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When Mycroft turned twenty he stopped hugging his younger brother.
Sherlock had been in his early teens by then, his baby fat fading as he grew. Mycroft had envied him, at first- Sherlock had knobby knees, sharp elbows and hipbones that jutted out above his jeans.
Envy. That was safe. He could envy Sherlocks swift metabolism, envy the darkness of his hair and the sharpness of the cheekbones he’d inherited from their mothers side of the family.
The truth wasn’t as simple as that. Mycroft would lock himself in his bedroom and turn off the lights. Naked, he would climb into bed. His stomach had a soft layer of fat but that didn’t stop him from imagining it was Sherlocks stomach.
He slicked up his own fingers and imagined it was Sherlocks body that he breached.
‘Pose for me, boys,’ their mother would say every Christmas. ‘Big smiles, arm around your brother, Mycroft.’
Once, he’d been able to sling an arm around Sherlocks shoulders as if it were nothing. A simpler time. The photos of previous Christmases proved it. Mycroft smiled easily, pinning Sherlock to his side. Sherlock would beam in the early photos, elated just to be with his big brother. And if his smiles became a more forced as the years passed, well-
It was probably just a coincidence.
Mycroft had taken every possible precaution. There was no possible way Sherlock could know. Sherlock was smart enough to deduce average people, but Mycroft was smarter than Sherlock and better at keeping secrets.
Even so, Mycroft didn’t think he was imagining the way Sherlock hesitated around him now. Perhaps it was just puberty, making him awkward and unsure? Perhaps every teen became uncomfortable touching their family members as they sexually matured?
Mycroft was twenty. The Christmas tree was sparkling in the center of the living room. Their mother put it up herself every year, decorating it with antique baubles which sat awkwardly alongside the hand-made trinkets he and Sherlock had been forced to make in school.
‘Sherlock! Come down, I want this photo taken now! Tonight!’
His hands felt sweaty. He didn’t want to smile next to his brother, didn’t want to have his arm around Sherlock. Yet his traitorous heart was speeding up in anticipation.
Mycroft had been tense all through dinner as well, hardly able to enjoy his favorite foods. He had been dreading the photo for days. Even last night he had been panting Sherlocks name to himself as he came, and now, to stand around as if everything was normal-
Sherlock ran downstairs. Father always insisted upon suits during important dinners, even when they were small children. And now Sherlock was starting to fill out it was a whole new fresh hell for Mycroft. Dressed up, Sherlock looked older than he was. Like the man he would grow to be.
‘Come on, come on.’ Mother checked her camera and smiled. ‘I do wish you’d fix your hair, Sherlock. Mycrofts looks much neater.’
‘Neat,’ Sherlock spat. ‘Boring.’
‘You’re brother isn’t boring, Sherlock. Stand next to him.’
‘Everything is boring,’ Sherlock insisted. He stood next to Mycroft. ‘Taking the same photo every year’s boring.’
‘Nonsense. You both change all the time. Taller and more handsome every year.’
‘Fatter every year,’ Sherlock said. ‘If you’re Mycroft.’
‘Sherlock!’
‘Sorry,’ Sherlock said, not sounding sorry. ‘I’ll behave.’
Sherlock wrapped his arm around Mycrofts waist. He ruthlessly suppressed a shudder at the contact. Their mother smiled expectantly.
‘Mycroft? Arm around Sherlock.’
‘Must I?’
It was unlike him to complain, unlike him to be as petulant as his brother. He was furious with himself for being aroused by Sherlocks simple touch, disgusted that he couldn’t even stand for their traditional photo together without wanting him.
‘Sherlock’s right,’ Mycroft said. ‘It’s stupid to take the same photo every year.’
He pulled away from Sherlock, desperate to hide his expression. He charged upstairs at twice his usual speed, ignoring his mothers outraged shouts. Sherlock was silent.
Mycroft closed every door he walked through, blocking out the noise and hoping to putt off any pursuit. He knew he’d be accused of ruining Christmas for years to come but found that he couldn’t care.
