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“Please,” Mycroft whispered.
“Shut up. Hold his head properly.”
The grip around his neck tightened, fingers digging in just enough to hurt.
“Please—stop. Please…”
The word broke into a gasp as a sharp blow to his stomach knocked the breath from him. Tears sprang to his eyes before he could stop them.
“Brilliant. Now he’s crying. I’ll have to start again. Why can’t you just do as you’re told?”
Another strike. Then another.
Mycroft stopped fighting.
It was easier—simpler—to go limp. He lay still on the floor, eyes fixed on the flickering ceiling light, letting them move him as they pleased.
“Better,” someone said. “You do the nails. I’ll get the dress.”
“This is actually fun.”
“Told you. He wants men. Then let’s make him look the part. Get him undressed.”
“No!” Panic surged, sudden and sharp. Mycroft twisted, trying to break free.
“Stay still!” The blow to his head made his ears ring.
There were hands everywhere. Pulling, forcing the fabric dragged over his skin.
By the time they hauled him upright, Mycroft could barely feel his limbs.
They dragged him into the corridor and tied him to the railing, the knot biting into his wrists.
Mycroft closed his eyes. He retreated inward, shutting the world out, clinging to the faint, desperate hope that someone—anyone—might decide this had gone far enough.
Footsteps approached.
He didn’t react until someone leaned close.
“Sorry,” a quieter voice said. “The dress got caught—hold on.”
A careful tug at the fabric.
The knot loosened.
Mycroft sagged forward, his legs no longer able to hold him.
“Shit. Are you all right?” the voice asked, softer now.
Mycroft curled in on himself the moment he hit the floor, arms coming up to shield his face.
“Don’t touch me,” he snarled.
“This wasn’t my idea.”
Mycroft let out a broken, humorless sound. “I don’t care. You just stood there.”
“I didn’t—” Greg detested. Not that he could have done anything against the whole football team.
“You didn’t stop them.”
That landed. Greg didn’t answer.
Mycroft pushed himself up, grabbing his bag with unsteady hands.
He ran.
“Love—wait.” Greg followed him.
Mycroft stumbled, the hem of the dress tangling around his legs, and he went down hard. Pain shot through his ankle.
Greg reached him a second later. “Mycroft—”
“Don’t.” Mycroft dragged himself back, away from him, eyes burning. “Don’t touch me.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“But you knew.”
Greg hesitated.
That was answer enough.
“Exactly.” Mycroft forced himself upright, biting back a wince as he put weight on his left leg. “We’re done, Lestrade.”
“Please—”
“Don’t follow me.”
He turned and limped away, each step uneven but determined.
Behind him, Greg didn’t move.
Greg went to practice.
Reluctantly.
He took his place like nothing had happened. He didn’t speak. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t join in.
He held it in.
Right until the end.
Because once they were back in the changing room—once the noise started, the laughter, the retelling—he couldn’t anymore.
“How did you even know he was gay?” someone asked, still grinning.
“Holmes? Come on, you just have to look at him.”
Greg let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then maybe get your eyes checked. He’s been your classmate for three years.”
A few of them glanced at him, surprised.
“If you really want to know,” another chimed in, “Thomas saw him kissing someone.”
Greg’s head snapped toward him.
“Did you?” he asked quietly.
Thomas froze.
“Who did you see him with?” Greg stepped closer.
“Does it matter?” Thomas muttered.
“It does to me.” Another step. “Who?”
“Greg…” Thomas looked away.
“Go on,” Greg said, voice dropping. “Tell everyone.”
Silence fell, thick and uneasy.
“You already know,” Thomas whispered.
“Maybe,” Greg said, a thin smile tugging at his mouth. “But they don’t.”
Thomas swallowed, then looked up, cornered. “You. It was you.”
“Yeah,” Greg said simply. “It was.”
“You’re—” James actually took a step back. “You’re gay?”
“Bi,” Greg corrected, turning to him. “What, jealous? Both sides want me and no one’s looking your way?” He tilted his head, almost amused. “Go on. Spread it. Put it on every wall if you like.”
James’s lip curled. “You should care.”
“Why?” Greg shrugged. “You think it’ll ruin me? Make me hide?” He let out a sharp laugh. “Try it.”
“You’ll see,” James muttered.
“Looking forward to it.”
Greg grabbed his things and walked out.
He nearly ran straight into Mycroft.
“My—” He stopped short.
Mycroft stood by the door, clutching his crumpled, previously discarded, uniform to his chest. His hands were shaking.
“Idiot,” he said, voice unsteady.
Greg exhaled. “Nothing’s going to happen. Trust me.” He reached for Mycroft’s arm.
Mycroft didn’t pull away, but his gaze flickered with worry. “He’s right. Your future—”
“Isn’t worth much without you in it.”
Mycroft blinked, then flushed faintly. “That is an utterly ridiculous statement.”
“Yeah,” Greg said softly. “Probably. But true.” he smiled. “It’ll be fine,” he went on. “What can a bunch of idiots actually do? To me? To you? In London, it won’t matter.”
“…Not much,” Mycroft admitted, reluctant.
“Exactly.”
Mycroft hesitated. “My mother—”
“When has she ever cared that much?”
The words came out sharper than intended.
Mycroft went very still.
Greg winced. “Sorry.”
“No,” Mycroft said quietly. “You’re right.” A hollow little laugh. “My family doesn’t care. No one does.”
Greg stepped closer. “I do.”
Mycroft looked at him for a long moment—then he leaned in and kissed him.
Greg smiled against his lips.