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Sherlock pulls open the highly polished oak door and enters his brother’s study. He closes the door with a gentle clicking of the latch then fixes his gaze on Mycroft.
“I suppose you expect some kind of a reward?” Mycroft asks drily, looking up from the files on his desk to take in his brother’s appearance.
“You are the one continually nagging me to earn a living.” Sherlock replies, casually sliding his hands into the pockets of his long coat and meeting his brother’s cool gaze.
“Typically, one does a job after being hired to do so. You, on the other hand, take it upon yourself to work unasked and then demand payment for it.” Mycroft elucidates plainly, settling his arms on top of his desk and interlacing his fingers.
“How many times have you told me to show some initiative?” Sherlock challenges, taking a couple of steps closer to the desk. “What’s the incentive if this is the thanks I get?”
“Your initiative, brother mine, can be easily mistaken for recklessness.” Mycroft replies, leaning back in his desk chair. “Is any of it your own?”
Sherlock looks down at the blood stains on the front of his once pristinely white, button down shirt and reviews recent events in his mind. “Nope.” He grins with satisfaction, meeting his brother’s gaze once more.
“And here?” Mycroft asks, stroking a finger over the skin just below his own ear to indicate location.
Sherlock frowns and reaches up to run his fingers over the area on his neck. The skin there is slightly sticky and the touch stings a bit.
“Oh dear.” Mycroft tuts, rolling his chair away from the desk and standing up. He ignores the withering look being levelled at him and steps around the desk. Sherlock pivots on his heel, turning his body to keep his eyes on his brother.
Mycroft delicately takes his brother’s chin in his fingertips and turns his head so he can get a good look at the small cut on Sherlock’s neck. “Ms Smythe put up quite a fight.” He concludes dispassionately. “Come along, we need to get you cleaned up and that wound tended.” He insists, letting his fingers slide slowly over his brother’s bottom lip as he releases him. Without further ado, he turns and heads for the door.
Sherlock’s tongue languidly traces over his bottom lip in the wake of his brother’s soft fingers. “She was a threat to you.” He proclaims in an earnest growl, justifying his evening’s work.
Mycroft stops, turns, and heads back to his darling brother, his features softer. “Her activities were being monitored.” He says soothingly, running his hand over his brother’s hair.
“I’m aware. It took me an extra twenty minutes to work around your surveillance.” Sherlock says with a hint of pouting, his gaze sliding to the ornate Oriental rug covering the floor.
“Having not informed me of your plans you can hardly hold that against me. As you said, she was a threat.” Mycroft placates, continuing to stroke his brother’s hair. “Come now, you need a shower and then we’ll see about your reward.”
Sherlock flicks a glance back up at him with the same expression he wore as a child when he had suspicions about a bribe offered him in exchange for good behaviour. Mycroft’s features are, as ever, expressing the fact that his will, will be done. It’s an inevitability that Sherlock has come to realise and grudgingly respect. If Mycroft wishes something to be so, it shall come to pass. Often times this fact is conveyed with a cold steeliness. In some situations, this being one of them, it’s an indulgent patience that can wait out any childish tantrum.
“Fine.” Sherlock agrees petulantly. Just because all the universe seems to bend to his brother’s will doesn’t mean he has to like it, even if he really rather does like it. He lets his feet fall heavily in minor protest as he follows Mycroft out of the study, down the hall, through the master bedroom and into the en suite bathroom.
“Clothing, please.” Mycroft says politely, turning to face his brother in the brightly lit room.
Sherlock rolls his eyes but obediently shrugs off his Belstaff and hands it to Mycroft by the collar.
“This, at least, seems to have been spared any mess.” Mycroft comments, inspecting the garment carefully before folding it neatly and laying it on the marble vanity top beside the sink. Looking back towards his brother, he’s compelled to take the black suit jacket thrust at him. He tsks, sniffing daintily at a lapel. “Has it not occurred to you to wear one of your horrible track suit ensembles when you do these things?” He asks disapprovingly, draping the jacket over the sink so he can extract a bin liner from the under-sink cabinet.
“You don’t like how I look in street clothes.” Sherlock points out as he folds his slightly blood-soiled trousers and drops them on the vanity.
Mycroft gives a tilting nod of his head in agreement as he focuses on getting the bin bag to open. “True, though I believe I’d thoroughly enjoy throwing one of your hooded sweatshirts into the fire.” He admits, finally getting the plastic film to cooperate.
“They’re called hoodies, you great snob.” Sherlock jibes, standing on one foot to peel a sock off the other.
“I assume you left your shoes in the entry? Did you at least manage to keep those clean or have you left ruddy tracks all the way to my door?” Mycroft asks airily, ignoring the name-calling and placing Sherlock’s suit in the bin bag to be taken to the dry cleaners.