Sherlock had touched him, he had felt the length of Sherlocks arm wrapped around his middle, could remember it so vividly it was as if it was still happening. What on earth was wrong with him?
He slammed his bedroom door and locked it. Snow was swirling past his window, cold and uninterested in his plight. Mycroft crossed the room and pressed his face against the cold glass, trying to fight down the flickering, persistent arousal in his stomach.
He’d need an excuse. His ensuite bathroom was sparkling clean thanks to whatever woman their father was currently employing. Mycroft avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He pushed up the toilet seat and knelt over it, creasing his suit horribly. His fingers tasted foul.
Grunting, he found his gag reflex. Mycroft felt his eyes water as he pressed against it, felt his stomach lurch. The urge to stop was powerful. He hated vomiting, hated it, but it was the best excuse he had. He shoved his fingers deeper and retched, bringing up course after course of beautifully prepared food.
Small chunks of carrot hit the tiled floor with a splatter. Mycroft held onto the toilet bowl with both his shaking hands. His eyes watered until he thought he might actually be crying.
This has to stop, he told himself. This has to stop now.
Three weeks later Mycroft purchased a house in London, and left without saying farewell to Sherlock.
~
London was exactly what Mycroft had needed.
The work was constant and demanding. He had little time to think about home as he moved his way up, up, up. Most of the people who he worked with were stupid, but some were powerful, and Mycroft had always been fascinated by the shape of power, by its intangible influence.
He worked obscene hours, earned the trust of the people he needed and destabilized those he didn’t. He found that the right knowledge could open up almost anyone, so he made friends everywhere: university professors, media moguls, politicians, businessmen, bankers, lawyers.
Mycroft was promoted swiftly. He soon found himself supervising his former bosses, delegating tasks. But he had to be careful, he knew- the last thing he wanted or needed was public recognition.
His weight, however, continued to fluctuate. He rifled through fitness magazines and womans magazines constantly, seeking a diet that might work, and he brought himself gym equipment despite the fact he barely had enough free time to use it. Mycroft knew that it was harder to dress well when you were large, and he had already observed that an expensive suit implied money and power to even the most obtuse individual. He could do nothing about his long nose or the light brown freckles that persisted in covering his shoulders, and he could do nothing about the distressing letters his mother sent him once a month. But he could run for an hour on his treadmill, and that was something.
Mycroft didn’t read the letters his mother sent. Not after the first one, which had been a combination of complaints about her health and updates on Sherlock. He had burned that letter, trying (and failing) to erase his mothers words: Sherlock finally got his hair cut yesterday, it looks much more reasonable now and quite handsome…
She had swallowed the story about his stomach bug at Christmas, however. There was no disputing it. Mycroft hadn’t flushed, to better let the stink of his vomit fill the room with a foul (but undeniable) proof.
Sherlock had made no effort to contact him at all.
~
Mycroft celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday in his recently purchased house on the outskirts of Kensington. He was expecting to sell it in a few years and move into Kensington itself, but there was no rush.
The sun was setting. It’d been an unusually good week for him. His mother had sent a card instead of calling, he’d fired one of his staff and enjoyed the increased productivity of his remaining workers (all so eager to prove themselves!) and he’d lost three kilos in the past month.
Now he could relax in a comfortable chair in his new home in peace. He had taken off his jacket and tie the moment he arrived home, and he now rolled up his sleeves as he drank. If his mother had called, Mycroft might’ve been asked to speak to Sherlock over the phone. Even though the intensity of his longing for Sherlock had dulled with time Mycroft had no desire to take risks.
His birthday card, however, would no doubt be harmless, and would perhaps contain cash. Not that he needed any, but- well, it seemed rude and wasteful to throw it away without checking.
Mycroft picked the envelope up from where it sat on his desk and slit it open with his nail. The card inside was clearly his mothers work. The paper was thick, the drawing of his family home accurate down to the last detail. It made him feel, for a moment, rather homesick. Which had probably been her intention.
He opened the card and something fluttered out onto the floor. Ignoring that for a moment Mycroft read the message inside.
