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He knelt tall, back straight; hands bound behind his back, before his dead lover's brother.
"Eyes down." Mycroft instructed. "Do NOT look at me."
John quickly dropped his head, not daring to disobey.
He just wanted to let go; to be free.
Free of the loss; the pain; the grief.
Closing his eyes tight, he felt a stab in his chest as, for a split second, he watched Sherlock jump from the roof of St. Bart's.
Perfectly-manicured fingers stroked softly through his hair before Mycroft reached for the cane.
John whimpered at the loss of the touch but resisted the urge to follow the fingers with either his head or his eyes.
"Patience, Doctor." Mycroft returned the hand briefly, giving a single touch as he circled around John, stopping behind him.
As Mycroft delivered the first blow to his buttocks, John remained steady; firm; upright.
He bit his bottom lip in an effort to remain silent.
When the cane bit into soft flesh a second and third time, he could not help the quiet sob that he didn't quite manage to stifle.
Mycroft leant down, pressing his lips to John's cheek.
"Just let go, John." he whispered, sliding his hand across the soft skin of his hipbone.
And as John felt those elegant fingers wrap around his cock, he finally broke.