“I found some convenient puddles left from the rain earlier. The uppers are fine but it seemed prudent to give the soles a rinse. Well, I say fine, they’ll need to be polished.” Sherlock replies snootily, tossing his second sock to the floor to join its mate.
Mycroft sets the bin bag just outside the en suite door then pulls it shut. Turning back into the room to get the shower running, he pauses a moment to enjoy the sight before him. Sherlock’s shirt is hanging wide open, the blood spattered fabric framing his chest in a piece of abstract art. The normally pale expanse of skin is slightly tinted a rusty red from the blood that had seeped through the fine cotton.
“Contemplating my reward?” Sherlock asks in a tone pitched to seduce.
Mycroft unhurriedly moves his gaze back up the length of his brother’s body until their eyes meet again. “You may as well throw that shirt in the bin beside the toilet, it’s beyond saving.” He says nonchalantly, then breaks eye contact and walks past him to turn on the taps in the shower.
“No kidding.” Sherlock mutters, peeling off his shirt and wadding it into a ball before tossing it in the small rubbish bin. A little annoyed by the lack of attention, he pulls his pants off and drops them on the floor with his socks.
Satisfied with the water temperature, Mycroft steps back from the shower and gestures his brother in under the spray.
“Not joining me?” Sherlock asks grumpily, one foot in the tub.
“This isn’t a bathing costume.” Mycroft replies with exasperation, glancing down at his attire. “I’ll be five minutes.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes then continues getting into the tub and pulls the sliding door mostly shut.
Mycroft goes off to his bedroom to remove his three piece suit and the usual array of accoutrements. He pulls the door to the en suite open once more at the five minute mark, two white terry robes draped over his arm.
“Five minutes are up, Mycroft.” Sherlock says over the noise of the shower.
Refusing to raise his voice to be heard above the spray, Mycroft hangs the robes and lets himself into the back of the tub before replying. “I’m quite capable of keeping track of the time, thank you.”
Sherlock’s eyes darken as he looks his naked brother up and down. Despite the hot water cascading over his back, a shiver travels down his spine. Carefully, he steps in close and angles his head for a kiss.
Mycroft obliges, cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck with his long fingers and pressing their lips together. He settles his other hand on Sherlock’s hip while his brother’s hands lay on his shoulders. He keeps the kiss fairly light, a series of caresses and light brushes. He tightens his hold slightly around the nape of his brother’s neck as he pulls back, enjoying the unfought illustration of his control.
“I love you, My.” Sherlock rumbles, letting his hands fall away from Mycroft’s shoulders to paw at his chest hair instead.
“I love you too, Lockie.” Mycroft says reassuringly. “Back up, please. I’m catching a chill.”
Sherlock nods and steps back, trying to keep at least one of his hands on Mycroft as he does so. Mycroft steps into the hot spray and sighs with contented pleasure. He wasn’t expecting the evening to play out in this way but it’s a pleasant surprise. Sherlock’s hands settle on Mycroft’s hips as he runs his hands over his hair, slicking it back in the spray of the shower head. Sherlock, it would seem, is eager for his reward. Grinning to himself, Mycroft takes his hands from his hair and wraps his arms around his brother’s neck. Without further enticement or instruction Sherlock steps closer and takes the kiss waiting for him on Mycroft’s lips. They embrace, pressing their bodies together from knees to chests.
Mycroft allows Sherlock to control the kiss for a while, enjoying the earnestness of his desire. He finds it endearing that no matter how much his younger brother longs to take, Sherlock’s kisses always feel as though he’s asking to be given. His little brother has always been like that; Willing to take whatever he wanted but liking so much more to have his desires bestowed upon him. He was a spoiled child and remained spoiled as an adult. Mycroft has himself to blame for it, that much he knows. As the primary enabler of his brother’s entitled behaviour, Mycroft also has the responsibility of pulling in the reins once in a while. Giving, taking, pushing, pulling, it was how they’ve always been and how they work best together. At the end of the day, however, Mycroft always wins. His brother’s need for his approval and affection make sure of it. Mycroft’s need of his brother is just as strong, he merely has the tenacity to hold out longer.
Sherlock, one arm around Mycroft’s waist, his other hand splayed over wet chest hair, presses his erection against his brother’s hip. The adrenaline high of taking out another person who foolishly dared to plot his brother’s assassination was gone. Greed and impatience for the next hormonal rush urged his groin forward in search of pressure and friction. He’d been almost giddy with excitement when he’d learned of his victim’s intentions a week ago. He’d behaved himself well, taking time to plan the execution when he’d wanted nothing more than to track Ms Smythe down and beat the life out of her in a blind rage. Well, almost nothing more. Mycroft, boring as he is, would be annoyed at behaviour he deemed rash, so he’d been patient and careful. His brother was just the sort to receive a gift and be judgemental of the care taken in its wrapping.
