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The wind was so strong that the rain was coming down sideways. It ran down the back of Sherlocks neck, an icy reminder of his situation as he walked the final hundred meters to Mycrofts house.
Normally, of course, he would’ve taken a cab. The fact that he couldn’t was what had prompted him to seek out his brother in the first place. Since he’d moved to London he’d generally done his best to avoid meeting him. Not difficult, as he was spending most of his time establishing himself amongst Londons homeless.
Mycroft lived in a gated community, in an expensive but outwardly unostentatious house that bored Sherlock to tears.
He had a key to the house. Mycroft had given it to him upon his arrival in London, as if suspecting Sherlock wouldn’t last a week in his student lodgings. Or as if Sherlock would start popping around to drink whiskey and receive brotherly nuggets of wisdom.
A door slammed to his right. Sherlock wondered how off-putting he looked, dressed as he was. He wasn’t sure whose trousers these were, but he had identified seven different stains on them, including tomato, sperm, clay, milk…
Sherlock wondered if he’d be watched through the curtains as he entered Mycrofts house. Would they wonder who he was? Assume awfully immoral things about their neighbor? How amusing.
He reached Mycrofts door. He hadn’t repainted it, or done anything to the outside of the building to make it conspicuous, individual. Sherlock couldn’t imagine living in a place like this. A shell somebody else had designed.
He pushed his key into the lock, shaking his wet curls out of his eyes. It was bound to be toasty warm inside, and his fingers were starting to feel numb. Briefly he considered what he’d do if Mycroft wasn’t home… play around with the security cameras, probably.
Once inside, Sherlock sighed. It was like stepping into a warm shower. Mycrofts umbrella was leaning by the door, and a his shoes were lined up neatly by the wall. Briefly, Sherlock was reminded of his childhood, and of Mycrofts bedroom, where he’d organized literally everything according to a highly specific set of rules.
There was a strange noise coming from the living room. A low wiring noise and regular thumping. And, softer still, the sound of panting.
Sherlock froze. There was one very easy, very obvious way to interpret those sounds, but his mind recoiled at the thought. It didn’t seem possible that his tightly laced brother could be having extremely energetic sex in his living room in the middle of a rainy Sunday.
But what if he was? With who? Was he into something kinky? Sherlock tried to think of a sexual machine that would make a noise like that… Or had he completely misinterpreted the situation?
Sherlock slipped off his shoes and, very softly, crept towards the living room. He dripped water onto the thick carpet. He’d never caught Mycroft in a compromising situation before and was rather looking forward to it.
He put his head around the corner very slowly, not wanting to startle Mycroft if he was facing in Sherlocks direction. But he wasn’t, he was facing the opposite wall, and he wasn’t having sex either.
The wiring noise was a treadmill, and the rhythmic thumping was the sound of Mycrofts feet coming down over and over again. He was breathless, panting loudly and unabashedly. Sherlock noted the small earphones on the side of his head- Mycroft hadn’t even heard him open the door.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. Something loud and crude, something to startle and embarrass his brother. But before the words made it past his lips his eyes dropped to Mycrofts hips, Mycrofts arse.
He was dressed in rather tightly fitting running pants. Clearly he’d brought them with the expectation that one day they’d be loose on him, but that day had not yet come. His flesh bounced and jiggled with every step. Sherlock was mesmerized, completely unable to move his eyes away. It was as visual fascinating as watching differently weighted pendulums swing, or a time lapse of bee hives developing. For a few moments Sherlock didn’t even realize he was hard.
It wasn’t until his cock twitched inside his pants that he realized he was harder than he could ever remember being. And as the realization washed over him Sherlock staggered as though punched. He took a deep breath, wetted his lips. If he were sensible, he would look away. He would forget all about this, will himself to softness, leave without a word.
It was impossible to look away. Worse, he was imagining how Mycroft would look from the front. How would his stomach be moving? Would his shirt have lifted up slightly over the curve of his stomach?
Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, as if trying to contain something. He felt blank with shock and dumb with arousal. And as a result, he didn’t react quickly enough when Mycroft leapt nimbly from the treadmill and turned around.
‘Arrgh! Sherlock!’
Mycroft took a half-step backwards, simultaneously surprised and angry. For a moment he moved his arms as if preparing to defend himself. Sherlock flinched back, panicking, and Mycroft froze. His eyes were on the bulge between Sherlocks legs.
Sherlock jumped sideways, hiding himself from Mycrofts sight. He heard Mycroft curse and a clattering sound as he pulled off his headphones. Damn. Sherlock turned and hurried back to his shoes. His hands were shaking as he bent to pick them up.
‘Sherlock-’
Mycroft was standing behind him. He still sounded breathless.
