couldn't pinpoint the exact minute, hour, day; the exact word, deed or gesture that made it happen but he could not deny it, and no amount of influence, no amount of power could fix it.

Oh, those who had slighted Sherlock would suffer. That journalist who was stupid and desperate enough to believe Moriarty's lies would see her job destroyed, her credibility shot and her life ruined. He would ensure that Sergeant Donovan and this Anderson fellow would never work again, let alone continue as police officers. He would have a little word with Inspector Lestrade.

But all of it was irrelevant. Sherlock was gone, and while Mycroft's vengeance might be bloody and satisfying, it would not bring him back and nothing could detract from the fact that if he had not fallen into Moriarty's trap, had not sacrificed his brother's privacy for his country, had not been so ridiculously and humiliatingly duped…it might have ended differently.

He stood, his body filled with a need for something, for action, for movement, even for sound. The silence was killing him.

The house was completely dark when he arrived, but the moment he stepped through the front door, he knew she was there.

Her perfume, the scent of musk and lilies, pervaded the air, subtle but intoxicating. He frowned. She was supposed to be in Hong Kong.

Of course, after news of Sherlock's suicide had reached him, he had toyed with the idea of bringing her home early. He had discarded it, partly out of a reluctance to pull her away from her assignment, and partly out of a sense of self-disgust that his need should be so obvious.

But she came home anyway.

He slipped off his coat and suit jacket, carefully placing his umbrella in its stand, and quietly walked into his study where, sure enough, he glimpsed her russet hair over the top of the winged armchair. The sound of her soft breath as she slept filled the silent room, as he walked in, standing a moment to look down on her, her eyes shut, and her face free of its usual cares and guardedness. She looked incredibly young.

And Mycroft had never felt older than in that moment.

He sighed, turning away to pour himself a glass of Scotch. "I know you're awake, Jessica, so stop the act and open your eyes. I assure you, you're more attractive with them open," he drawled, glad of the distraction her sudden arrival gave him, from Sherlock's death.

He heard her shift in the chair, before her lilting voice spoke. "Wasn't it you who always told me to use moments of apparent vulnerability to my advantage, to gather data before reacting?" she murmured, a slightly teasing tone slipping into her voice.

Ignoring her, he concentrated on what he was doing, keeping his cold mask firmly in place.

His hands, knuckles white and fingers clutching the expensive crystal decanter hard enough to break it, gave him away.

"You are supposed to be in Hong Kong,"

At his cold, icily controlled statement, Jessica exhaled wearily. She just knew this was going to be difficult.

He was Mycroft Holmes, after all.

"The mission was a success. We acquired the plans and there seemed little point lingering in Hong Kong. Especially when I saw the papers…" she explained, standing and reaching out to her lover.

"You left without leave to do so. You know there will be consequences," was his only reply, brushing her aside. It made her angry, even as she understood why he was doing it.

"Oddly, I don't care. Something one couldn't accuse you of doing," she snapped. Mycroft still had his back to her.

"What are you babbling about?"

"Don't try to bullshit me, Mycroft!" she retorted. When she was angry, her Australian accent filtered back into her words, faint but still there beneath the woman she had become. It made Mycroft's hand clench into a fist where he hid it within his trouser pocket.

But her next words, and actions, undermined his control even further.

Her small hand, so deadly, so agile, so fragile and delicate, pressed against his back, between his shoulder blades. He could feel her heat through his vest and shirt, a comforting, feminine warmth that he longed to drown himself in.

To find absolution, redemption from his mistake. To cleanse his guilt with her unswerving love.

But how long would it be, before she was taken from him too? Either by his own hand, or by another's?

"Don't shut me out. I know about Sherlock, and I know you'll do your damn hardest to pretend you don't care, that you feel nothing. But that is a big, fat lie," she whispered, standing close behind, pressing her small body against his, as if trying to imprint her strength onto him. And he was grateful for the effort. "If you didn't care, you would not have tried to protect him for so many years."

"He always resented me for it," he managed to get out, throwing back the last of his Scotch, relishing the sharp burn down the back of his throat. That need, the need for something, returned and he shuddered. He pulled her hand, the one against his back, around to his heart, holding it there tightly. "Thank you."

Jessica felt his shudder, felt the controlled but still palpable trembling in the hand clutching her own against his heart, the knuckles white, his grip turning painful. He was so close to losing control, so filled with a pain she knew he couldn't handle.

She knew that pain, had felt it when Adam and Jamie had been killed in front of her, nearly three years ago. Then, she had been alone, with no one to ease her pain, especially as everyone had thought her dead too. In the end, she had turned her pain to vengeance, until she tangled with Mycroft Holmes.

But Mycroft had no one to destroy. Oh, he could go after the small fry, the moronic reporter, the police officers who had hated Sherlock so much that their hatred had led them to what they wanted to see, but the man who had caused it all…he was beyond even Mycroft's reach.

Jim Moriarty.

How Jessica wished she had put a bullet in his brain when she had the chance. But it was too late, and now the man she loved, a man so in control was in danger of losing it, and probably what sanity he possessed in the process.