Mycroft slides his hands from around Sherlock’s neck to his shoulders and presses him back gently, ending the prolonged kissing. “Turn around please, let me look at the back of you.” He instructs, applying light pressure to deliciously strong, slick shoulders.
“I’m not injured.” Sherlock complains while simultaneously complying.
Mycroft hums an is that so in the back of his throat as he takes a small step back to inspect his brother’s body. Unobserved, he allows his tongue to swipe over his lips at the sight of Sherlock’s backside. His brother’s body is perfection; broad shoulders, narrow hips, plush rump. Mycroft would be jealous of Sherlock’s genetic lottery winnings but for the fact that he benefitted from it the most. Having looked his fill for the time being, he steps forward and holds Sherlock in place with a hand on his shoulder. His other hand slides down the planes of his brother’s back to his exquisite arse. He presses into the flesh firmly, relishing the springiness of developed muscle under the sole thin layer of fat on the lithe form. His fingers slide into the cleft, stroking slowly but still firmly up and down between ideal arse cheeks. He grins as Sherlock cants his hips back, asking for more.
Mycroft runs his hand from his brother’s arse around his waist and pulls him back against himself tightly. He slides his other hand down Sherlock’s shoulder blade, over his ribs, and across his chest. Holding him in place he speaks huskily next to his ear, “Did you have time to clean yourself thoroughly before I joined you?”
Sherlock drops his head back on his brother’s shoulder, his hips rocking back in search of Mycroft’s member. “I’m- ” He gasps as one of his nipples is pinched gingerly between Mycroft’s fingers. “Ready for you.” He finishes breathily. With the aid of some surgical tubing, a bag of saline solution, and a few dabs of lubricant, he’d cleaned himself thoroughly indeed before he’d left the flat that evening.
Mycroft hums approvingly, running his palm teasingly up Sherlock’s chest to the small cut just below his jaw. “You need to be more careful, brother mine.” He gently scolds, pressing a fingertip into the cut until he elicits a small wince from his brother.
“Diamond ring.” Sherlock explains, fingers digging into his brother’s outer thighs with force just shy of bruising.
“Yes, dangerous things.” Mycroft agrees, accepting the excuse. “Did you enjoy yourself?” He asks, trailing his hand over Sherlock’s chest and stomach.
“My-croft.” Sherlock says the name as two distinct syllables in a whining tone.
“Now, now, brother mine.” Mycroft returns, more admonishing than soothing.
“I had to do it, your lackeys are slow and stupid.” Sherlock explains, attempting to squirm around to face his brother.
Mycroft tightens his hold around him. “The thrill of the hunt, the rush of adrenaline, the perfect puzzle, the perfect murder.”
Those words spoken in that seductive tone next to his ear makes Sherlock shudder. No one else could ever understand him the way his brother does. He knows it’s indecent to take delight from killing, abnormal even. He doesn’t think he’s an entirely bad man. That said, it’s difficult to distinguish the satisfaction he gets from protecting his brother’s life from the glee he feels when ending the life of an idiot. It’s not like he’s indiscriminate in his actions, every case is an act of self-defence, well, pre-meditated self-defence. Actually, defence of Mycroft, but as he would surely die without his brother, he can’t really see the difference.
“Such a sweet boy you are, Lockie.” Mycroft croons, pressing his lips over the glorified scratch on Sherlock’s neck. “So daring and brave, putting yourself in such danger to look out for your brother.”
“Only for you, My.” Sherlock breathes out a little shakily. The statement is part declaration and part promise. He only feels truly alive under three circumstances; One is being entirely wrapped up in an intriguing case. Two is executing a murder that will go forever unsolved. Three is being carnally engaged in his brother’s bed.
Frankly, they’re both aware of many people without whom the world would be a better place. Mycroft sees to his share of the tidying loosely within the bounds of the law. Sherlock constrains himself in order to stay in Mycroft’s favour. Applying himself to too many problems would force Mycroft to censure him. He doesn’t feel leashed, precisely, but he wouldn’t put it past his brother to have him forcibly contained if he failed to moderate his behaviour.
Mycroft is fully cognisant of the number of deaths he is accountable for. A few more tallied up by his brother on his behalf hardly makes any difference. Besides, his darling boy’s misdeeds are committed in the name of devotion and love. He couldn’t punish Sherlock for expressing his softer emotions, they are what makes him human after all. He has no choice but to accept these gestures of fidelity and continually remind his beloved to not act carelessly. Should his brother meet his end on one of these self-assigned tasks, it would end him as well.