‘I needed to speak to you about my allowance,’ Sherlock said, not turning around. His fingers wouldn’t move properly, he couldn’t pull the damn shoe over his heel. ‘I keep running out of money, I’m trying to earn the trust of the homeless, not become homeless myself, despite appearances, and I’ll come back later as clearly you’re-’
Sherlock cut the end of the sentence off. He wanted to say busy but he wasn’t confident that’s what would end up coming out of his mouth. You’re unspeakably, unexpectedly hot? You’re fine, you don’t need to work out? You’re arse distracted me so I’m leaving now?
‘You’re babbling, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘Take my umbrella, if you’re going to leave.’
‘No,’ Sherlock snapped, staggering into his second shoe and groping for the door handle. ‘No, no, I’m fine, I’m going, goodbye.’
‘Sherlock, it’s pouring,’ Mycroft insisted, stepping forwards, and Sherlock tripped down the front step in his haste to escape. The wind had only worsened, but the blast of freezing air helped his flagging erection to vanish completely.
He hurried away without looking back, ignoring the way Mycroft called after him. Was this what being in shock was like? Sherlock felt the same way he’d felt when he’d fallen off a balcony four years ago.
Worse, he couldn’t banish the image from his head. The jiggling. He’d never wanted, never lusted like that before in his entire life-
Sherlock tripped as he crossed the road. His feet felt strange, though it was hard to know what normal was anymore. He glanced down, then swore.
‘Fucking…’
He’d put his shoes on the wrong feet in his distraction. Sherlock stopped, pulling both shoes off, teeth bared in anger. His socks were soaked at once. He staggered on one leg, trying to ignore the rain in his eyelashes. Then the rain stopped.
Sherlock looked up, and froze. He felt his heart to some sort of horrified, infuriated twist inside his chest. Mycroft was holding his umbrella over Sherlocks head, dressed in a long dark jacket to cover up his running clothes.
‘Go away,’ Sherlock hissed.
‘You might as well come back with me,’ Mycroft said, disgustingly calm. ‘You’re hardly a street away and there’s a flash flooding situation on your route home.’
‘Typical,’ Sherlock spat, his tone suggesting that he blamed Mycroft for this.
‘Don’t be tedious, Sherock,’ Mycroft said. ‘I’d very much like to speak to you about your allowance, it’s freezing, you’re soaking, the logical thing to do is come back with me.’
It was. Making a fuss now would worsen the situation. Sherlock prided himself on his logic, but what good would his logic be if he didn’t let it rule him when he most needed it? He straightened up, avoided Mycrofts eyes, and nodded.
They returned to Mycrofts home in silence, both sharing the umbrella. Sherlocks shoes made an awful squelching noise with every step.
Once inside, Sherlock kicked off his shoes, and hung his dripping, torn jacket up alongside Mycrofts work ones. It was petty, but worth it. If he could torment Mycroft he was still, in some way, himself.
‘The kitchen, perhaps, is the best spot for this conversation,’ Mycroft said. ‘I’d rather not have you drip on every single bit of carpet in the house. And it’s lunch time.’
‘Not hungry,’ Sherlock muttered.
‘You’ll eat lunch, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. His exasperation was so like their mothers that they both paused for a moment, amused, but the moment passed.
The kitchen was gleaming and rather large. It seemed more like a lab to Sherlock. There were diet plans on the fridge, and a lock on one of the cupboards, which was fascinating. Many of the blenders and other instruments looked quite lethal. Sherlock found himself wondering how effective they’d be in the blending of evidence, or human remains.
‘Don’t be morbid, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, before moving to get something from the fridge. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Most people found it alarming, the way they communicated. They’d both developed the skill of reading a train of thought from facial expression, and thus long talks were often unnecessary between them. It would be very useful in a crisis, but Sherlock couldn’t imagine in himself in a crisis with Mycroft in which Mycroft wasn’t ignoring him in an attempt to control the situation. That’s what his brother was like. Control his shoes, control his kitchen, control Sherlock.
Control his weight, voiced a sneaky voice from the back of Sherlocks mind.
He was desperately glad Mycroft was still wearing his long, thick coat over his running gear.
‘Have this,’ Mycroft said, emerging from his fridge with a glass of something yellow. ‘It’s a banana milkshake. You’ll like it.’
Sherlock took it. At least with something in his hands he’d have an excuse not to look at Mycroft. Part of him wanted to see if he’d been right about Mycrofts shirt riding up over his stomach, part of him was trying (and failing) to delete the whole incident.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Mycroft said, motioning towards the polished wooden table.
Sherlock sat. He’d leave a wet patch on the chair but that hardly seemed to matter. Mycroft got himself a salad from the fridge and then, to Sherlocks horror, sat opposite him. It wouldn’t be possible to evade inspection now, not unless he pulled his shirt up over his head like a child. Tempting.
He drank the milk shake, not speaking, head down. All he could do was give Mycroft as little as possible to work with. It was a mostly futile attempt, but Sherlock at least had the advantage of having been taught by Mycroft.
