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Mycroft Holmes stood as his guest arrived, unannounced and unwelcome as usual. Mycroft offered a hand to shake, his posture pristine as ever, his whippet thin body poised and elegant.
"Mycroft," purred Charles Augustus Magnussen, "A pleasure as always. Your diet is going well?"
"Yes. Thank you," said Mycroft stiffly in return, eager to have his hand back as soon as possible but never showing it. Hard cold eyes stared levelly at dark dead ones. Magnussen's hand felt cold and clammy.
"Have a seat, please," Mycroft offered as the contact was maintained for longer than was either polite or appropriate. Moist fingers finally slid from his own as the two men sat down.
"Thank you," replied Magnussen, a smirk appearing on his thin lips and mirthless light coming into his eyes, "I'm sorry. I was just thinking of something funny."
Mycroft gave the Dane a level nod.
"What brings you here?" he asked pointedly, steepling his fingers on his desk, very much like his younger brother might.
Magnussen's smile spread, revealing teeth.
"Your brother," he replied, now fishing through the small bowl of hard candy on Mycroft's desk, touching every single one, "He seems to have resumed his rather damning drug habit." He popped one of the sweets into his mouth, sucking on it loudly as he leaned back.
Mycroft blinked.
"I... had my suspicions."
"Good. Then you believe me."
"I always believe a man of your... quality," said Mycroft with a tight smile. Magnussen chuckled and propped his feet up on Mycroft's desk, causing several papers to scatter to the floor.
"There is of course then the matter of those he purchases his, shall we say, recreations. I happen to know them all, as I'm certain you are also aware. I only had to wonder," drawled Magnussen, spitting the candy from his mouth and swinging his legs back to the floor, grinning as he leaned over Mycroft's desk, "What were to happen if something not quite recreational was slipped into the next dose. That may well cure him. Of more than just that habit."
Magnussen gave a short laugh, a sharkish smile filling his face.
Mycroft glared stonily back, not betraying his concern.
"What would you advise I do to avoid this cure?" he asked, as politely as if offering the Dane cream and sugar.
Magnussen slithered around the side of Mycroft's desk, slipping his hands down the man's shoulders, cupping his middle.
"Become my little hog," he murmured, his breath gusting wetly against Mycroft's ear, "Gain 10 pounds for me in the next week. And your baby brother will be utterly unharmed."
Mycroft felt rather ill.
"And what is to stop me from intervening in my brother's drug habit?" he asked curtly.
Magnussen paused in his rubbing of the elder Holmes's belly.
"Only this. In addition to your brother's weakness," he replied, slipping a card into Mycroft's suit pocket. He patted the man's middle and then slipped away, wandering towards the door.
"I'll see you in a week, my little hog,"
Mycroft waited for him to go, then tore the note forward, his eyes going wide as he read the contents. He drew out his lighter and quickly set fire to it. Then he texted Anthea.
A double burger with chips and a dozen custard filled doughnuts to my office.
If Anthea was surprised, she didn't let it show. Her response came dutifully and immediately.
Of course, sir.
Mycroft sighed. He reached down and undid his trouser button as he awaited his meal. He would need that capacity he had tried so hard to curtail.
***
The next seven days were utterly stuffed with food. Mycroft woke early, not to work out, but to stretch out his belly with a thick shake, gaining supplements and appetite enhancers added. Then he would lounge and work as he drank his way through the pitcher. Then came breakfast, filled with starchy fat pancakes and fried bacon or sausage that were dripping with the butter they had cooked in. His stomach was burbling and bloating by the end of it. He donned a pair of his old trousers and dressed. Brunch then, at work, several of the largest doughnuts or scones that Anthea could find. He had barely gotten them down with his tea when his lunch would be brought up. Some days it was a monstrous sandwich slathered in mayonnaise with crisps, others it was takeaway like burgers or a heavy container of chow mein that left his shirt feeling several sizes too small, his bloated gut pressing out against the crisp shirts and waistcoats. Mycroft then took his afternoon tea early, munching on countless biscuits as he worked through the day, adding cloying amounts of whole milk and sugar to his tea. He found himself constantly having to muffle belches in the midst of meetings, doing his best to suck in his overfilled and aching middle as he rose to greet whomever he was seeing. It was mortifying, but Mycroft handled it with his usual grace. That is until the visitor left and he could let it all flub out with a soft groan. Dinner. Then supper. Then a midnight snack before bed. Mycroft felt constantly bloated and stuffed, waddling home only to eat more there, downing pizzas, pastas, and whatever else might fatten him up.
He felt rounder by the day, felt the fat creeping under his skin, filling out his old suits again. He maintained a stiff upper lip however. It was one thing to lose his physique. It didn't mean he had to lose his dignity. And so he ate every bite with the utmost care, even as his belly moaned and gurgled in protest, popping out under his shirts and swelling through his open trousers.