“Turn off the taps.” Mycroft casually commands, letting his hands fall away from his brother’s slick skin and taking a small step back.
Sherlock feels dizzyingly in free fall with the loss of contact. His mind is thick, fuzzy with arousal and anticipation. Mycroft is already out of the shower and reaching for a towel before he processes the simple command and turns the water off.
“Dry yourself then I’ll take a look at your neck.” Mycroft directs, offering Sherlock a towel as he steps out of the tub.
Mycroft sounds just like he did when Sherlock was a kid, simultaneously coddling and disapproving. Sherlock huffs as he always has in response to that tone and grabs the towel. “It’s a scratch, Mycroft.” He says plaintively, briskly drying himself.
Mycroft continues to slip into his white terry robe in a regal manner, tying the sash snugly. Patiently, he holds ready the second robe and watches his brother finish drying off.
Sherlock tosses his towel to the floor then meets his brother’s gaze. Mycroft has that look on his face that clearly says resistance is futile. His overbearing brother would stand there all night waiting for him to slip into it. Sherlock hesitates a moment on principle then steps into position and allows himself to be enrobed. He’s turned by the shoulders and then Mycroft is tying the garment closed.
Moving with more speed and agility than his brother would normally give him credit for, Mycroft grabs his brother roughly by the scruff of the neck, presses his mouth to Sherlock’s, and steps forward to trap him between the vanity and his own body. Mycroft kisses him possessively, sliding his tongue past lips opened in surprise. He keeps up the relentless snogging until he feels Sherlock’s pelvis pressing into him needfully. He breaks the kiss, pulling his head back abruptly, his hold on Sherlock’s neck remaining firm.
“A scratch deep enough to bleed.” Mycroft says, voice deep and gravelled, eyes boring into his brother’s. “You know I don’t like my body being injured. Hold still and let me put some antiseptic on it.”
Sherlock lowers his head in submission and the hand at his nape slides over his neck then falls away. Mycroft doesn’t often display this level of possessiveness and command. He most likely always feels it, believes Sherlock to be his property, but he typically expresses it more subtly. It gets tiresome at times but overall, Sherlock doesn’t mind all that much. It makes it easier and more fun to frustrate and rile the stuffy sod. That, and it’s basically a fact anyway. Though when it’s brought to the forefront of his thoughts, he’s quick to remind himself that Mycroft belongs to him just as much. Furthermore, he knows that when Mycroft gets like this he’s in for an exceptional shagging.
“It’s a pity to see a sublime surface marred in such a way.” Mycroft says appraisingly, moistening a ball of cotton wool with Dettol. He sets the bottle on the vanity then lifts his brother’s chin and angles it out of the way. “Like graffiti on a cathedral.” He adds as he runs the cotton wool over the length of the shallow cut. “Were she not already dispatched, I’d have Ms Smythe seen to in the morning.” He releases Sherlock’s chin and tosses the used ball in the bin. “Does it hurt, Lockie?” He asks, gently cupping his head and stroking his thumb over a proud cheekbone.
“No, My, doesn’t hurt.” Sherlock answers, his voice young and innocent.
“I’m glad.” Mycroft gives him a smile then leans forward and kisses him tenderly.
Sherlock can’t help wanting to curl into him, to be cuddled and comforted just a little bit. Mycroft’s the only one who’s ever been allowed to fuss and coo over him. Well, the only one since Sherlock was five and gave up on his parents. He’s well aware too that Mycroft treasures his unique position. Sometimes he wonders what his brother did before he came along to be looked after.
“Are you ready for your reward now?” Mycroft asks as he ghosts his lips over his brother’s face.
“Yes, please.” Sherlock answers. He’s gone to putty in his brother’s hands and doesn’t mind one whit. Trying to fight the power of Mycroft’s affection is as useless as trying to disregard the effects of a large dose of heroin.
Mycroft nearly groans at the sound of his brother’s voice saying the word please. “Good, come to the bed with me then, hm?” He takes his brother’s still shower warm hand and leads him out of the en suite. The air in the bedroom is cool and thin in comparison to the steamy bathroom. He throws back a corner of the bedding then starts untying the sash of Sherlock’s robe. “Under the covers, please.” He instructs warmly, disrobing his brother.
Sherlock gladly crawls in between high thread count sheets and shifts over to make room. Mycroft, his own robe removed, is with him in moments, pulling sheet and duvet back over the top of the two of them. Craving the reward that is his due, he plasters himself to his brother as soon as Mycroft settles on his side. Sherlock presses himself to him from ankles to chest and seeks out his lips with his own.
