Archive of Our Own

Sherlock knew it was coming. Mycroft made the unwise decision to visit him in November. As if he forgot about the likelihood of Rosie having a cold. John brought her straight from the kindergarten while they were having tea. Nothing could save Mycroft now. He... He caught a cold 

Sherlock knew what lay ahead of them. Mycroft, usually so cool, unbothered and fiercely independent, became a different person when he was ill. Maybe because even a stupid cold was a perfect excuse to receive care without admitting he needed it. 

'Sherlock, I'm dying,' Mycroft said pitifully over the phone. 'I really think it's not a common cold, but something much worse.'

A very thinly veiled plea for his attention and love. Sherlock looked up. He was digging through a blackmailer's social media posts to find other victims, while the client sat on a chair, crying unobtrusively. Sherlock had told her a comforting, 'There, there,' and offered her a tissue. That emotional outburst was contained. Now he had to use his amazing social skills to help yet another person? But the case...

'Have you seen a doctor?'

Mycroft scoffed. 'Oh, yes, because they're so smart and know my body better than I do!'

'Do you want me to bring anything?'

'Honey, fresh ginger and crisps.'

He was doing that on purpose.

'Which flavour?' Sherlock's tone was strained. 

'Ready salted and cheese and onion.'

'Which. Brand.' 

An hour later, he finally arrived at Mycroft's. He left the food in the kitchen and went to find the patient on the sofa, sipping whisky and watching the news. The only hint he was ill was a blanket on his lower body. 

'Finally! Crisps?'

Sherlock sat next to him and touched his forehead. Zero fever. The gesture melted Mycroft. Caring was the only real cure to his affliction.

'That's nice.'

'Is it just your throat?'

Mycroft reported a bad headache and a runny nose. Sherlock patted his head, trying to appear empathetic and not advise him to just get over it.

'I've brought Mrs Hudson's homemade broth.'

'I don't want it,' Mycroft whined. Like a little child. Sherlock reminded himself of all those years he and Eurus were the sole focus of their parents. No one cared that much about Mycroft. He had a right to be a little needy now.

'You haven't tried it yet. How about I heat it up and we'll share it, would that be better?' A sneaky trick he observed John use on his sometimes fussy child.

Mycroft observed him, no doubt guessing where that came from. He decided to accept the offer.

Sherlock brought the crisps as a bribe and a first of many pots of tea with sliced lemon and ginger on the side, plus a small jar of honey. 

'Can you do it?'

So, Sherlock poured him some tea, asked specifically how much lemon, honey and ginger to add, then stirred and set the cup close to his brother. 

'Thank you '

He went back to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of soup. He blew on the steaming spoonful and tried it first. 

'It's very good. Now you,' he lifted the spoon to Mycroft's lips. The art of feeding a stubborn person was again a result of observing John and Rosie. In other circumstances, Mycroft would rather starve than admit he had emotional needs, but now he had his cover story to protect his ego. So, they ate together, one spoon for Mycroft, another one for Sherlock. Halfway through, Mycroft relaxed even more. 

'As much as I hate being ill, I think a little break from work will be enjoyable.'

A break. Not Sherlock fussing over him and spoiling him.

After another pot of tea, they settled on the sofa, half embracing. Mycroft's head was on Sherlock's shoulder. A moment of peace was welcome. Just the two of them, without any distractions. The case, though. Sherlock took his phone to continue with his work when Mycroft said tiredly, 'Will you read something to me?'

He was really pushing it. Sherlock went to get his secret, old copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, then returned to his spot. Mycroft fell asleep after three pages. Peace and quiet at last. Sherlock gently moved away and laid his brother's body on the sofa. He cleaned up and left.

He was woken up by a series of texts. Mycroft was dying, this time for real. Throat: so sore swallowing hurt like hell. Nose: stuffed. Head: aching very badly. The level of crisps in his body: life-threateningly low.

Groaning, Sherlock got ready quickly and ignored his morning rituals. Big brother needed him urgently.

Mycroft was in bed. He did look unwell. When he spoke, it was in a sexy low voice, the only good side of a sore throat. 'Tea.'

