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“What were you thinking?”
Mycroft hadn’t said more than two words on a stretch to Sherlock since he found him, and the two words were, "Get in.” They had referred to his car and the shower respectively, but after roughly thirty minutes holding Sherlock under the water, soaping and rinsing and drying him off like an unruly pet that had gotten filthy, Mycroft apparently now considered him worth speaking to.
Sherlock didn’t answer the question off-hand, as was his inclination, because he was only too aware that it was the only opening he was likely to get. Once, Sherlock would have brushed off the events which had culminated in his impromptu swim in the Thames as in aid of catching Moriarty- then again, he had once found Moriarty diverting. It was only now, with Mycroft’s sleeves rolled up around his elbows, his tie loose and his eyes burning, that Sherlock recalled how much better than anything Jim Moriarty could provide- how much better than anything anyone could provide- it was to have Mycroft’s full attention.
He replied with, “What I’m always thinking, I suppose.” Mycroft’s bathroom was a spacious one, and Sherlock sank to the floor. He rested his back against the wall and glared sideways at his big brother.
“You madden me,” Mycroft said quietly.
“You undo me,” Sherlock replied, quieter still. Perhaps he was more shaken by the incident than he’d wanted to believe. Perhaps the now unfamiliar intensity in Mycroft’s eyes had robbed him of what ability he’d ever had to choose his words with care. They were out now, in any case.
A dozen expressions chased each other across Mycroft’s face before it settled into its default blandness. He sighed and surprised Sherlock by slumping against the wall himself, then sliding down it. He was by Sherlock’s side- their elbows were touching- when he said, “I am not unaware of that fact,” and- mask or no- there was a brutal honesty to it.
It called to mind one of the rare times they were willingly this close to each other in the last- was it seven years, now? More? At any rate, Sherlock had been detoxing then, and too out of his head to appreciate Mycroft’s soothing fingers running through his hair properly, or at all. It wasn’t until Sherlock had exhausted his ever extensive collection of insults and made his way through the worst of it that Mycroft had finally asked the question.
“Why?” Sherlock had repeated, with a laugh that had sounded sick to his ears even then. “The cases distract me, but only two things ever truly quiet my mind. Since you deny me the first option…” Sherlock had spread his hands.
It had hung in the air for a heartbeat, and then Mycroft had slapped him across the face.
The inside of Sherlock’s cheek had cut on his teeth. He had tasted blood and rather liked it. Sherlock knew that he was one of the few people who had ever been able to goad Mycroft into expressing anger with physical violence, and that he was the only one who was still alive. That meant something, of course it did. Sherlock used to think it meant something good; then again, he used to have reason.
The force of the blow had turned Sherlock face away, and he had fully expected the raw pain and anger in Mycroft’s expression to be gone, as they always were, by the time they locked eyes again- but amazingly enough they weren’t. Eyes still blazing, Mycroft had grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard. In the time it took Sherlock’s brain to transition into this new state of affairs, Mycroft’s tongue had pushed its way into his mouth and commenced starting a colony there. Sherlock had clung to his brother’s shirtfront as Mycroft sucked on his tongue so fiercely it curled his toes. As suddenly as he’d begun the embrace, Mycroft had shoved Sherlock back. Sherlock had seen the flush of his own blood on Mycroft’s lips.
“May it last you a long time, brother mine,” Mycroft had said. And he’d left.
The next time Sherlock relapsed, he had found himself not in Mycroft’s country house but in a rehab facility. His only visitor had been DI Lestrade, who had informed Sherlock that he would ask for his assistance in interesting cases if and only if he got clean and stayed that way. “And by the way,” he’d said, just as he was leaving. “Your brother sends his regards.”
After that, the people Sherlock associated with had seen more of Mycroft than he did, and when they did have contact it was barely phoned in, the particular mask Sherlock knew Mycroft only wore with people who actively made his skin crawl always in place. So Sherlock matched insult for insult, and not even because negative attention from Mycroft was so much better than no attention at all. Because if he kept it up long enough, Sherlock was fairly sure he could convince himself that hate and polite tolerance was all that had ever existed between them.