Delight and satisfaction at his brother’s eagerness and compliance bubble merrily in Mycroft’s stomach. Controlling and manipulating people is common enough in his daily life, but those are common people. Wresting power from his feral little brother is a feat requiring the use of all of his skill and therefore that much more rewarding. Getting the little miscreant to a state in which he wilfully surrenders gives Mycroft the illusion that he’s living in a state of grace. It’s probably unwise, the pleasure he intends to inflict on his brother will be interpreted as a reward for committing murder. It’ll doubtlessly lead to more killings with less justification behind them. He deems it a problem to contend with in the future, leaving him free to do as he wishes in the here and now.
“Want you, My.” Sherlock’s statement is a blend of whining and pleading. He developed that particular tone as a child, working out the cadence and pitch that worked best to get what he wanted from his brother. His voice has deepened but it continues to work so he never tinkers with it. He rolls onto his back, making himself open and vulnerable and pulls meekly at Mycroft’s shoulder.
“You’ll have me, my beautiful boy.” Mycroft promises in a dark growl, getting to his hands and knees, caging his brother beneath him. He lowers his head to lick and mouth at the side of Sherlock’s neck not treated with antiseptic. The fingers in his hair, the hand splayed over his back feel lovely, welcoming. “Subclavian artery?” He enquires as he runs his nose over collarbone then retraces the path with his tongue.
Sherlock’s fingers clench momentarily at the question as he recalls the knife plunging into the woman who would’ve seen his brother dead. Mycroft has prodigious skill in making him recall his earlier rush of adrenaline while eliciting the release of other hormones. His brother can play his endocrine system the way Sherlock can play violin. “Yes.” He replies, his chest arching up in search of more contact.
“You kept hold of the blade as she sank, twisting it.” Mycroft elaborates as he pinches Sherlock’s nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting it gently in demonstration.
A shaking inhalation precedes Sherlock’s response, electricity zinging from his nipple to his cock. “Just, just a little. Have to avoid getting caught on bone.” He explains, making sure Mycroft knows that the technique does actually require some finesse.
Mycroft hums to let him know he appreciates the skill set as he runs his lips down to Sherlock’s other nipple. He licks and sucks at the sensitive, engorged bit of flesh. He grazes his teeth over the nub, appreciating the high-pitched gasping noise his brother makes. The threat to bite is a hollow one. For all of Sherlock’s brash recklessness, Mycroft knows he doesn’t like pain. He has a high tolerance to withstand it but it brings him no pleasure. He also knows that his brother is thrilled by the risk of pain and so traces his teeth against the nipple a little more before continuing to lick and suck at it.
The sensation Mycroft wrings from his otherwise seemingly useless nipples never fails to take Sherlock somewhat by surprise. He’s tried stimulating them on his own and felt nothing but stupid. He tells himself for the hundredth time that he needs to spend more nights in his brother’s bed. Or days, or whole weekends, whatever, he just wants more of this. He wants more of everything Mycroft, and only Mycroft, can give him.
A few wet kisses down Sherlock’s sternum, over his stomach, to his navel, then Mycroft moves back up to his brother’s mouth. The bed covers have slid down to waist level, allowing cool bedroom air to drift over the trail of saliva he left on his lover and continue to be a source of sensation for him. Trading sultry, slow kisses with Sherlock is really Mycroft’s favourite part of all this.
He still remembers a time when he believed he would never have a lover. Mycroft believed himself entirely asexual into his mid-twenties. It was a visit home and the scowling demigod of petulance that was his brother at age seventeen that first awoke his sexual yearnings. Mycroft returned to London after that weekend trip home assuming he was homosexual. Many months of trying and failing to find a man that could make his loins stir had him believing what he’d felt was a fluke, a result of some bizarre set of circumstances. It was his next visit home, for Christmas, that he realised his desire stirred for one person only.
Sherlock can feel the sentimentality in Mycroft’s kisses, the softness of his lips against his own, the gentleness of his tongue stroking the inside of his mouth. He doesn’t dislike it in the least, but he’s eager to move things along. Pressing his brother onto his back, Sherlock climbs atop him, his long legs stretching along the outsides of his brother’s slightly longer ones. Propped up on one elbow, he lightly sucks kisses over Mycroft’s neck while his free hand roams over chest hair. The hands sliding from his shoulders to his hips and back again are encouraging. He moves his mouth to Mycroft’s shoulder and nibbles delicately.
“You owe me a new suit.” He says as he runs his nose over chest hair just to get a reaction. He used to worry about sounding like a kept man, being a kept man. Once he realised that Mycroft would see him provided for no matter the circumstances of their relationship, he decided to lean into it and play with the concept.