Sherlock gave him one ginger and honey pastille he bought on his way over. He knew from experience that he had to control how many Mycroft had, otherwise the monster would devour the whole tinful at once. Mycroft obediently opened his mouth and accepted the offering.

'Good boy,' Sherlock gave him a kiss on the head and went to the kitchen. The previous night, he made onion syrup, as always, he forgot how stinky it was. Tea, honey, ginger and broth. He took all that to the bedroom and encouraged Mycroft to swallow everything. He praised him when he finished. 

'Are you feeling any better?' That was genuine concern and not a sneaky way of making him talk in his new, thrilling voice. 

'A tiny bit.' 

Sherlock lay next to him, and Mycroft's whole, aching body clung to him. Behind his back, literally, Sherlock unlocked his phone and checked his inbox. No new messages from the potential victims. A text from John. Thyme tea and your pretending it's very serious will heal him in no time. Yeah... So much pretending. Innocent kisses on innocent body parts, loving touch, the closeness and intimacy lulled Mycroft back to sleep. Sherlock got up after ten minutes to prepare for another round. He found thyme and poured a handful into a cup. Started a new batch of onion syrup. Asked his landlady to prepare more broth. Made a quick sandwich for himself. Squeezed lemon, added honey, he'd add warm water later. 

Back in the bedroom, he leant against the headboard, careful not to disturb his brother. He looked so serene, his features softened, and even an occasional snore was endearing.

After another dose of aromatic fluids and one pastille, Mycroft's mood improved. He was half lying on Sherlock, using his belly as a pillow. 

'Are you sure you can stay?'

'Yes.'

'If you can't, it's fine. I'm much better.'

'I'll stay.'

'It was really hard when I had a cold, and you were officially dead. I had to do everything on my own. At least I could eat garlic without worrying my breath could kill you.'

That was a challenging time for the brothers. No contact, not even a short text, nothing. Sherlock missed his friends, but not as much as his brother. He wondered if anyone would take his place. No one did. Good. Being needed by Mycroft was so rewarding.

In the evening, Sherlock made a hot toddy. To a warmed mug, he added honey, lemon juice and whiskey. Then some hot water, one cinnamon stick and a slice of lemon. A deeply suffering Mycroft brightened up, even more when he noticed another treat, the last packet of crisps.

'Thank you, dear. Do you want a sip?'

Sherlock declined. Mycroft started his usual story about his first hot toddy. He made it when he was a teenager, in secret and got a little drunk, then had to hide it from others. It worked, but only because no one paid close attention to him.

'Will you stay the night?'

That was the only reasonable option. Someone had to look after him. For now, Sherlock pressed a few kisses to a slightly warmer forehead. That was more healing than all of the other remedies.

Still, he had a case. It was high time to speed up Mycroft's recovery by using something so natural and significantly beneficial for his physical and mental health. One thing that would relieve pain, improve his mood and make him sleep like a baby. 

A shower first. Mycroft naturally assumed his only role was to stay still and be washed. It's just a cold, not a stroke! However, a man flu sufferer had better chances when he was given what he wanted, so Sherlock took the shower gel and began the long task. It was actually more of a massage, lots of kneading and pressing. Mycroft was in heaven, and they didn't even get to the truly enjoyable bits. Being taken care of in such an intimate way was his secret desire. Obviously, as with any other man, that was an open secret.

With the upper body done, Sherlock crouched down to focus on the legs and toes. Soon, he felt a hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer. The submissive position worked every time. There was no begging, nor demanding, so Sherlock carried on. He did touch erotic zones earlier, and the evidence was pointing at him. He rather liked Mycroft getting desperate. 

'It's been so long.'

'No, it wasn't. We observed National Orgasm Day.'

'That was almost four months ago!'

'I can't let you get used to that. Sex with me is a privilege, you've learnt that, haven't you?'