To understand why he failed, Sherlock had to look back further than that final kiss. He had to let himself remember when, months before that- when they were still… together, for a given value of the term- Mycroft had stepped just out of his reach and said, in his blandest politician’s voice, “I grow weary of this game, Sherlock.”
It had twisted so violently in Sherlock’s stomach it almost made him sick, to hear Mycroft call what was between them a game, though he hadn’t known, himself, what to call it- their… pattern. How Sherlock would antagonize Mycroft until he lost his temper, kissed him, held him down and did things no brother was supposed to do. Perhaps it was a game, and one Sherlock typically won- it was also one of the only pleasures that Sherlock’s life afforded him. He hadn't been able to say that, not to this Mycroft whose eyes never flashed with lust or fury and who was nicknamed the Iceman for a reason. So he smiled an ugly smile and said, “What sort of game would you rather play?”
And for a second there had been something naked and hungry in Mycroft’s eyes, something that hurt to look at and sliced into Sherlock in a way he could hardly believe, but then Mycroft shook his head and it was gone. Everything was gone, and from that moment to the time Mycroft had found him in a police station high as a kite and deigned to take him home to recover, Sherlock had been unable to get a rise out of Mycroft any more than anyone else could. First, Sherlock had had sex with a half-dozen other men in a fortnight; the first few were to make his brother jealous, something he had done to great success twice previous, and the rest- when he had well established that Mycroft knew of his indiscretions and didn’t care- were to see if anyone else could remotely satisfy him. After that, there had been the cases, which he knew the police shared with him at his brother’s request, but since this kindness had been accompanied by no contact whatsoever Sherlock had made up his mind to resent it. After that, there had been the drugs, and when Sherlock had tried to tell Mycroft the truth- that he would give them up in a heartbeat if he could again enjoy his embrace- he had somehow lost what little of Mycroft’s affection he’d had left.
But Sherlock preferred not to look back, because it reminded him that beneath the bitterness and the fighting, beneath all the childish talk of Mycroft being his nemesis, there was only pain, and a loneliness that no one could soothe. Because by some unfortunate coincidence, Sherlock’s brother also happened to be the love of his life.
Mycroft had dressed Sherlock in an oversized sweater and track pants that Sherlock could hardly believe his brother could bear to look at- let alone owned- after his people had fished Sherlock out of the Thames and he was thoroughly washed. Sherlock sat in those clothes and wondered how they had ended up like this, sizing each other up on the marble floor like two animals out in the wild. Sherlock was reasonably sure they had loved each other once, or had they only been lovers? It had been Mycroft, after all, who explained to him that one did not necessarily accompany the other- in their case, it never should have. Probably Mycroft would never have turned away from him as he did, had he not been more inclined to bend him over a piece of furniture than- than do whatever it was brothers were meant to do when incensed with each other. Sherlock didn’t even know, honestly.
Still at least partially locked in old memories, Sherlock spread his hands as he had once before. “Then you know why I did what I did.”
“You could have died.”
“I sometimes think that would be more agreeable than the current state of affairs.”
“James Moriarty is not worth your life.”
Sherlock huffed out a bitter laugh and stood. After so long without it, the intensity in Mycroft’s eyes was difficult to look at. “I don’t know when it happened, but I no longer think of James Moriarty.” He found himself weaker than he’d expected and leaned against the doorjamb. “Except with regards to his utility in bringing you to me.”
“Bringing me to you,” Mycroft repeated.
Though there was undoubtedly a dig somewhere in there about denseness, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to make it. He didn’t have a leg to stand on in that regard. “And now that I have you, I find that I haven’t the first idea what to do with you.”
“I have been here the whole time.”