The banana milkshake was good. Sherlock hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been. He always forgot about eating when he was busy with something.
‘Good,’ Mycroft said. ‘Though you should take care of yourself better, you know. Food is essential to life.’
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
‘As for your allowance, I have no problem with altering it,’ Mycroft said. ‘But I admit I would like to know where all the money is going. Not on clothes, obviously.’
‘What’re you worried about?’ Sherlock said, sarcastic. ‘Prostitutes? Fraud?’
‘Drugs,’ Mycroft replied. ‘I know what you’re like, Sherlock.’
Sherlock didn’t want to reply to that. He didn’t want to know what he was like, and he didn’t want anyone else knowing either. That was one of the difficult things about Mycroft. Six years older than Sherlock, he was able to remember everything about their life together, remembered the day Sherlock had been born. He’d always have an advantage.
‘I’m not using drugs,’ Sherlock said eventually. ‘I want to buy more clothes, perfect a number of different identities. Not so I can evade drug dealers. Better lab equipment, obviously, for my own personal use and not for the manufacturing of drugs. That sort of thing. Or would you like a blood sample?’
His voice had risen as he spoke, and by the end Sherlock realized he was nearly shouting. Mycroft had raised his eyebrows, but otherwise seemed unmoved. Sherlock could feel his heart hammering. He still didn’t understand what he felt, or what they were actually talking about.
‘What’s really going on here, Sherlock?’ Mycroft said evenly. ‘You turn up at my house, unannounced, in the middle of a Sunday, in the pouring rain, to ask a simple question. That isn’t like you. I suspected drugs, clearly I was wrong. So enlighten me.’
Sherlock slumped onto the table. He didn’t know what to say, or even what the truth was. He’d been hoping Mycroft would enlighten him, not the other way around. Even that hope wasn’t like him…
He pressed his face into the cool table. He didn’t want to ever stand up again. What was he meant to say? To do? To feel? He’d always hated people who spoke in riddles, always hated emotional entanglements because they so often reminded him of riddles.
What were his options? The truth, whatever that was. A half truth. A lie. An evasion, though his previous escape attempt had failed horribly. A fight.
‘I’m not entirely sure. I wasn’t anticipating…’
‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ Mycroft agreed. He sounded amused, not disgusted. ‘Not that I’m insulted, you understand. It’s rather flattering.’
Sherlock looked up, bewildered.
‘Flattering?’
‘Sherlock, I am not an attractive man.’ Mycroft said this gently, as if explaining something to a young, emotional child. ‘You, when you don’t look as if you’ve just climbed out of dumpster, are highly attractive. That somebody of my physique could’ve caught your eye in any way at all, well… I can’t say my ego was unaffected.’
Sherlock felt as bewildered as ever. Mycroft seemed to believe every word he was saying.
‘You just, without touching me, gave me the best erection of my life. And now you’re going to sit there and tell me you’re highly unattractive?’
He hadn’t meant to say that and immediately wished he hadn’t. Mycroft went pink and Sherlock wanted to stick his own foot so far down his own throat that he chocked on it and died. He half-stood, ready to run, but Mycroft held up a hand to stall him.
‘Well, that was a lot more direct than I was expecting,’ he said, sounding stunned, and Sherlock slowly sat back down. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘You didn’t find the sight… unappealing? I am undoubtedly considered large by typical standards, you realize.’
Sherlock blinked, looking at Mycroft again. He’d never considered himself nor his brother according to typical standards before, for the obvious reason that they were not, had never been, and would never be typical. Average. Within the perceived norm.
It was true, though. Mycroft was big. His chin was soft and undefined, his arms fleshy, his stomach rounded. His thighs were large and so was his arse. His fingers were long but thick. Overall he had a look of softness, of plushness.
Sherlock felt his cock stir within his pants. All at once Sherlock wanted to storm into the living room and rip the treadmill to pieces. Typical standards, pah!
His thoughts must’ve shown on his face, because Mycroft went even pinker and shifted in his seat. Sherlock found himself (very unscientifically) wondering if it was possible to actually die from embarrassment.
‘Sherlock…’ Mycroft said, sounding chocked.
Sherlock didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d never been so aware of his physical body before. His hands seemed too large, his arms hanging awkwardly by his side. There was a stillness between them, as if they were both waiting for some external sign.
There wasn’t going to be an external sign, Sherlock realized- nobody was going to burst through the door, no helicopter complete with SWAT team would rain down on top of them, stopping them. It was up to them. It was up to him.
Sherlock bent forwards over the table, slowly, slowly. Mycroft watched him, eyes wide and dark. Shocked, but not disgusted. His stomach muscles strained with the effort of maintaining the perfect amount of distance. The very tip of his nose brushed Mycrofts. They were breathing each others air.