Mycroft whined. Many times, all he got was a fully clothed Sherlock's presence while he had to take matters into his own hands. And even that depended on Sherlock's mood and his current level of generosity. More often, it was a one-sided phone sex, during which Sherlock said only hello and goodbye. Gaining so much power over Mycroft took effort. A simple blowjob had to be perfectly timed. Now their New Year's celebrations had to sadly be cancelled. He had to take into account the possibility that he might need to convince Mycroft to pull some strings for him, and for that, Mycroft's hunger had to increase, not be satiated. 

'Please. My throat is so sore. Fucking yours will help me enormously. Show some solidarity by letting me make you sound hoarse.'

'No. Turn around and don't talk.'

Mycroft did, with a chuckle.

Sherlock washed himself, taking his time. He was deciding what he was going to allow that night. Zero oral sex, that was obvious. Maybe a handjob only. Hmm. But Mycroft had to have a proper orgasm to get better. Sherlock stood right behind him, and his fingers brushed against his erection. 

'Convince me to let you fuck me.'

'I'm very, very ill and require a dose of a medicinal orgasm.'

'Try again.'

'I really miss feeling you wrapped around me.'

'No.'

'I'm older, and you should do what I tell you.'

'Are you asking me to leave?'

'No, of course not. Please, may I make you come? I love watching you do that.'

'Close, but you can be more persuasive.'

'Please, I want to pleasure you. And myself. We can kill two birds with one stone. I know how much you want it. Stop denying yourself. It must be driving you crazy to do that to yourself.'

Well. Sexual frustration wasn't new. All those lonely years before Mycroft stopped being so noble changed Sherlock in some way. Very rarely, he masturbated, it was always disappointing. Crafting fantasies in his mind, thinking about them in bed, getting hard with no intention of doing anything with it, that was much more exciting. 

'Fine,' he said and encouraged Mycroft to face him again. 'But I expect a reward.'

'Anything specific?'

'No. Surprise me.'

Their first time started with a shy kiss initiated by Mycroft. Sherlock didn't react. There was no guidebook to those kinds of encounters. Mycroft kissed him again, more firmly now and held Sherlock close to him, as if afraid he would run away. When Mycroft started his first-ever round of pleading, Sherlock joked, 'I hope for some reward.' Mycroft, that frantic fool, was so caught up in his emotions that his brain didn't register the amused tone. 'Yes, yes, anything you want.' Sherlock asked to be surprised. He imagined Mycroft throwing a crumpled banknote at his feet or something along those lines. He forgot about it until the next morning, when he got breakfast in bed. Hmm. What a new, fun little game. Mycroft must have realised it was a joke, but apparently, he found it entertaining enough to continue.

All sorts of gifts followed. A mini break in France. A sandwich. A new phone. After a particularly adventurous night, the now beloved coat. What a gorgeous reminder of their depravity. Sherlock never asked for anything, nor did he ever predict what it would be. Once it was a pretty leaf in all of autumnal colours, another time he got a dirty limerick about his holes. 

Mycroft was sitting on the bed, his back against pillows, with a huge smile. His collection of romantic noir films was nothing compared to the show he was watching now. Sherlock made sure that watching him stretch himself was unforgettable. He liked to do it on his own. Mycroft was often impatient and rushed things. Much easier to make him sit back and observe. 

'I think that's enough. Come here.' Mycroft patted his lap. 

Now Sherlock had to drag it out. For a few more moments to teach Mycroft a lesson. That fool still imagined he could order Sherlock around in the bedroom. God, fixing his attitude was a never-ending job. Weeks, months of denial taught him very little. Someone weaker would give up and let the bossy Iceman have all the control. Not Sherlock, though. And it wasn't only his old resentment towards his big brother.

Finally, he sat on Mycroft's lap and spread the lube on his prick. Then slowly lowered his body, taking it in. Oh, god. Every time he discovered again how insanely good it felt. The bliss was almost instantaneous. Nothing else was close to the intense sensation of pure pleasure. Even the slight burn was exciting. He paused, halfway through, bracing his hands against the wall, mostly to take a breath and try not to come too soon. Mycroft stared in awe. He knew Sherlock could barely control himself and was offensively smug about it. Unfortunately, he was right. His cock was the perfect size, thick enough to stretch Sherlock in the most delightful way. One move, and it was fully inside him. His eyes closed, and mouth opened in a quiet moan.