Dear Mycroft, we all miss you very much. Your father says you ought to invite us up to London sometime this year as he’s getting old and would like to see how you’ve done for yourself with his own eyes. He misses you, I’m sure you know. I do too, though I’ve had my hands full with Sherlock. I have to wear glasses now, you know, and Sherlock broke them just the other day. You truly wouldn’t recognize Sherlock now, Mycroft. I know he annoyed you as a child but he’s quite clever, very scientific. But I shouldn’t keep on like this. Celebrate your birthday, my dear son, in good company and with good spirits. You are in all our minds and we all send our love.
Mycroft put the card aside and picked up what had fallen out of it. It was a fifty pound note and- his heart leaped into his throat- a photo. He picked it up with numb fingers.
Sherlock stood between their parents. He was half a head taller than their father and head and shoulders above their mother- making him scarcely shorter than Mycroft was. But that was not the only difference.
Adolescence had been kind to Sherlock: his shoulders were wide, his frame lean but undeniably strong. The cheekbones which had been emerging at fourteen were knife-sharp at nineteen, contrasting against a full, pink mouth. The younger brother Mycroft remembered as being carefree and laughing was not obvious in this photo- Sherlock looked stern and slightly awkward.
But his slightly raised eyebrow, and the way his mad black curls fell forwards over his face despite an obvious attempt to tame them- that was his Sherlock, through and through. Mycroft realized that he was smiling. Grinning, almost, at the photo, which was trembling slightly in his hands.
He put it on the table with reverence, and poured himself another finger of whiskey. His parents looked older, and the house in the background looked slightly more battered than he remembered. None of those things mattered.
‘You’ve grown up,’ Mycroft said. ‘Sherlock, Sherlock…’
He flipped the photo over and recognized Sherlocks untidy scrawl at once.
Happy birthday, big brother.
Mycroft closed his eyes.
~
Five months later Sherlock ran away from home. Mycroft found out when his assistant slipped a note in among his important files while he sat through a dull (but admittedly important) meeting.
Mother called, brother missing. Initiate search y/n?
Mycroft shook his head and his assistant nodded. It was surprising it hadn’t happened earlier, in his opinion. Sherlock had always been desperate for new experiences, new adventures. He was hardly a child anymore. No doubt he would pop up again in a few days with a job and a rent.
Even so Mycroft knew his mother would worry herself into a state. Sherlock had always been able to frighten her. As a child he had climbed all the tallest trees, mixed all chemicals from the laundry into bowls he’d taken from the kitchen. Famously, Sherlock had been taken to Emergency after knocking himself out by the river, having attempted to build himself a pirate ship and slipping on rocks.
Sherlock had survived with nothing but a tiny scar, and had listened to his parents furious lectures with polite disinterest. No, Mycroft was sure Sherlock would be fine. He’d always had a knack for survival. Many things had changed over the years, but that wouldn't have.
~
That afternoon Mycroft didn’t get home until ten in at night. It was pouring with rain by that point and his mood was sour. The meeting, which ought to have gone off without a hitch, had been botched. Would he always underestimate the stupidity of humans?
He pulled his keys from his pocked and wrestled with his umbrella as he opened the door. His hallway was dark but blessedly warm compared to the sleet outside. Mycroft toed off his shoes and left them by the door, walking directly to the laundry to change out of his wet things.
His jacket was soaked, as was the bottom of his trousers. He threw them into the dryer and rummaged around for a dressing gown. All thoughts of Sherlock had fled- the tip of his nose was freezing.
Mycroft unearthed his favorite fluffy red dressing gown and wrapped it firmly around himself as he walked upstairs. He didn’t bother turning on any of the lights, as he’d memorized the layout of every house he’d ever spent a night in. It was a security matter as much as anything else.
‘Dreadful,’ Mycroft said to himself, thinking of the meeting again with bitterness. ‘Totally botched… If I’d realized he was so damn-’
Mycroft froze, listening hard. He could’ve sworn he’d just heard a snort. Perhaps it’d just been a wet leaf hitting a window…? But already a feeling of dread was creeping over him.