“My dry cleaners will deal with the suit. You will require a new shirt though, yes.” Mycroft counters, playing along. He adores it when Sherlock burrows his face into his chest hair. He strokes a hand over his brother’s barely still damp hair hoping to keep him there a few moments more.
“Not a replacement, Mycroft, a new one. Obviously the old one can be cleaned. I put a lot of work into keeping you alive tonight.” Sherlock points out, putting on a testy attitude that is unconvincing as he’s also rubbing his face over chest hair, once again like an affectionate house cat.
“Ah, compensation for your work.” Mycroft says, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Bit careless of you to get messy in the first place. The cost of discreet dry cleaning has gone up the last few years.” His tone is artificially prohibitive, his hands caress his brother’s back hungrily.
“One minor miscalculation.” Sherlock pouts, shifting his weight to his knees so he can nip at Mycroft’s side in playful complaint.
Seeing that the time to reclaim the upper hand has come, Mycroft swiftly pulls his brother up by the wrists and rolls them so Sherlock is pinned beneath him. “And what was that?” He asks. His voice has gone a bit growly with possessiveness again and he keeps his brother’s wrists gently pressed to the bed either side of his unruly dark curls.
Involuntarily, Sherlock’s body arches up in response to the turning of the tables. “I thought she’d wear heels but she was in flats, changed the angle of her collapse.” He answers.
“Hence I’m responsible not only for an entirely new suit but a dry cleaning bill and another shirt?” Mycroft demands, the heat of the question down to lust, not annoyance.
“Seems fair.” Sherlock, through force of will, keeps himself from squeaking the response.
“And you expect me to pleasure you on top of all that.” Mycroft tsks, pressing his thigh against Sherlock’s erection.
“On top of me as well, yes.” Sherlock answers cheekily. Tries to answer cheekily, the breathiness of his reply not quite having the desired effect.
Mycroft takes his brother’s mouth in a searing kiss, allowing the flood gates of his passion to open a little way. When his lungs insist he takes a few proper breaths, he breaks the kiss and settles back on his knees, letting his hands trail from Sherlock’s wrists to his sides. “Very well, my demanding darling. Roll over and you’ll receive your reward.” He directs, blue eyes flashing.
“Is that what you’ve named it?” Sherlock asks as he manoeuvres himself onto his stomach.
“Pardon?” Mycroft enquires, distracted by the beautiful sight of his brother stretched out and waiting for him.
“Your cock, have you named it your reward?” Sherlock giggles through the restatement of the question.
Mycroft makes a disgusted scoffing sound and lightly slaps his brother’s behind. “Sherlock Holmes, you were brought up far better than that.” He admonishes through lips pursed to stop himself from grinning.
“What? It’s a reasonable question.” Sherlock protests as his body is pressed deeper into the mattress due to Mycroft laying partly atop him.
“Vulgar and inappropriate.” Mycroft states, his breath hot on the nape of Sherlock’s neck while the appendage under discussion nestles in the cleft of his plush arse.
“The question maybe, the name though, totally apropos.” Sherlock grins.
Mycroft bites the top of Sherlock’s shoulder as though to discourage his rude behaviour. He gets a pleasing yipe for his effort though it’s done playfully. The feeling of firm, lush arse cheeks cradling his cock is magnificent. He moves his hips, sliding his cock along the cleft while his lips and tongue and teeth graze over Sherlock’s upper back. “Would you like me to name my cock your reward?” He asks silkily.
Sherlock hums in pleasure, relaxing into the soft mattress. “Yes.” He replies on a long exhale.
Mycroft shifts down, depriving his member of contact with Sherlock’s arse for the time being. “What became of the weapon?” He asks, not concerned with the answer but rather with titillating his brother.
Sherlock slides his legs further apart at Mycroft’s gentle nudging, he can feel the handle of the knife in his hand. “Left it there.” He answers, then groans as his arse is fondled and massaged by confident hands.
“Was that wise?” Mycroft asks huskily. His excitement grows as he manipulates Sherlock’s delectable bottom, catching glimpses of his anus. He has the fleeting thought that he should name it my pleasure. My’s pleasure, his mind corrects, making him chuckle quietly.
“What?” Sherlock demands.
“We should name this My’s pleasure.” Mycroft answers smoothly, running the tip of a finger over the puckered flesh.
Sherlock’s hips twitch with the direct contact and he hums approvingly. “We should, it’ll make you think of me every time you use the phrase.”
“You’d like me to think of you more often?” Mycroft asks, rubbing his thumb over the tight sphincter muscle in firm little circles.
