Mycroft turned, but there was nothing. Only the dead. Rows upon rows of the dead. Except that now one of them was smiling, when he hadn’t been before.
“Dear me,” he said, rising from the chair at the back of the plane, one slim suited form that sauntered down the lonely aisle. “I was always rather fond of Coventry. Embarrassing, isn’t it, those times when the people find out that the British Government isn’t omnipotent, and sometimes you just have to let Coventry burn. But you tried to cheat, my dear Mycroft. Your clever little solution, and the flight of the dead.”
Moriarty smiled down upon the corpses, gliding his finger along a cold jawline, and leaning down to press a kiss upon dead lips. “You would have burned for me,” he promised the corpse. “But the game is up, and now it’s the cold wet ground of England for you.”
“Moriarty,” Mycroft said, the name vile upon his tongue.
“In the flesh, sweetheart,” Moriarty chirped. “We were having such a nice game, Mycroft. But then you cheated, and you know what happens when you cheat?”
“I suspect that you are going to tell me.”
“You suffer.”
“Do I.” Mycroft gave him a sneering smile, filled with challenge and disdain.
“Feeling cold, Mycroft?”
Cold? It was cool in here, the flight of the dead had to be kept on ice. But there was something else. A chill in his veins, a slight tremor in a muscle. Mycroft tipped his head as if to say ‘cold? no. whatever could you mean?’ but he said nothing.
“Just a little custom blend of mine. Slipped it into your drink--that lovely glass of scotch you had while waiting for your dear brother? You should be starting to feel it now.”
Mycroft braced his hand against the back of one of the seats, leaning some weight against it. Yes. There was something in that tremor, a chill that didn’t belong. Some drug. He didn’t recognize the symptoms.
“Terribly gauche of me, I know.” Moriarty said, strolling forward with a smile. “But I did say that you had to be punished. I’m so disappointed with you, Mycroft. We were having so much fun.”
Moriarty reached for him, and Mycroft pulled back, but his knees felt so weak, and his movements felt so slow. His world stumbled, and he found himself bent over the nearest row of seats, sprawled in the lap of a young, dead businesswoman.
“So I’m going to teach you a lesson. And this time, my dear, the lesson isn’t going to be clever. It’s going to be so terribly pedestrian, so shameful and mundane, that your great machine of a brain won’t know what to do with it. I think that will suit you.”
The words slurred through Mycroft’s brain, their meaning hazy, but they still caught there. He would remember them.
With ever so much delicate care, Moriarty reached beneath him, unbuckling his belt and sliding down his expensive trousers. Mycroft flailed limply, but his muscles wouldn’t coordinate, and it took only a gentle push of Moriarty’s hand to drop him back down into the dead woman’s lap.
“Shh, now, pet. Take your medicine.” Moriarty laughed, soft and sweet, and then there was a searing pain as he forced his cock into Mycroft’s ass. It was so hot, so excruciatingly real, in this surreal frigid plane of the dead.
Words failed him, only allowing a choked sound from his lips, as all that genius and all his clever stratagems had somehow failed to see this, where Moriarty bent him over the lap of some corpses and raped him.
Time stretched and condensed, muddled inside Mycroft’s head to an endless blur of pain and the sharp slap of hips against his buttocks.
“Be seeing you,” Moriarty promised, leaving behind a pat on Mycroft’s cheek and a trail of seed leaking down his thigh. He cleaned himself off with a disposable wipe, and tossed it down on top of Mycroft, the sharp lemon smell of antiseptic standing out sweetly against the cloying stench of the sex and the creeping undertones of death.
And then he was gone, leaving Mycroft to recover as the drug wore its way back out of his system.
Re: WARNING: Rape. Also creepiness. And corpses.
“Dear me,” he said, rising from the chair at the back of the plane, one slim suited form that sauntered down the lonely aisle. “I was always rather fond of Coventry. Embarrassing, isn’t it, those times when the people find out that the British Government isn’t omnipotent, and sometimes you just have to let Coventry burn. But you tried to cheat, my dear Mycroft. Your clever little solution, and the flight of the dead.”
Moriarty smiled down upon the corpses, gliding his finger along a cold jawline, and leaning down to press a kiss upon dead lips. “You would have burned for me,” he promised the corpse. “But the game is up, and now it’s the cold wet ground of England for you.”
“Moriarty,” Mycroft said, the name vile upon his tongue.
“In the flesh, sweetheart,” Moriarty chirped. “We were having such a nice game, Mycroft. But then you cheated, and you know what happens when you cheat?”
“I suspect that you are going to tell me.”
“You suffer.”
“Do I.” Mycroft gave him a sneering smile, filled with challenge and disdain.
“Feeling cold, Mycroft?”
Cold? It was cool in here, the flight of the dead had to be kept on ice. But there was something else. A chill in his veins, a slight tremor in a muscle. Mycroft tipped his head as if to say ‘cold? no. whatever could you mean?’ but he said nothing.
“Just a little custom blend of mine. Slipped it into your drink--that lovely glass of scotch you had while waiting for your dear brother? You should be starting to feel it now.”
Mycroft braced his hand against the back of one of the seats, leaning some weight against it. Yes. There was something in that tremor, a chill that didn’t belong. Some drug. He didn’t recognize the symptoms.
“Terribly gauche of me, I know.” Moriarty said, strolling forward with a smile. “But I did say that you had to be punished. I’m so disappointed with you, Mycroft. We were having so much fun.”
Moriarty reached for him, and Mycroft pulled back, but his knees felt so weak, and his movements felt so slow. His world stumbled, and he found himself bent over the nearest row of seats, sprawled in the lap of a young, dead businesswoman.
“So I’m going to teach you a lesson. And this time, my dear, the lesson isn’t going to be clever. It’s going to be so terribly pedestrian, so shameful and mundane, that your great machine of a brain won’t know what to do with it. I think that will suit you.”
The words slurred through Mycroft’s brain, their meaning hazy, but they still caught there. He would remember them.
With ever so much delicate care, Moriarty reached beneath him, unbuckling his belt and sliding down his expensive trousers. Mycroft flailed limply, but his muscles wouldn’t coordinate, and it took only a gentle push of Moriarty’s hand to drop him back down into the dead woman’s lap.
“Shh, now, pet. Take your medicine.” Moriarty laughed, soft and sweet, and then there was a searing pain as he forced his cock into Mycroft’s ass. It was so hot, so excruciatingly real, in this surreal frigid plane of the dead.
Words failed him, only allowing a choked sound from his lips, as all that genius and all his clever stratagems had somehow failed to see this, where Moriarty bent him over the lap of some corpses and raped him.
Time stretched and condensed, muddled inside Mycroft’s head to an endless blur of pain and the sharp slap of hips against his buttocks.
“Be seeing you,” Moriarty promised, leaving behind a pat on Mycroft’s cheek and a trail of seed leaking down his thigh. He cleaned himself off with a disposable wipe, and tossed it down on top of Mycroft, the sharp lemon smell of antiseptic standing out sweetly against the cloying stench of the sex and the creeping undertones of death.
And then he was gone, leaving Mycroft to recover as the drug wore its way back out of his system.