“And yet you have been as present as if you were making a particularly disinterested phone call to me from across the globe.” In all honesty, Sherlock didn’t know if it was the phrasing or the tone in his voice or something else entirely that did it. Sherlock was quite certain that if he did know, he would never stop. Whatever did it, that was most definitely Mycroft’s body crowding against his, pressing him into the doorjamb. And that was most definitely Mycroft’s mouth bruising his lips. And that was most definitely Mycroft’s hand on his throat, still exerting just the right amount of pressure, even after all these years.
Sherlock wasn’t proud of the whine he gave, but he made fists around Mycroft’s wet shirt cuffs and opened for him. It was ingrained, even after all these years.
Mycroft stopped. He didn’t draw away, though, perhaps because Sherlock’s grip on his shirt wouldn’t allow it- he just turned his face and Sherlock’s mouth lingered on his temple. Mycroft let a rattling breath escape him. “I had hoped that John Watson had been satisfying you in this regard, brother,” he said.
“Why would you think that?” Sherlock demanded. He had kept his voice low, but- wonder of wonders- he felt Mycroft startle as if he’d screamed it. “We’re… friends- nothing more; I have no idea how many times the two of us have to say so before anyone believes it.”
“But don’t you wish for more?”
“From him? Not at all. I have never truly desired another living creature apart from you.”
Mycroft hissed. So softly Sherlock could hardly believe it happened, he said, “I am fond of our parents, but I sometimes think I have never loved another living creature apart from you.” That, then, was what made it a tragedy, Sherlock supposed- but thinking of their lives as a tragedy, thinking that the best years were behind them and the only respite from here would lie in the death Mycroft so resented him for seeking, burned in his gut like an acid and his fingers itched. He grabbed Mycroft’s face in both hands and kissed him forcefully. When Mycroft didn’t fight him, Sherlock tugged him into the next room- a bedroom- and working on instinct found the bed and bore him down to it. Sherlock hadn’t gotten much of a taste of his brother before, so he savored it now. He grasped Mycroft’s wrists and drew his hands away, holding them still above their heads so he could peruse him without interruption.
Various digs aside, Mycroft had never actually been fat. Solid was more the term, but Sherlock had always known Mycroft appeared larger to himself than anyone else and had used that knowledge accordingly. What mattered was that, though Sherlock had a bit of height on him, Mycroft had always been bigger and stronger. Sherlock had never tried to be the aggressor; even as Mycroft’s work began to distract him first from meals and then from unnecessary physical activity, it had never seemed possible. Even now, it was more a means to an end than something Sherlock had craved or even much thought about, but any taste of Mycroft was better than nothing.
All the same, he felt illicit- wrong, even- holding his brother down, and it turned his stomach with a fear that the part where this was his brother had never inspired. Sherlock had never had time for conventions, and he and Mycroft harmed no one and could produce no offspring. The taboo of it had troubled him not at all. But this- this felt dangerous.
He turned his face away as Mycroft had, loosening his grip on his brother’s wrists. “Stop me,” he choked out, and it sounded more like a plea than a command, and more like a question than either of those.
“Whyever would I do that?” Mycroft breathed.
Annoyed at being teased when Mycroft had made it perfectly clear how unwelcome Sherlock’s touch was to him now, Sherlock drew back, but remained on the bed, kneeling at Mycroft’s side. He looked down at his brother and quashed the arousal he felt at seeing his perfect clothes further mussed and his ever-neat hair disarranged. Instead, he catalogued Mycroft’s appearance as though he were someone else. Someone… ordinary. Mycroft’s pupils were slightly dilated, making his eyes look dark and too wide. His pale face was flushed. His breathing was uneven, his pulse rapid. He was… Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he smelled arousal. It startled the words out of him: “You do want me.”
“Wanting you has never been the problem,” Mycroft sighed. He ran a light hand up Sherlock’s arm and then sat up. Sherlock realized, that time- at last- that Mycroft was withdrawing in time to try to stop it.
He pushed his brother back down again and was shocked by how readily he obeyed. One hand firm on Mycroft’s chest, Sherlock looked at him hard. “I take it that you have no desire to tell me what the problem is.”
Mycroft’s mouth quirked with a wry sort of sadness.
“Then I shall have to deduce it.”
