Chapter Text
The first thing he felt was the cold. Then came the pain.
Mycroft groaned, trying to move, but something held him down. His wrists burned where the ropes bit into his skin. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
"Good, you're awake." A pair of brown eyes stared down at him.
They were in an abandoned building, cold autumn wind cutting through the broken window. Mycroft tried to sit up, but a sharp jolt of pain nearly made him black out.
“Easy,” the man said, pulling him upright with surprising gentleness. Mycroft recognized him—he'd seen him before, a new face in his father’s kitchen. One of the servants.
His head pounded. His thoughts came slow and scrambled. Still, panic or not, he wouldn’t show fear.
“Drink.” The cloth was removed from his mouth.
Mycroft turned his head away, lips sealed tight.
“It’s water,” the man said, holding the bottle near his nose. “Suit yourself.” He pinched Mycroft’s nose and waited.
With his hands and feet bound, Mycroft had no choice. He gasped for air, and water flooded his mouth. He coughed violently as it went down the wrong way.
“What... is wrong... with you?” he wheezed.
“I was being decent and offering you water. You’re the one making this difficult.”
“Difficult? I’ve been kidnapped.”
“And if you keep resisting,” the man said, pressing a knife to his throat, “It’ll only get worse.”
Mycroft chuckled bitterly. “You think this is the first time someone’s threatened to kill me?”
The man's eyes narrowed. “You want to die?”
“I don’t have much to live for.”
“Highly doubt that.”
“Let’s not argue.” Mycroft’s voice dropped. “If it’s ransom you are after, no one’s going to pay. You’ve taken the wrong man.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I assure you, you have.”
“You’re the eldest son of the Clan Chief Holmes.”
“That’s true.”
“His heir.”
“I may be the eldest, but I’m not the heir.”
“You can talk all you want,” the man said smugly. “I know I’ve got the right person.”
“You joined the staff months ago.”
“Exactly. No one noticed the servant in the corner.” And he looked proud of that. Mycroft might’ve rolled his eyes if his head hadn’t hurt so much.
“All that effort,” Mycroft muttered, “and you still didn’t learn the truth.” Mycroft gave a dry laugh that turned into a wince. “Was it necessary to break my ribs?”
“Was it necessary to fight back?” he shot back.
“I could’ve fought you off if not for the sedative.”
“Sure.” The man’s tone softened. “Hold still.”
“What are you doing?” Mycroft tensed as the man began undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“There’s blood. I need to see the wound.”
“I don’t feel comfortable with that.”
“You’d rather bleed out?”
“Yes.”
“Not on my watch, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.” Mycroft hissed.
“Then what should I call you?”
“My name will suffice. Or you don’t even know that?”
“Mycroft,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “I know it.”
“And how may I address you?”
“The wound’s not too deep,” the man muttered, ignoring him.
“If not money, what do you want?” Mycroft needed more information.
The man sat back on his heels. “I want to save my village.”
“Ah.” Mycroft leaned against the wall, his exhaustion deepening.
“The wolves are getting closer. We won’t survive the winter without help. But if our clans join forces…”
“You think kidnapping me is the way to do that?”
“Your father will have no choice once we’re married.”
“Married?” Mycroft’s eyes flew open.
“After our union, he’ll have to support us. We’ve exhausted every other method.”
“It is hard to reason with him,” Mycroft agreed. “I see that you’re desperate, but please listen to me when I say this won’t work.”
“It must,” the man insisted. And then he shifted—his form shimmering, condensing into that of a silver fox.
Mycroft’s breath caught. Something inside him stirred. He fought the urge but the pheromones were too overwhelming. His vision blurred as his body began to shift in response.
He tried to fight him off, but he was too weak. Soon, he was pinned to the ground, his ear bitten.
He was marked.
He shut his eyes, expecting the inevitable but the pressure lifted. The fox stepped back, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” came the whisper, now human again. “I’ll get water.”
Mycroft curled in on himself, his seven tails wrapping protectively around his body.
“Let me clean your wound.” Fingers slid gently through his red fur. Reluctantly, Mycroft shifted back.