'That's right, darling,' Mycroft crooned and set his hands on Sherlock's sides to steady him. 'Wait a moment, don't hurt yourself.'

So, Sherlock rocked his hips just barely. Oh, god. He was so full. He didn't dare to touch himself, and neither did Mycroft. He only watched as Sherlock began to slowly bounce up and down, mesmerised.

'Isn't that better than pretending to dislike sex?'

Sherlock couldn't answer. He tried to avoid moaning, though his heavy breathing betrayed his state. He slowed his movements to make it last, the drag of the throbbing cock inside him, all the nerve endings screaming with joy, the way his special spot was nudged. In one second, he was drowning in pleasure, certain he could take it; in the next, his entire body went stiff, and his mouth opened wide. His orgasm hit him rather hard, he shuddered all over and then stayed still. 

When he gathered enough strength to look at Mycroft, he saw pure lust in his eyes. 

'You're so beautifully responsive. Like a virgin that comes at the slightest touch. I think it was a whole minute this time.'

'Shut up. You said you would stop time-shaming me. And it's your fault. If your cock was shorter or slimmer, we wouldn't have this problem.'

'I wouldn't call it a problem. You'd last longer if you had sex more than four times a year.'

Yes, but then it'd stop being special. 

Mycroft pulled him down for a kiss. Delicate, almost chaste, close-mouthed. His hands caressed Sherlock's back, then his buttocks. He used his secret weapon, which was rubbing the rim stretched around him. It drove Sherlock mad with desire, even though he still felt oversensitive. He wished he had enough determination to crawl away and say no. The very tip of Mycroft's finger started to push in, only a little, then moved from left to right.

'I think you let us do it so rarely because every time we do, you reveal what a cockslut you are,' Mycroft said, with nothing but admiration and affection.

He was entirely right. Sherlock always tried to take it with quiet dignity, but it always ended the same way. He had to admit he loved it. The physical sensations and the equally arousing thought that he let Mycroft use him. 

They started again, at a snail's pace. Mycroft was doing most of the work, his hands gripped Sherlock's arse, and his hips thrust in steadily. All Sherlock did was arch his back and feel. Pleasure radiated from that place through his whole body. Nothing could compare to that. He threw his head back and let out breathy moans, one after another. A pinch of discomfort only made everything better. Several times, he was so close to coming again. Despite Mycroft's efforts, he couldn't. A bit frustrating that they were so mismatched. Sherlock didn't try wearing a cock ring, perhaps because he secretly liked getting fucked without the distraction of an approaching climax. Especially when Mycroft changed their position to his favourite one, missionary. 

'Much better,' Mycroft muttered and pressed right in. Harder now. The sigh of Sherlock lying on his back, arms above his head, tired and seemingly defenceless, awakened his inner caveman. A beast who had only one goal: fuck until he came. Sherlock considered struggling a little to provoke him, but never had the necessary strength. Besides, his body instinctively surrendered. Maybe they weren't that mismatched. 

He had another trick, one that worked every time. High-pitched, shaky moans that made him sound like he couldn't take it anymore. He winced, bit his lip, on occasion even managed to produce a tear or two. Mycroft had no chance. He snapped his hips once, twice, and that was it. 

'I fall for it every time, don't I?' Mycroft smiled and lay next to him, exhausted. 'It reminds me of our first time. I felt bad for you, and at the same time, I wanted to tie you up to the bed and never let you leave.'

That was one of Sherlock's fantasies. Half a day in such a position, powerless, at Mycroft's mercy. Mmm. Maybe someday he would tell him about it.

In the morning, Sherlock woke up alone. Mycroft was well enough to go back to work. Sherlock unwrapped his new gift. A scarf, steel grey. Mmm, quite nice. There was something inside of it. A small plug, in the same colour. Presumptuous, but also intriguing. He could wear both at the same time, and only Mycroft would know. A delicious fantasy. He left the plug on the bed. A warm bath, a lazy breakfast, still no new messages. At least he had solved one problem, quickly and efficiently.

He put his coat and a new scarf on, then left. Came back immediately to take the plug with him.