She knew he could never say it, especially not now, so she said it for both of them. "I love you."

Her words cut too deep, finding a new way for him to bleed, in a way that Mycroft hadn't known he could. The storm of his pain, his regret and his grief was building up inside of him, and he feared what would happen if he lost control. He feared for Jessica.

To his relief, mingling with a sense of loss he felt keenly, she released him and sat down again, watching him as he finally turned around. Her gaze was merciless as she trapped his own, holding it steadily.

He had taught her too well, it seemed.

"What happened?" she asked. Of course, she would never believe what was in the tabloids, she had met Sherlock, and she knew the truth. She expected some cool, succinct retelling of the events, so she was surprised when Mycroft walked over to where she was sitting, and knelt down in front of her, holding her eye contact. The cool blue flickered, and something like a plea filled them, piercing her heart.

"I made a mistake," in contrast to his eyes, Mycroft's words were cold and precise, making her shiver at the obvious control behind them, holding in all the turmoil she knew he felt. But even Mycroft Holmes couldn't stop a tiny, almost imperceptible, break entering his voice at his last words. "I failed him."

Unable to bear what he saw in Jessica's eyes, he buried his head in her lap, as she stroked his hair, so perfect, as forced into abeyance as his few emotions.

But Jessica had seen the man behind the mask, and she wasn't fooled. The storm he held back was done so to spare her, but she would rather he let it free than let it consume him.

She felt no tears against her hands when he kissed them, almost reverently, as she enclosed him in her arms, offering wordless comfort with her body, with her love. She held him to her, his head resting in the crook of her neck, as he knelt between her legs, his arms like steel bands around her waist. Sometimes, she felt a little like Wendy playing Mother, to this powerful, domineering man who had been parent, protector and nemesis to his brother for too long.

Her pulse leapt when she felt his lips against her neck, pressing against the ridges of her throat. Of course she was aroused by his proximity, she always was, but it had been swamped beneath concern and the need to comfort. His lips, feverish, heated, travelled up her neck, until they reached her lips, taking them passionately. She moaned, but broke away, forced herself to meet his eyes.

It seemed his control had slipped its leash at last.

But even then, his mind tried to step in, to raise its defences. "What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice a low, gravely murmur, sending shivers down her spine, as they teetered on the edge.

"To forgive yourself. Because I do," she breathed, just before lips cut off her breath, and she pulled herself closer. Mycroft didn't know if he would ever, could ever, do as she said, but he allowed the need to rule him before it destroyed him, pulling her into his arms.

She broke away to stand, taking his hand in hers. "Come to bed," she whispered softly, leading him out of the study and up to his bedroom. Usually, Jessica slept at her flat in London when at home, where either he came to her or summoned her over.

Not this time.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Jessica was pushed back against it, any words crushed out of existence by his lips on hers, desperate, uncontrolled as he finally allowed free rein to emotions which were threatening to destroy him.

Jessica could only moan and cling to him, overwhelmed by the sensations his need forced on her, the nip of his teeth, possessive on her collarbone, his greedy hands caressing her body as he pleased, claiming her as his and his alone; the hard thrust of his hips against hers.

Her hair quickly tumbled from its bonds, quickly followed by her blouse as he took her lips again, each action invested with a rawness which bruised, which hurt, which claimed both for its own. Her hands soothed the pain away even as his inflicted pleasure and pain in his intensity.

The fire which had existed between them ever since their first night together flared and built, wave upon wave of it rising like a burning flood until it became an all-consuming conflagration, taking them both.

Neither were fully undressed when Jessica arched beneath Mycroft on his bed, her leg pulled up and around his hip as he entered her, his mouth possessively claiming the flesh of her neck. She cried out as he filled her, thoughts of protection slipping across the surface of her desire riddled mind. He looked up at her and kissed her deeply, hotly as he moved within her, even as his hands sought to rid them of their restrictions quickly, and the thought slipped away again.

With every movement, every possessive action, every kiss, he unconsciously asked for forgiveness with his body, and with every loving caress of her own, she forgave him without words, uncaring of the marks he left on her, or the marks she left on him. She forgave him in the stead of the one who couldn't, who no longer existed to do so.

Eventually the fire ebbed, the need momentarily sated, and Jessica was coiled, exhausted, in Mycroft's arms. He held her tightly, as if fearful she would disappear if he didn't, their cooling bodies ensconced beneath the covers of his bed, seldom used and usually undisturbed by such carnal needs as had flowed freely in the dark hours of the night.

Now dawn tinged the sky, and Mycroft watched it, the pain assuaged if not eradicated, as he held his Jessica in his arms. He noted she now possessed several bruises on her neck, a dozen more littering her arms and legs where he had held her so forcefully in his need for her. She hadn't complained, hadn't pushed him away but had welcomed the pain alongside the pleasure, relishing his strength even as she soothed his vulnerability.

Soon he would have to rise, would have to don his cold mask and return to the world that awaited him outside of his home. There, Jessica could not protect him.