‘Do go on,’ said a low, amused voice. ‘If you’d realized he was so damn what?’
‘Don’t move,’ Mycroft said. ‘I am armed.’
‘No you’re not,’ the voice replied.
The light turned on unexpectedly and Mycroft blinked, tensed for an attack that didn’t come. Sherlock was standing by the light switch and a slow smile spread across his face at Mycrofts shocked expression.
For a moment Mycroft struggled to breathe. Sherlock was perhaps an inch and a half shorter than him. He must’ve been caught in the rain at some point, because his hair was drying into fluffy ringlets.
His voice had broken impressively, a traitorous part of Mycrofts brain noted.
‘You’ve upset our mother,’ Mycroft said, his own voice even. ‘And broken into my house, all in one day. Quite and achievement.’
‘I like to keep busy,’ Sherlock said. ‘It was worth it too. I’m armed.’
He mimicked Mycrofts voice with alarming accuracy. Mycroft was fascinated. Sherlock had an air of bravado that might’ve been crude on a dimmer man. The sharp intelligence of his eyes, though- Mycroft recognized that. It was what he saw in the mirror every morning, something the photo hadn’t been able to capture.
‘You must’ve been busy,’ Mycroft said. ‘It takes rather a lot of effort to find out where I live, you know. You must’ve been keen to see me.’
‘In a way,’ Sherlock allowed. ‘I’m moving to London. I thought I’d stay here while I got myself organized.’
He spoke as though this was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask of a brother whom he hadn’t seen in years. A spike of anger managed to penetrate the shock still crashing through Mycrofts mind.
‘You certainly will not be staying here,’ he snapped. ‘I have a life here that doesn’t involve you, Sherlock.’
‘Oh no? The photo on your bedside table says otherwise.’
Mycroft was glad that years of painful negotiations had given him an iron-hard poker face. He was confident that not a single muscle twitched to betray him.
‘You’ve broken into my house, Sherlock. You can’t expect me to welcome you with open arms. London has many excellent hotels-’
‘A hotel?’ Sherlock said, faking outrage. ‘What would our mother say, Mycroft? Tossing me out of your home after our long-coming reunion, palming me off onto a hotel as if I were some stranger? Shame on you.’
It was an underhand move and going from Sherlocks triumphant smile he knew it’d worked. Mycroft walked out of the room, desperate for a drink. He walked into the kitchen and then stopped dead, unwilling to let Sherlock see his recipe books and endless pre-prepared fat free meals.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve already snooped through everything,’ Sherlock said. ‘Even found your hidden stash of cupcake mix. Naughty, Mycroft.’
Mycroft swallowed thickly.
‘I’ve had a long day at work,’ he said. ‘Which I doubt you could understand, as you are blatantly unemployed. I need dinner and a rest, not to be antagonized.’
He grabbed leftovers from the fridge and put them in the microwave, careful to avoid brushing too close to Sherlock. Normally Mycroft would eat rather slowly, enjoying the experience of eating (even when he was eating food without much flavor). Now he pulled his food from the microwave with badly disguised aggression and internally screamed as Sherlock sat down at the table with him.
Mycroft shoveled food into his mouth with bad grace, trying not to stare too obviously but unable to pull his eyes away entirely. Sherlock has beautifully shaped eyes. His fingers were calloused. Mycroft peered at them, distracted-
‘Violin, if you were wondering,’ Sherlock said. ‘I started the year after you left. I’m quite good.’
‘Do you have a violin with you?’
‘It’s in your spare room, along with my suitcase.’
Mycroft sighed.
‘I hope you realize I won’t be around to enjoy any performances,’ Mycroft said. ‘I have very long hours. I expect we’ll hardly see each other.’
‘And yet you were so keen to keep me away,’ Sherlock mused. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find somewhere far more interesting soon.’
‘Good.’
~
Mycroft spent the next week attempting to conceal from everybody around him that he was sleep deprived and constantly distracted. Even at his worst, however, Mycroft was yards ahead of his contemporaries. He doubted that they suspected a thing.