“I want you obsessed with me.” Sherlock replies truthfully, spreading his legs even further apart.
Mycroft contemplates telling him that he’s already obsessed with him. Not a day goes by in which he doesn’t think about Sherlock a minimum of three times. In fact, the days in which it is only three instances are those that also involve him in some manner of national, or international crisis. The average number of times his mind drifts to his brother is nearer twelve or thirteen. He decides to keep the information to himself lest his arrogant brother’s ego swell to greater dimension.
“I’m certain you do.” He says instead, shuffling further down the bed and running his nails lightly along the backs of Sherlock’s thighs. “About the weapon you left at the crime scene?” He asks, returning to his question before they got distracted.
“I- aahhh.” Sherlock’s answer is swept away on a new wave of sensation as Mycroft spreads his cheeks with his hands and licks over his hole. His heart rate jumps in an instant and he takes a few panting breaths before getting it back under control. He’s put considerable effort into training himself to stay relatively still when Mycroft does this to him. The first time they did this, he jerked about so much he nearly broke his brother’s nose with his coccyx.
Mycroft loses himself, focusing exclusively on giving oral pleasure to his brother’s anus. He loves doing this and takes his time with it, prolonging his own pleasure. Three full minutes go by and he’s yet to breach the muscle. For the sake of saving himself a very sore neck, he pulls his mouth away and kneels up. “Knees please, Lockie.” He rasps, pulling lightly on sharp hip bones.
Sherlock obeys, positioning himself on all fours. He can feel a trembling sensation developing in his thigh muscles and the ache of emptiness in his anal canal. He knows what’s coming and the anticipation turns his every nerve into a live wire.
“Now, you were saying?” Mycroft positions himself comfortably and takes hold of Sherlock’s arse again.
“The knife, right.” Sherlock recalls, trying to keep his wits about him in spite of the wet muscle beginning to prod at his entrance.
Mycroft hums a go on while pressing his tongue past the ring of tight muscle. A highly satisfying shudder passes through his brother’s body and a quietly moaned fuck lands on his ears.
Sherlock can’t bother to speak for a minute, too caught up in feeling the slow in and out slide of the tongue up his arse. Eventually, he adjusts to it and provides an answer, albeit a stammered one. “Nick- nicked it from Pe- Petrokovic. Virt- Virtually untraceable.”
Mycroft hums an I see as he continues working his tongue in and out of Sherlock. Petrokovic was the unfortunate assassin of unspecified former Soviet nation provenance who’d had Mycroft in his sights two months previous. Mycroft was slightly annoyed by his brother’s taking of the man’s life at the time. He’d been two days away from putting plans for Petrokovic’s capture in motion when Sherlock showed up in his doorway with a gleam in his eyes and a split lip. For a moment, he’d almost believed a merciful god had orchestrated Petrokovic’s death before Mycroft could begin to question him. Sherlock had been so beamingly proud of himself that Mycroft hadn’t stayed irritated for long.
Sherlock groans, wanting more than a slick tongue inside of him. He rocks his hips back carefully, telegraphing the message to Mycroft. Recalling the hunt, the takedown, the aftermath, he finds his heart rate increasing again. To convince his over-protective brother that the minor injury to his lip was truly minor Sherlock had fellated him for twenty continuous minutes. The ensuing muscle ache in his jaw and neck turned out to be more injurious than the cut to his lip. In addition to the soreness in his facial muscles, it took two full days for his voice to return to its normal timbre.
Mycroft tolerates Sherlock’s squirming for a minute then pulls his face away and tightens his hold on his brother’s hips to still them. “And you accuse me of being the greedy one.” He chastises, wiping saliva from his chin with his palm.
“Don’t try to pretend you’re doing me a favour, brother. I know you enjoy having your tongue inside me.” Sherlock returns with a smirk.
“Accurate but incomplete, Lockie.” Mycroft corrects him, circling the spit-slick hole with his middle finger then slipping it in all the way. “I enjoy having my fingers and my prick in you just as much.”
“Fuck.” Sherlock exhales and drops his shoulders to the mattress, turning his head to the side so as to not suffocate in his brother’s down-filled pillow.
“I should have had you take out the rubbish from the en suite. The smell from your shirt is beginning to permeate.” Using his free hand, he presses his thumb to Sherlock’s perineum, varying the pressure and duration of the touch. Lazily watching his finger move, Mycroft takes a moment to note the number of questionable choices he makes in his relationship with his brother. For example, encouraging him to notice the odour of stale blood that is indeed creeping in to the room. Sherlock has more than enough blood lust in the make-up of his character already, more shouldn’t be encouraged. Yet, in the cause of adding to Sherlock’s arousal, he does it anyway. Predictably, Sherlock discreetly sniffs the air. Mycroft can tell when he catches the scent because his brother’s eyelids flutter shut for a moment and the muscle around his finger tightens.