He bore Sherlock's scorn just as well, if not as easily. Of course he would gloat and tease. It was as they always had. He would be more concerned if he were faced with kindness. Still. It stung. But he couldn't know what lengths his big brother was willing to go for him. John, however, showed better observational skills than he had given him credit for and got his brother to stop mocking him as he reached for another biscuit, his belly sagging into his lap where he sat. He gave the doctor the smallest of nods, which John returned as Sherlock sulked like his new favorite toy had been taken from him. Mycroft was glad to see John back at his brother's side. He trusted the ex-army captain would keep him from dipping back into his habit anytime soon.
Then the day of his inspection came, Magnussen prowling towards him with evident glee as he pushed himself to his feet.
"Good. I always knew you were a hog," he said, smiling and ignoring the hand Mycroft offered him. Instead he eyed him up and down, circling him, reaching out here and there to take a pinch, have a prod, slip his fingers over new softness. "I can smell them, see right past the human facade they put up. I always know a squealing pig, even in a suit."
The villain smiled smugly, stepping into Mycroft's space and slowly untucking the man's shirt. Mycroft let him, staring at him icily, not bothering to suck it in or let him have that victory. He shuddered however as he felt cold hands on his stomach, squeezing at the softness around his navel. He forced his expression to remain stony as a finger probed his navel.
"Very well done. I should almost say you gained more than the ten you promised me," Magnussen purred, straightening and moving closer, his hands now sweeping over Mycroft's hips.
"A stone in fact."
"Oh... " said Magnussen, giving Mycroft's cushioned hips a harsh squeeze, "You're a greedy one, Piggy." He smirked, digging in one of his pockets.
"Would you like a chocolate? Danish. Much better than that horrible Cadbury sort." There was a crinkling of a wrapper and a piece of chocolate was dusted almost lovingly along Mycroft's lips.
He gave Magnussen a haughty look. Then accepted it. He chewed slowly, primly.
"There's a good hog," praised Magnussen, rubbing at Mycroft's soft belly again. He pinched it and held it fast.
Mycroft swallowed the gasp that wanted to escape. His stomach was rather sensitive of late with how much it had grown in so short a time.
"Grow another two stone for me," he said, smiling coldly, "And I might consider a deal."
"Deal?" repeated Mycroft, his tongue still feeling thick with rich chocolate.
Magnussen kept smiling, then patted his hog's middle and turned to go. "See you in two weeks, min lille gris."
Once the door was shut, Mycroft sank into his chair, his head in his hands, looking down at the fat bloated thing that spilled over his waistband. Magnussen still believed himself in control. Splendid. And clearly he was underestimating just how much of a pig Mycroft could truly be.
***
Mycroft had tasted every kind of cake under the sun by the time his next meeting with Magnussen arrived. He had eaten lavish meals, called in favors, dined at the best restaurants in town and left hiccuping, belly bouncing from every last one. His trousers had been let out twice and still they were biting him as he sat now, a swollen heavy pale gut oozing out over the top of them, his waist coats abandoned, his shirt buttons clinging on for dear life. The seams of his trousers screamed, furniture complained. Mycroft Holmes was approaching undeniably fat.
Magnussen's dead eyes seemed to light up as Mycroft grunted and pulled himself to his feet to greet him. Again those cold clammy hands were wandering him, squeezing him, measuring the thickness of new rolls in his fingers.
"Quite the hog, aren't you, Mycroft?" he purred, "Such a fat gluttonous thing. All you needed was an excuse. And now look at you."
He slapped Mycroft's belly lightly, watching it wobble.
"London's prize pig," he laughed.
Mycroft kept his expression neutral. "You wished to strike a deal?"
"Patience, piggy," Magnussen chided, playing with the flab on Mycroft's arm, flicking it. Then he sat in the other man's chair and stretched, watching Mycroft waddle to the far less comfortable wooden one that had been set out. His arse barely fit upon it.
"The deal," the Dane continued, "Is that I will bring you a feast. You will eat it like the fat hog you are. If you burst free of your buttons within an hour, I will turn over my information. You will no longer be in danger from me." He smiled.
Mycroft hid a smirk, now glad that he had been sucking in his belly for the entire time.
"And should I fail?"
"You fail. I get to continue our little game."
"Interesting to say the least," replied Mycroft, "I will take you up for that deal. But I have one further condition of my own."
"What might that be?" asked Magnussen, his expression unchanging.
Mycroft drew in a measured breath and slid a card across the table. "I pop all of my buttons within thirty minutes. You agree to these terms."
Magnussen read the card with no emotion, then slid it back across the table. He considered his options.