The truth was, however, that he felt haunted. Sherlock seemed to have worked out his schedule and was making sure he was home to torment Mycroft during the few hours a day that Mycroft was home.
He had the strong feeling that he was being punished. But since Sherlock has arrived Mycorft hadn’t dared touch himself in the house, instead taking long bathroom brakes at work and hating himself for it through talks with fussy, penny-pinching politicians. There was no way that Sherlock would catch him in the act, no way that Sherlock could know.
Yet Sherlock brought home all the foods that Mycroft had banned and ate them with almost pornographic enjoyment while Mycroft tried to chew through his own joyless dinner. When he tried to sleep the violin would start up. Sherlock picked the loudest and most obnoxious tunes Mycroft had ever heard in his life and could continue for hours. He was expecting a furious confrontation with a neighbor over the noise at any moment.
And Sherlock made no secret of his snooping. Mycroft found his clothes had been moved around his room and his books left around the house, face down and spines badly broken. Sherlock didn’t even wipe his shoes before walking inside.
‘Excuse me?’
He was being punished. There was no doubting it. But what for? He had let Sherlock stay in his house, he let Sherlock do what he wanted, he hardly even spoke to his brother unless he truly had to.
‘Excuse me? Mr Holmes?’
‘Sorry?’
His assistant was staring at him, frustrated. How long had he been trying to get his attention? Mycroft shook his head as if clearing water from his ears.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s been a situation,’ he said. ‘You’re wanted by the Mr Devon and Ms Hunter right now upstairs.’
Damn. Mycroft gathered his papers and hurried from the room. Devon and Hunter had been organizing the removal of loose-lipped spies from the Russian/Turkish boarder. Damned spies hadn’t even meant to be there, but had been causing Mycroft no end of trouble. They’d sent out a retrieval team four days ago.
The expression on Hunters face told him right away that something had gone wrong. Her lips were thinned into a hard line and her normally impassive eyes were hard. Beside her Devon was shifting in his seat, sweating.
Mycroft closed the door. ‘What happened?’
‘Our retrieval team is dead,’ Hunter said. ‘And a civilian has died as well. We’re sitting on the story for now, but their families must be informed and an official statement will have to be made. We’ll be needing a cover story that will satisfy everybody. Or at least make an investigation seem pointless. Needless to say, they didn’t achieve their objective.’
‘Right,’ Mycroft said. ‘Should we work on that now?’
He’d signed off on the retrieval, and for a moment a sense of guilt tugged at him. There was no point feeling sad about their deaths when there was work to do. Besides, Mycroft had never known them.
‘Don’t you want to know how they died?’ Devon said. Mycroft had never had a very high opinion of him, and found his sweating distasteful. ‘Plenty of people saw it. A man drove right-’
‘That will do,’ Mycroft said. ‘How much trouble are we in?’
‘It depends,’ Hunter said, and her eyes flicked towards Devon for a split second. ‘I’ll see what I can do. You work from home today, Mycroft. No arguments.’
Mycroft left, refusing to catch Devons eyes. Perhaps Devon could already sense that he would be taking the fall for this one? Relocation to a small, unimportant office would suit him. Somebody would keep a close eye on him though. For a year at least.
He called a taxi, deciding against the walk home. It looked like it might rain. He pulled out a cigarette while he waited. Smoking during his few quiet moments helped prevent Mycroft from finding a small café and eating, but he had never been addicted. Even so, he felt that it settled his nerves.
The taxi pulled up and Mycroft crushed his cigarette under his heel before climbing in.
‘Awful traffic,’ the driver said at once. ‘It’ll put the cost right up.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Mycroft said, giving his least sincere smile as he recited his address. Getting the hint, his driver remained silent. The traffic was truly awful though. Somehow Mycroft felt that was his fault, that everything in the world came back to the fuckup with the spies. He wondered what Hunter would say to Devon, who she would use to keep an eye on him once he was gone.