‘Let me show you,’ Sherlock said. His voice came out low and strained.
Mycroft pushed himself back from the table. For a split second Sherlock thought he’d misread the situation, but no- Mycroft was walking up the hallway that lead to his bedroom. Sherlock gulped, then followed.
Mycrofts bedroom was large, clean and bright. It contained books, and a few items of clothing. Though as neat as Sherlock had expected, it did have a bit more personality than the rest of the house. He couldn’t focus on that for long though. Mycroft glanced at him, rather shyly, then began to undo the buttons of his large coat. Sherlock wet his lips, fascinated.
‘If,’ Mycroft said, as he placed the jacket over the back of a chair, ‘if at any point you don’t want, or-’
‘Shhh,’ Sherlock said, holding up a commanding hand. ‘I’m looking. Don’t spoil it.’
He’d already seen what Mycroft looked like, he was already prepared for what he would see. But being able to look openly… Sherlock hadn’t anticipated the strength of his own reaction.
Without thinking, he reached to touch Mycrofts stomach. He stopped himself just in time to glance up: was this ok? Mycroft nodded.
So Sherlock slid up the shirt, which was a little damp from sweat and the few raindrops that had slid down his neck, under the jacket. His stomach was large, and soft, and round. Sherlock ran his hands over it, relishing the push back against his palms as Mycroft breathed.
‘Take it off,’ Sherlock said. ‘All of it.’
Mycroft obeyed. His hands were steady as he undressed. His cock was larger than Sherlocks and twitching, unsure of itself. Sherlocks had no such qualms, straining forwards like a dog pulling at a leash.
‘Bed,’ Sherlock said. Mycroft understood, stepping backwards until he the mattress. He slid along it backwards, not looking away from Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock tore at his own clothes, roughly, without grace. They were disgusting, anyway. He’d look and feel better without them.
‘Oh,’ Mycroft said, sounding stunned. ‘Look at you…’
Sherlock glanced down at himself. He couldn’t see the appeal, not compared to Mycroft. Scrawny, that’s how he’d describe himself. Maybe lanky on a good day. But Mycroft? Lush.
‘One day I want to feel you on top of me,’ Sherlock said, the words coming easily now he was free to think about it. ‘Want to feel how heavy you are, want your weight to pin me down. Just look at you. I can’t stop looking. I want to show you, just show you, how much I like looking at you…’
He climbed up onto the bed too. Mycroft was on his back, looking up at him. Sherlock stayed on his knees, his hand on his cock. He was already leaking.
‘It’s because of you,’ Sherlock said, indicating his cock with a nod. ‘You.’
Mycroft nodded slowly. Sherlock smiled, moving his hand faster. He wanted to spill himself on Mycrofts skin, on his belly and thighs. But his hand was too dry to work himself as fast as he wanted to, and he winced. Understanding at once, Mycroft shifted forwards a little.
At first Sherlock thought his brother was going to reach out and tine their fingers together. But he was wrong. Mycroft took the tip of his cock into his mouth and sucked. Gently.
Sherlock cried out harshly, looking down. The long, familiar point of Mycrofts nose was, somehow, nearly enough on its own to send him over the edge. Then Mycroft looked up, his eyes boring into Sherlocks. His mouth sank down.
Sherlock couldn’t close his eyes. Could barely breathe. He couldn’t worry about his stamina, his knees, he couldn’t worry about anything. The world had gone a blinding white.
‘Sherlock…?’
Sherlock blinked. Mycrofts face was hovering over his. He blinked, stunned. His heart was still stuttering inside his chest, and he could feel sweat drying on his skin. Mycrofts fingers ran gently through his curls. The sensation was soft, soothing…
‘Sorry,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘I don’t usually... I mean normally I’m not so…’
‘I quite understand,’ Mycroft said. ‘Not that I mind in the least, either way. It was quite sensational.’
Sherlock arched his back, humming in agreement. Their naked skin slid together beautifully. Every muscle in Sherlocks body seemed relaxed, as if he’d just been given a hours long massage. It was sensational.
‘This is sensational,’ he promptly informed Mycroft. ‘You should never put clothes on again. You’re so warm and soft.’
He scooted down a little, rubbing his face against Mycrofts stomach and then lower, on the inside of his thigh. Mycroft was no longer hard, but his cock did give a little jump at Sherlocks proximity. Sherlock smiled.
Outside, there was a gigantic boom of thunder, loud enough to make a dog a few houses down start to bark. It felt especially good to be warm and dry and naked, when it was violently raining outside. Mycroft relaxed into the mattress, letting out a deep, content sigh.
‘I might have a nap, if that’s all the same to you,’ he said. ‘It’s been a rather tiring day.’
‘Fine,’ Sherlock said, closing his eyes as well. ‘I’ll be here when you wake up.’