“I’m sorry,” the man said again.
“You married a freak,” Mycroft muttered. He didn’t meet his gaze.
Mother Nature’s cruel joke. Seven tails. A sign of power according to some—in reality a curse.
“I think you’re gorgeous.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Is that how you talk to your husband?”
“When my husband’s an idiot, yes.” Mycroft moved away from him.
“Why am I an idiot?”
“You didn’t let me explain.”
“Explain what?”
“My father only took me in after my mother died.”
The man froze.
“I’m his bastard. His charity case. I’m only useful because I can bear children. That’s the only reason he kept me.”
“You’re lying.” he turned pale.
“I’m not. I’m reminded of it daily. A political marriage would have been my only worth.” Mycroft closed his eyes, resting his head on his knees. “He is right, I’m useless.”
“But—”
“You should’ve listened to the gossip.”
“I should have,” the man said softly, then covered Mycroft with his cloak.
Mycroft was almost asleep when he spoke again. “Greg, my name is Greg Lestrade.”
“What will you do with me now, Gregory?” Mycroft looked at him.
“Take you home. It’s two days on foot.”
“Not killing me?” he glanced at the knife.
“I was never planning on hurting you. I never thought you’d fight back.” Greg rubbed at his bandaged arm.
“I’m not weak,”
“No, you are stronger than me.”
Greg as part of the staff witnessed how poorly the majority of the household and the family treated Mycroft. Yet he carried himself with dignity, never showing pain.
“Rest,” Greg said gently. “We have a long two days ahead of us.”
Mycroft curled up on the ground, wrapped in the thick cloak of Greg and his seven tails for extra warmth. Now that he was marked Greg didn’t have to fear that he’d run off. Their life was tied together.
***
“You should have consulted us first!”
Mycroft stood just behind Greg, tense but composed, as the village council glared down from their seats in the wooden hall. At the head, Greg’s father—the village chief—was livid.
“You told me to find a solution,” Greg said evenly. “Well, I found one.”
The chief let out a slow, measured breath. “Greg… this is—”
“An unorthodox method, I’ll admit.”
“Unorthodox?” The chief stood. “You kidnapped the son of a clan leader and forced him into marriage! I did not raise you to behave like this!”
Greg didn’t flinch under the weight of his father’s glare. “What’s done is done. The bond is sealed.”
“That doesn’t make it right!” His father’s voice echoed through the hall.
“We need to send word to Chief Holmes immediately,” one of the council members muttered.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” the chief agreed distractedly, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I’ll get Mycroft settled,” Greg turned, gesturing for Mycroft to follow.
“Stay right there!” the chief barked.
Greg froze mid-step.
“Everyone out. I need a word with my son. Alone.”
The council hesitated, casting uneasy glances between the three of them before filing out one by one. The heavy door thudded shut behind them.
“Dad,”
“Idiot!” His father’s palm cracked sharply across his cheek.
Greg took it without a word.
“I know you meant well. I know you’re thinking about the clan’s survival.” His voice softened, but only slightly. “But this… this wasn’t the way.”
“I did what I had to. The wolves are getting bolder. We don’t have time to wait for politics to catch up.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to take another man’s future into your hands.” He turned to Mycroft. “Your name?”
“Mycroft, Sir.”
The chief straightened. His expression shifted into something more formal, more solemn.
“Mycroft, I sincerely apologise for the way my son treated you.” Mycroft met his gaze, calm but guarded. “Surely you are aware there’s no undoing the bond. It’s sealed—for life.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I can only hope you’ll find some measure of peace here. You’ll be treated with the dignity you were denied.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly.
There was an awkward pause. Then the chief cleared his throat. “I understand this is uncomfortable, but I must ask… will there be an heir?”
“That won’t be a problem,” Mycroft replied, his voice neutral.
“Ah. That’s a relief.” The chief’s shoulders eased for the first time.
Greg stepped forward slightly. “May we go, Father?”
The chief studied Mycroft's face for a long, silent moment, then turned to Greg. “He looks unwell. See that he rests.”
“Of course, thank you.”
As they left the council hall, Greg walked silently at Mycroft’s side—close, but not touching.