It started to rain as the taxi inched forward. Mycroft watched people on the side of the street start moving under cover. Two men standing under a tree caught his eye through the rain. One was clearly a drug dealer, going from his shoes, location and (Mycroft narrowed his eyes) current income. The man standing with him, though-
‘Pull over here,’ Mycroft ordered. ‘And wait. I’ll be back.’
The taxi pulled over a few meters from the tree. Mycroft climbed out just as Sherlock slipped a small bag into his jacket pocket, his back to Mycroft, who saw red. Perhaps sensing danger, his dealer turned and hurried away.
‘Sherlock Holmes how dare you,’ Mycroft spat. ‘The most disgusting waste of money and talent I have ever seen-’
Sherlock turned sharply, his expression momentarily shocked. His features swiftly changed into scorn, however.
‘Why do you care what I do with my money?’
‘It isn’t just about the money, you ignorant-’
‘Are you sure?’ Sherlock said loudly, cutting him off. ‘I think it must be about the money, because you fucked off for years and never gave a shit. So if you care now it must be about the money, mustn’t it? I can deal with indifference but I detest hypocrisy.’
Sherlock turned and walked away, head bowed and hands in his pockets. Mycroft lunged after him and caught him by the elbow.
‘Don’t touch me, Mycroft!’ Sherlock shouted, getting the attention of every person in a twenty-meter radius.
‘You think I’ll just let you go and get high?’ Mycroft hissed, refusing to be shaken off. ‘You think you’ll just walk away, consequences be damned? I am your brother, you realize-’
‘Yes, I do,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘Are you going to fix me up with an outpouring of brotherly affection?’
Mycroft opened his mouth stupidly, but found he had no words to reply with. He wanted to shake Sherlock, wanted to understand what on earth he thought he was doing, but he knew he had no right. He’d spent yesterday morning wanking in a bathroom to the memory of Sherlock moaning as he ate caramel slice- he was in no position to lecture Sherlock about how live his life, how to be a brother.
‘Nothing to say, Mycroft?’ Sherlock hissed. ‘That’s what I thought.’
He pulled away from Mycroft and stalked off, radiating anger. Stunned, Mycroft walked back to his taxi. His driver was watching him in obvious apprehension, as if worried Mycroft would start shouting and grabbing at him too.
‘Drive on,’ Mycroft said, sighing. ‘Just a minor family dispute.’
‘Right,’ was the dubious reply.
Mycroft collapsed backwards on his seat and closed his eyes.
~
The bottle of whiskey was nearly empty. Mycroft held it up and contemplated the final few drops. His ears felt numb. He was wearing his trousers and his shirt but nothing else, having torn his expensive jacket and waistcoat off the moment he was through the door. At the time they’d felt shockingly pretentious.
It’d never before dawned on him that he dressed just like his father. Now he was sitting in his living room in the dark, listening the pounding rain. Occasionally thunder would shake the windows.
Sherlock had not returned yet.
He’d have to return eventually though. Mycroft had snooped through his possessions- most of Sherlocks clothes and money were still in the house, as well as his violin. He wouldn’t go on the run with no clothes, and nothing to buy clothes with.
‘Storm, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘You always liked storms.’
When they were young they had sat side by side during storms, noses pressed against the windows with the lights off. Their mother had warned them not to, shouting about how the glass would shatter.
It never did, though. Mycroft could remember Sherlocks chubby hand in his as they both shouted, delighted, as lightening struck the distant horizon. Sometimes Sherlock had sat on his lap, insisting that Mycroft imitate the rolling of a boat at rough sea. Fearless little pirate Sherlock had shouted at his invisible shipmates, ordering them to ‘raise the poop deck.’
Mycroft felt an awful ache in his chest.
The sound of the storm was disturbed by a loud hammering on his front door. Mycroft lurched to his feet and staggered sideways for a moment before righting himself. He swiftly assessed how drunk he was: quite drunk, but not truly hammered.
‘Let me in!’ Sherlock called. ‘It’s pouring.’