“Please.” And there was neither sarcasm nor indulgence in that word. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to work this out- more, perhaps, than anyone had ever wanted anything from him before. It hurt to look at the raw need in his face, but Sherlock forced himself to keep looking. It brought to mind what Mycroft had said about how he had never loved anyone apart from Sherlock. He loves me, Sherlock mused. And also desires me. It sickens him to have expressed his love in such a-
No. How many times had he told the detective inspector to never start with assumptions already in place? He had no actual evidence that to desire him sickened Mycroft. He knew how Mycroft behaved when he was concealing such an emotion, and he had never seen it when they touched. In fact, he had always been willing to wager that the way Mycroft behaved when Sherlock was in his arms was the most genuine he ever was. He had sometimes seemed… distressed, filled with an unhappiness that was difficult to distinguish from the anger, but never as if he was attempting to conceal revulsion. It was only occasionally, in the aftermath, that Sherlock had sensed a mask in place, as if Mycroft was still hiding something of great importance from him.
What did he actually know? He knew that his baiting of his brother had escalated dangerously until Mycroft broke things off with him. He knew that, after that, what desires Mycroft did or did not experience had been kept firmly in check until just recently. Mycroft had kissed him, but would undoubtedly have let it go no further. Mycroft had allowed Sherlock to kiss him, and seemed willing to allow Sherlock to take it further himself. He knew- or rather thought perhaps he knew- that Mycroft had been holding something back from him when they were intimate before. That what he sometimes saw had been a kind of… dissatisfaction.
Sherlock wanted to dismiss the notion. It was almost pure intuition, a leap of logic he had no desire to base further conclusions on. And yet it seemed so right.
He needed more data. “You love me,” he said. “Are you in love with me?”
Mycroft eyed him, and then answered very deliberately and carefully, as if he were a witness there to relay what he’d seen as best he could. “I’m not always certain. It has seemed to me that I should not be- and yet I know there could never be another. Who but you could ever see…”
He didn’t elaborate, but Sherlock didn’t need him to. “And yet it wasn’t enough for you?”
“Nothing else was enough for me,” Mycroft returned, sounding vaguely cross. Sherlock chose to interpret this as a sign that he was thinking in the wrong direction, but he found it difficult to work out the right direction. It choked him- the sheer mutuality of what Mycroft had said. And yet he was still so sure that Mycroft had never gotten what he really wanted.
Who but you could ever see… Sherlock turned it over in his mind. See what a burden it was to be so very intelligent, to always pick up the littlest details? Certainly there was that. See beyond the mask that so many believe is my only face? Perhaps that, too. But Sherlock had not always seen beyond it; there had been a time when he too attempted to convince himself that that mask was all there was to Mycroft. And here Mycroft was, lying on the bed in his soaked shirt, begging Sherlock to understand. Understand what?
Nothing else was enough for me. Sherlock amended that to no one was else was enough for me, though he supposed both were applicable in their own way. What Sherlock had that no one else did was readily obvious- he possessed a nearly equal intelligence, something few others could boast. They applied their talents in different ways, but they operated on more or less the same level. Equal intellect, then. Tentatively, Sherlock added equal desire. They had expressed that too in vastly different ways over the years, but it was impossible to look at Mycroft now and doubt that he burned with like fervor. And, looking back, it was also impossible to see Mycroft’s manipulations during their long estrangement as anything but despairing affection. As he’d just proved, Sherlock could now add equal strength to the list. It was possible that he always could have- he had been an accomplished fighter for most of his life- and he had simply never thought to try until now.