For the first time in his forty-five years of life, Mycroft wondered uneasily if perhaps, he possessed the strength for such a masquerade anymore.

But caring was a dangerous disadvantage. Moriarty might be gone, but others existed, others like him, predators of the more ruthless kind that he had to guard his country from.

He had work to do.

Sherlock Holmes had died, and maybe one day he would forgive himself. Guilt was hardly healthy for the psyche, and his work was too important to allow emotion to rule him there.

Here…here, within the privacy of his own home, Jessica and the emotions he felt for her ruled him, it seemed. He glanced down at his lover, her auburn hair spread over his pillows, the scent of her body, sex mixed with perfume, filling his senses as he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her naked shoulder. He couldn't see her face, and at that moment didn't need to. He had it memorised perfectly, so she rose before in his mind's eye whenever he willed it.

His hand slid over her stomach, holding her against him tighter, as she stirred but did not wake.

He knew there was a high chance, probably 70%, that she was now pregnant. They hadn't used protection, and he had sought the comfort of her body more than once during the night.

He idly mulled over the prospect as he stroked her skin. Oddly, it didn't fill him with horror; the thought of a child, a perfect commingling of him and Jessica, with their intelligence…the potential of such a child was limitless.

And perhaps he could right the wrongs of his care of Sherlock. Perhaps, this time, he might be a better parent, and so find redemption for his failure.

When she decided to tell him, when she knew for certain, then he could start anew.

Two months later, Jessica paced up and down in her flat, the rain pouring down outside, the city awash with the storm.

She counted in her head, impatiently and somewhat fearfully glancing towards the little white stick on her coffee table.

She'd missed her period and she had recalled her night with Mycroft, two months ago, and their somewhat…incautious coupling.

She had to accept she might be pregnant.

Finally, she snatched up the test and her eyes widened at the result, with fear, with joy and with uncertainty.

She was pregnant alright. She was pregnant with Mycroft Holmes' child.

That night she went to his house, letting herself in with the key he had given her, with a stern but amused injunction to stop breaking his security system and just use the front door.

The great house was empty, devoid of life as she settled in the study, in what had become her chair, and waited.

Eventually, she heard the front door open and Mycroft enter. She listened as he divested himself of his overcoat and umbrella, making her smile fondly as she heard the careful slide of the damned thing into its stand.

She waited, heart pounding, more nervous than she had ever been in her life. She would rather be facing a firing squad than doing this, informing Mycroft Holmes that she was going to have his child.

There was no doubt she would. She loved him, and she already loved the tiny bundle of cells growing inside of her, so regardless of his decision, if he discarded her or not, she would keep it.

She wouldn't lose another child.

When Mycroft entered, he didn't look surprised to see her. He only cocked an eyebrow at her clear show of nerves, inwardly nodding to himself. She knew.

"Are you quite alright?" he asked, sitting down in his chair after he'd rung for tea. To his amusement, she looked down, an actual blush on her cheeks. Good Lord, he'd have to record it in his journal to remember it in later years.

"I'm perfectly fine," she breathed, before a hand dropped to cover her stomach. "I mean…we're perfectly fine."

A smile spread over Mycroft's lips, as he leaned forward. "So you know for certain?"

Jessica's expression blanked with surprise. "You knew?"

"I guessed, shortly after…that night," he explained, standing up to fetch a glass of whiskey for him and water for her. No need to flood his child's system with toxins before it was even born. "The odds were stacked heavily in favour of you becoming pregnant. I will make the necessary arrangements.

"Arrangements?" she asked, a slight tremble in her voice. He knew women became…changeable when with child, and he needed to tread carefully. The more naturally tempestuous the woman, the worse it was, apparently. "I'm keeping it, Mycroft."

"I never said you shouldn't," he replied coolly, placing her glass down on the side table. She glanced up at him in surprise. "I merely meant arrangements for our marriage. The child is a Holmes, after all, and will be raised as one."

Jessica's ocean blue eyes widened, as she gaped at him, almost making him laugh as he stroked her cheek. Then they narrowed dangerously. "You know, usually you ask a woman to marry you, not tell them," she snapped, slapping his hand away. He chuckled and continued his caresses, sensing her pleasure, disguised but still there beneath her irritation.

"What were you expecting? Roses and violins and down on bended knee?" he asked, a touch scornfully. Jessica rolled her eyes and scoffed.

"Don't make me laugh. If you started all that, I would be running for the hills," she replied. He caught her wrist, bringing it to his lips as her breath hitched. "Fine, fine you win. I'll marry you, you manipulative bastard."

"Hmm, interesting," he chuckled. "And all without uttering a single word."

"Try that on a Cabinet minister, and I'll shoot you myself," she joked, as he knelt down in front of her, one hand on her stomach. She sobered, as he looked at her, the look in his eyes reminiscent of the night the child had been conceived.

"Thank you," was all he said, before he kissed her.

Thanking her, worshipping her away from unwanted eyes, for the redemption she had given him, in the form of their child. This time, he would not fail.

This child would not be a second Sherlock. Mycroft was determined, rigidly so, this time.

History would not repeat itself, not this time.