Mycroft opened the door and stood aside as Sherlock stumbled in. He was dripping wet and pale with cold. Mycroft shut the door but didn’t move, unable to think of anything normal to say.
‘I’ll be out of your hair soon,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’ve been accepted by a university. I’ll live on campus. Out of your way, as you so clearly want me.’
It was the irony of Sherlocks statement that broke him at last.
‘You’re upset because you think I don’t want you?’ Mycroft said, aghast. ‘You think I don’t want you? All I’ve ever done is want you. That’s why I had to go.’
‘Oh don’t try that with me now,’ Sherlock said. ‘I know-’
‘No you don’t know!’ Mycroft shouted. ‘I’ve been hiding it for years, Sherlock!’
‘Hiding what, then?’
‘This,’ Mycroft said, gesturing towards his groin. Sherlocks face was blank. It occurred to Mycroft that he hadn’t been very clear. Mycroft threw the near-empty bottle of whisky aside and slammed him Sherlock into the wall.
‘Mycroft-’
Sherlock didn’t get to finish his sentence. Mycroft caught his mouth while it was still open and kissed him at last, sliding his tongue inside Sherlocks wet mouth and holding the back of Sherlocks head to keep him close. He could feel Sherlock shaking against him.
He pulled away. There was nothing but true, deep shock on Sherlocks face. His lips were still open and he was still pressed exactly where Mycroft had thrown him.
‘Do you understand now?’ Mycroft asked, voice rough. ‘Do you understand why I had to leave?’
Sherlock nodded. For the first time Mycroft realized how small his pupils were, and he cursed inwardly. The only silver lining he could see was that maybe, if he were very lucky, Sherlock would have forgotten everything by morning.
‘Go, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘Talking won’t do us any good now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Sherlock left without a backward glance. Once he was out of sight Mycroft pressed his finger to his lips. He had kissed Sherlock. He’d had Sherlocks mouth under his, their bodies pressed together-
He felt ten times drunker than he had half an hour ago. A flash of lightening briefly illuminated the living room. Mycroft felt his shoulders sag with exhaustion. Everything would have to wait until morning.
~
Mycroft checked his phone as he nursed his first hangover in years. He didn’t want to leave his bed. Luck was with him for the first time in days-
Don’t come in until midday. Getting Devon out. Need your work on MoD by this evening and D.M report asap. Hunter.
He collapsed backwards into his bed. He wasn’t brave enough to venture out in case he saw Sherlock. Would Sherlock remember, or had he been too high? Would he already have moved out, and vanished forever?
Mycroft dozed. It would be hours before he had to get up. And he knew felt he would owe Hunter a favor, once he returned to work. She wasn’t a bad person, though. Which was saying something considering his line of work.
Perhaps Sherlock would blackmail him? It was hard to say. If the situation was reversed… but Mycroft was too tired to play with hypotheticals. He couldn’t change anything.
He closed his eyes again, drifting towards sleep.
Then there was a knock at his bedroom door. Suddenly Mycroft felt very awake indeed.
‘Sherlock? Is that you?’
‘Yes. Can I come in?’
‘Yes.’
Mycroft could feel his heart slamming into his ribcage, but when Sherlock walked in he could’ve sworn it stopped completely.
Sherlock was naked.
And hard.
Mycroft felt his blood rush south. He was gaping like an idiot but unable to form words. Sherlock nipples were darker than he’d imagined and already standing erect from the chill of the room. There was a scar to the side of his left hip bone. And his cock-
‘Now you’ll look at me,’ Sherlock said. ‘I was wondering why you wouldn’t look at me. I thought I was so repulsive to you that you couldn’t stand to. But it’s quite the opposite, isn’t it?’
‘I was hoping you’d forget,’ Mycroft whispered.
‘I wasn’t that high.’
‘Clearly. I…’
‘Don’t bother.’ Sherlock smirked. ‘I can see you’re lost for words.’
He was. Sherlocks cock bobbed slightly when he spoke. Mycroft had never wanted to taste anything so much in his entire life, not even the chocolates he’d gorged on during a childhood holiday to France.