Sherlock strained. He was on the cusp of it now, but-
“Who could I be myself with, if not you?” Mycroft said softly, and it crashed over Sherlock like a wave. It had always been there on the sidelines of his notice, that Mycroft had a public persona that he had slowly drawn inwards until it encompassed very nearly everything in existence beyond Sherlock, and then finally- somehow reluctantly- inwards again until it took him too. But that had taken years of being brow-beaten with insults, of having his offers of assistance thrown in the dirt. Ever since the first time Mycroft had broken and lashed out at him not with true violence but with passion, Sherlock had made it into an art, and Mycroft had broken, again, every time. Sherlock had told himself that was his brother’s true self, and it was- a piece of it, anyway, a piece that as all fury and frustrated love. But there was more to Mycroft than just that, and he’d kept what remained back because in every way he knew how to communicate, Sherlock had made it clear that fury was what he wanted. It was what he provoked, constantly, and frustratedly was the only way he had ever allowed himself to be loved.
But it wasn’t how Mycroft had wanted to love him, and he’d ultimately chosen to give up what they did have rather than continue to deny his own heart- the heart Sherlock had frequently insisted he didn’t have, just to get a rise out of him. Sherlock had to remind himself and his assumptions again that it wasn’t the sex Mycroft had put up with for his sake- all he had to do was kiss Mycroft again to prove that much- but perhaps… it was the way they’d had sex. Perhaps it was Mycroft’s fingers around his throat or on his wrists, holding him down. Perhaps it was the speed, the roughness. Perhaps it was the… “Mycroft,” Sherlock choked out. “Do not tell me that all these years all you wanted was to switch places.”
Mycroft smiled unhappily and Sherlock kissed his face repeatedly, shocked by how much his chest hurt. Shocked by how much those kisses relieved it. Sherlock knew it wasn’t as simple as he’d made it sound; it was clear that Mycroft did too. He couldn’t pretend they’d had a misunderstanding; he was nowhere near as good at self-denial as his brother apparently was. He did like it. He had craved the way the lines between pleasure and punishment would blur; he probably always would. He had wanted Mycroft to dominate him and he felt no particular heat imagining the roles reversed.
But he was so tired of the distance between them. There was a reason that the only way he had ever been able to deny his brother anything he wanted was by convincing himself that Mycroft never actually wanted anything at all.
The kisses he rained over Mycroft’s face had been quick, light, fairly platonic, but when he made his way down Mycroft’s neck Sherlock slowed down, fingers working at his tie, undoing his buttons. He did feel a heat rising in him. At every touch, every kiss, Mycroft panted softly, even whimpered at times. Sherlock had never heard that sound before, and he didn’t believe that anyone else had, either. He had wondered- in a rare philosophical moment- what his love for his brother was for, if it only served to make them both miserable. Now, perhaps, he had his answer. As he uncovered Mycroft’s skin with trembling fingers he uncovered, too, a need he’d never known his brother possessed. If a caress could be question, and in that moment it seemed one could, the answer was always yes. Mycroft handed himself over without question and let Sherlock do as he wished, and in who else’s arms could he ever do that? No one’s. All Mycroft had wanted was to be able to let go, and all the times they had been together before he’d been forced to do the opposite, carefully channeling what he felt in order to give Sherlock what he needed.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock paused long enough to say. “I see now.”
“Oh,” Mycroft whispered when Sherlock applied himself again. It occurred to Sherlock that perhaps he was wrong about what would please him and what would not. Most everyone Mycroft had been with had probably wanted to melt the Iceman, see his fire. Wanted him to whisper filth in their ears, all the while controlling them as he controlled everything else. But here, now, Mycroft arched up under his mouth helplessly, and apparently couldn’t make words. No one else had this. No one else ever would. “Oh,” Mycroft said again. “Love. My love.” No one else had that, either.
Sherlock found Mycroft’s lips again, and one thing that hadn’t changed was how they fit together, as though born into this world for precisely that purpose. Sherlock had turned that, too, over in his mind through the years like the one puzzle he could never solve, but now they slid against each other and why simply didn’t matter anymore.
Towards the end, Mycroft’s hands went to the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock kissed his neck and knew that he could push those hands away if he wanted to, knew that he could always have pushed his brother away if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. When Mycroft’s fingers clenched in his hair it hurt, and it was perfect.
And then, later, Sherlock rested his head on Mycroft’s chest, those fingers still carding through his curls, and his mind was quiet.