“This is us,” Greg said, pushing open the wooden door and gesturing inside. “Not as grand as your father’s estate, but…”
“It’s perfectly fine, Gregory,” Mycroft replied without hesitation, stepping into the small home.
The space was modest but clean—warm, even. A stone hearth took up one wall, a fire crackling low. Handmade shelves lined the other, filled with jars and herbs, a few old books, and worn trinkets clearly made by loving hands. There was the scent of dried lavender, clay, and the faint trace of fox fur.
Greg pointed to a small room off the main one. “You can wash up in there. I’ll go ask Mum to set aside some food.”
“I can cook,” Mycroft offered automatically.
Greg grinned, already halfway to the door. “I bet you can. But not tonight.”
He was gone before Mycroft could argue.
When Greg returned with a covered plate and a hopeful smile, he found Mycroft asleep, slumped awkwardly in a chair by the fire.
“Come on, Mycroft,” he said softly, setting the food down. “Eat a bit, then sleep properly.”
Mycroft stirred. “Not hungry,” he yawned.
“A few bites.” Greg uncovered the plate—roasted root vegetables, a thick stew, a hunk of fresh bread—and set it on the table before him. “No sedative this time. Promise.”
Reluctantly, Mycroft sat up straighter. He forced himself to chew and swallow a few mouthfuls, though he tasted none of it.
“Clean clothes,” Greg said, handing him a folded bundle of soft cotton and wool. “They’ll be more comfortable.”
Mycroft nodded mutely, taking them without meeting his eyes. He stepped into the washroom and stripped with difficulty. His body was a canvas of pain—finger-shaped bruises, cuts, a dark splotch blooming along his ribs, the bite mark on his ear. Every movement made him flinch. He washed quickly, Greg was waiting.
The thought echoed as he dried himself and pulled on the robe. His heart pounded with each step back to the main room.
Greg was making up a bed in the corner—nesting old quilts and soft furs.
“I’ll sleep out here,” he said, turning at the sound of footsteps. “You take the room.”
Mycroft stopped a few paces from him. The robe clung to his damp skin. He could feel Greg’s body heat from where he stood, could smell forest air and travel dust and fox musk.
Quietly, Mycroft said, “Having a child won’t help. My father still won’t support your people. But…” His fingers trembled as he undid the sash of the robe. It slipped off his shoulders and pooled silently at his feet. “I’m yours.”
“No—no, no.” Greg moved quickly, eyes wide, lifting the robe and wrapping it gently around him again. “Don’t do that.”
“I know I’m not attractive,”
“Stop.” Greg’s voice was firm, but not angry. “Listen. I know I haven’t known you long but you are a brilliant, kind, sharp-tongued fox spirit with eyes like the storm.” He smiled. “I want to get to know you—you, not what you can give. Who knows maybe one day we can even be friends.”
Mycroft blinked rapidly. His throat felt tight.
“Your family line needs an heir. Your father,”
“I’m not my father,” Greg said firmly, stepping back. “No more of that.”
“I can sleep on the floor,” Mycroft said faintly. “I’m used to it.”
“Not anymore,” Greg said, already turning away. “I’ll wash up. Sleep well,”
The door clicked softly behind him.
The bed was warm. Too warm. The pillows smelled unfamiliar. Mycroft lay still, wrapped in wool and silence, staring at the ceiling. His body ached in too many places to count.
From the main room, he could hear Greg’s quiet movements, then nothing but the soft rhythm of his breathing as he settled down.
Mycroft remained awake.
He should feel safe. He was not being touched, not being forced. He had been given food, clothing and space.
And yet his chest felt hollow. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s expression—the cold disdain. Heard again the jeers from the others, echoing: bastard, freak, seven-tailed shame.
His fingers curled against the blanket. The mating bond pulsed faintly beneath his skin—an unwanted thread tying him to a stranger, dragging him into a life he had not chosen.
Greg’s breathing remained steady. Calm. Mycroft listened to it, not out of comfort but necessity. He needed the sound—proof he was still in the real world and not trapped in some fevered nightmare.