‘I’ve been thinking about this all night,’ Sherlock said. ‘Thinking about you. All the things I could do with this information, Mycroft…’
Sherlock had reached the end of the bed. Instead of sitting he began to crawl forwards, licking his lips as he went. Mycroft felt his cock twitch against his stomach. He was harder than he’d been in his entire life.
‘Did you fuck people who looked like me?’ Sherlock whispered. ‘Did you ask them to call you Myc? Did you say my name?’
‘Sherlock-’
‘I bet you did. Tell me you did.’
‘I did.’
Sherlocks hands were either side of Mycrofts hips, his body between Mycrofts parted legs. They were almost nose to nose.
‘I like having power over you. I could fuck up your life at any time, you realize? This isn’t some smoochy arrangement. You want me. I want you like this, powerless because you’re going to get to fuck me.’
Mycroft knew his cock was leaking, was probably leaving a stain on his rather expensive sheets. He didn’t care. Sherlock leant forward and kissed him, lips plump and wet over his. Mycroft breathed hard through his nose, kissed him back, kissed him and kissed him until Sherlock pulled away with a breathy sigh.
‘I’ve already lubed myself up,’ he said. ‘I sat on your spare bed and used my fingers. Pull down you’re sheet. I’ll be able to slide sit right down.’
He threw away the sheet, totally unselfconscious. Sherlock straddled him and with one fluid movement pressed the tip of Mycrofts cock against his damp hole and lowered himself, sinking inch by inch. Mycroft let out a low, broken moan as he watched Sherlock take him.
His cock sank in to the hilt. Sherlock exhaled, rolled his hips forwards experimentally. Mycroft moaned again, grabbing his hips.
‘No hands,’ Sherlock grit out between clenched teeth. ‘Just let me move.’
It was almost impossible not to reach for him but Mycroft resisted, transfixed by Sherlock swaying above him. The tightness around his cock was exquisite, and then Sherlock clenched-
‘Fuck,’ Mycroft said, surprising himself. ‘Oh fuck.’
Sherlock began to bob up and down, his curls bouncing. Mycroft watched him, mouth open, gasping for air. Sherlock was dropping his entire weight down on Mycrofts lap. His cock bounced and Mycroft longed to reach for it.
‘I’m- I’m going to come all over you,’ Sherlock said. He dropped his hand down to fist his own cock. Mycroft watched, eyes wide. ‘Mess you up,’ Sherlock said.
Sherlock pumped his fist in time with the thrusting of his hips, which began to move faster, faster. He was panting now, his mouth open, head thrown back. Mycroft burnt the image into his mind.
‘I’m- oh god-’
He came over Mycrofts chest and stomach, face screwed up and mouth open in a silent moan. Mycroft leant forwards just enough to catch some of the last drops in his open mouth. Sherlock tasted salty.
‘Swallow it,’ Sherlock said, opening his eyes. Mycroft did, looking right into his brothers eyes, and (to his own surprise) came with such force that the world went white.
He drifted back into reality slowly. Sherlock was wiping himself with a cloth. His face was flushed.
‘I’ve found a flat,’ Sherlock said. ‘On Montague Street. Going cheap.’
‘What are you planning on doing with your life?’ Mycroft asked, with genuine curiosity. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Something in the sciences, perhaps,’ Sherlock said, shrugging. ‘Or criminal work. Catching criminals, not being one. Maybe both. I’ll work something out.’
Mycroft nodded, not doubting it at all. It was good to talk to Sherlock like this- without fear or venom, about things that mattered. He wanted to lean up and kiss him but knew it would be unwelcome.
‘Goodbye, Mycroft,’ Sherlock said. He climbed off the bed and cracked his neck before walking out. He didn’t look back. The door closed behind him with a click. Mycroft relaxed back into his bed, ignoring the sticky sheets for a moment. He was exhausted and elated from undeniably the best fuck of his life. Yet he felt the strong desire to cry into his hands.
Exhaustion won. With a lingering feeling of unease Mycroft rolled over and slept.