He offered the British Government his clammy hand.
"Deal."
Mycroft took it.
Then Magnussen sent for the feast. Soon the room smelled of heavy, savory dishes and Mycroft's desk had been completely cleared of papers and office supplies. Now it was completely covered with trays, plates, and bowls, each filled with all manners of food. All were hot, fresh, steam rising from them. Several fairy cakes stood ready as well, expertly and generously iced, lemon tarts piled on top of one another.
Mycroft took in the food before him. His stomach growled. Magnussen smirked. The elder Holmes drew back his sleeves, checked his watch and then took it off.
"7:15," he stated calmly. Magnussen nodded, watching the other man with interest.
"I wish you luck," he said, then smirked, "Now as we say in Denmark. Eat, my little piggy. Tomorrow you go to slaughter."
Mycroft nodded curtly. He did not reach for the silverware placed before him. He ignored the napkin and the plate. Instead he seized the nearest pot and lifted it to his lips, gulping down the thick hearty stew as fast as he could, hardly pausing for breath. A few trickles escaped, dripping down Mycroft's chin. Magnussen wanted a pig? He would get one. And then he could get the hell out of London.
Mycroft suppressed a belch, slapping his swollen middle. He began stuffing down soft bread rolls one after the other, crumbs going everywhere. Then he seized the fairy cakes, eating them in two bites each, his cheeks bulging, his lips smeared with icing. Then the lemon bars, popped in and swallowed down without a second thought. Mycroft's belly swelled further toward his thighs, warring even more with the button of his trousers. He grunted softly as he reached for buttery mashed potatoes. He stirred in plenty of gravy, then tipped that back as well, shoveling it down, the pot held high, his belly on full display as it grew and grew, rounding steadily, areas of pale skin showing between the buttons of his shirt now. He set the emptied pot down, panting and burping, one hand on his middle, feeling how tight the fabric was. He threw Magnussen a steely glare, then hauled a plate piled high with sausage and bacon towards him, wolfing it all down. His stomach was twinging now, bloated past his usual by the speed of his eating. The waistband was impossibly tight it-
"Oh," he sighed, feeling his gut flood into his lap as the trouser button gave way, pulling even harder at his shirt buttons. He smirked at Magnussen, his face flecked with food but his eyes shining with triumph. "One down."
Magnussen only nodded, his eyes swimming lazily over the man before him, watching as he made a complete and utter pig of himself.
Mycroft pulled a tray of mince pies towards him next, cramming them down his gullet as quickly as he could manage, swallowing heavily, chasing them with thick creamy milk. Another faint pop, then another. Mycroft felt a pleasant freeing near his navel and knew he was closer to victory. His opponent looked astonished. Mycroft let out a mighty belch, rubbing at his achingly over filled middle as he ate still more. At last, the table was filled with nothing but crumbs and empty dishes. Mycroft fell back, hiccupping lightly, sighing contentedly, his belly massively swollen and pressing up against his desk, his deep navel stretched wide and surrounded by splotchy red skin. He hiccuped and the last button sprang free, exposing the rest of his chest. Mycroft reached lazily for his watch, grunting as his belly inhibited his movements.
"7-hurp- 7:37," he reported, sitting back and clasping his hands on top of his middle. Magnussen stared, then hurriedly checked his own watch. It matched. He stared at Mycroft, eyes still cold and dead, but now there was a spark of something else within them.
"I... must extend you my congratulations then, Mr. Holmes," the villain breathed. He stood and inclined his head. He smiled slightly. "I should have known not to underestimate the gluttony of a hog. You... impress me."
"Thank you," replied Mycroft, lifting his chin impressively and giving Magnussen an icy stare. "I recommend you get moving. If my agents find you within the United Kingdom past 8:30. They have the government's full permission to kill you where you stand."
Magnussen stood. "As per our arrangement," he agreed, "It has been fun, lille gris. Let me know when you need a feeding, won't you?"
Mycroft said nothing as the Dane sauntered to the doorway, perhaps a touch more quickly than he usually would. Then Charles Augustus Magnussen was gone. Mycroft let out a sigh, that became a burp, that became a moan. He rubbed at his enormous gut, trying to shift and get more comfortable. He could call Anthea for assistance, but no. Even she shouldn't see him like this. He reached for a napkin, dipped it lightly in a water glass and started cleaning himself up. He caught sight of himself in a nearby mirror and swallowed, reaching down to jiggle his over stuffed gut. He measured it with his fingers, walking along it. He gave it a light slap. Mycroft swallowed. As much as the sight should disgust him, the weight being a token from Magnussen's blackmail, he couldn't help but find it... pleasing. He smirked and pinched at the softness near his navel. Let it stay then, as a monument to his victory.