“Finger me from up here, My.” Sherlock requests, eyelids heavy, a please implicit in his tone.
With a last kiss to an arse cheek, Mycroft extracts his finger. “Get the lubricant, please.” He instructs as he moves on stiffening knees to lay down.
Wasting no time, Sherlock stretches an arm over to the bedside table and pulls open the drawer. Bottle of lube in hand he takes his place on his side next to Mycroft, passing the small bottle over. Eagerly, he shuffles close and engages him in a deep kiss.
Mycroft reaches down and guides Sherlock’s thigh to rest over his legs, opening him for further attention. Breaking the kiss, he leans back and snaps open the bottle. A generous amount of slick on his fingers, he snaps the bottle shut again and drops it beside the pillow. Sherlock silently demands another kiss from him as Mycroft moves his hand over thigh and buttock to spread the slick over his brother’s hole. He slides his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip while at the same time pressing his middle and index fingers into his lubed entrance.
The intrusion of the two digits is delicious. Sherlock closes his lips around Mycroft’s tongue and sucks at an adagio tempo. His cock, trapped between their bodies, twitches and strains. He knows there’s a dildo somewhere in the room and he has half a mind to ask Mycroft to fuck him with it while he sucks him off. Before he can do so, the fingers find his prostate and he hasn’t any mind with which to ask for anything.
Feeling the desire coming off of his brother in waves, he presses his index finger into him alongside the first two digits. Sherlock automatically pulls back to draw breath and bears down, drawing him in. “You feel wonderful, Lockie. So good of you to look out for me, to vanquish my enemies.” Mycroft coos.
“Yes, god yes. Imbeciles. Deserve to die.” Sherlock exclaims, trying to kiss Mycroft’s lips again but mostly just licking and nipping at them.
“Shh, Lockie.” Mycroft soothes, spreading his fingers as they move in and out, caressing and stretching. He works his other arm between their chests and traces Sherlock’s lips with his fingers. “Though you shouldn’t pretend you’re doing me a favour. I know you enjoy it.” He says silkily, pressing two fingers past Sherlock’s lower lip and into his mouth. “You liked it when Ms Smythe flailed her arms as her life’s blood drained from her, even if her ring did catch on your beautiful skin.”
Sherlock is grateful for the fingers in his mouth. He wants Mycroft to fill him, to own him, to keep understanding what he wants, what he needs. He wants Mycroft to keep playing the game with him. The best game ever in which they get to create all of the rules and play to win the other’s esteem. He wants to dance on the line between his brother’s approval and catastrophe and always come out on the right side.
Mycroft has to concentrate to keep both hands doing what they should. His own arousal is rising to match his brother’s. The incidental brushing together of their erections is becoming difficult to ignore. Sherlock has started unintentionally making moaning sounds in the back of his throat, the vibrations of which are passing into his fingers. “How would you like to receive your reward, brother mine?” He rasps, withdrawing his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth so he can speak.
Sherlock swallows the excess of saliva in his mouth then licks his lips. “On my back. Fuck me, My.” He replies ardently, ready to beg for it if he has to.
Mycroft presses a kiss to his forehead as he slowly pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s arse. They maintain eye contact as Sherlock shifts onto his back and Mycroft takes his place between his lover’s legs. A shared feeling of reverence comes over them every time they reach this junction. These moments of final preparation perpetually take on the feeling of an eye in a storm, a calm rest between torrents. Holding Mycroft’s gaze, Sherlock feels around beside the pillow until he comes up with the bottle of lubricant. Mycroft accepts the offered bottle, stroking his fingers over his brother’s as he takes it.
Never you they silently vow in the shared look. They know they are not what most people would call good men. Neither of them should be trusted and both of them should be feared. That advice holds true for everyone except each other. Never would they hurt or cause hurt to befall the other. Both men have other people they can trust in their lives, but only to one another are they totally loyal.
Mycroft snicks open the bottle, drips a generous puddle into his palm, then closes it and lightly tosses it a short distance away. He wraps his wet hand around his cock, inhaling sharply at the initial contact. His eyes burn into Sherlock’s as he gives himself a few strokes to spread the lubricant. “Ready?” He asks quietly.
Sherlock spreads his legs wider and pulls his knees up towards his chest. “Ready.” He confirms.
Mycroft rests one hand on his brother’s knee while he guides his prick to Sherlock’s gorgeous opening with the other. He breaks the eye contact, looking down to align himself. Resting the tip of his cock against the orifice, he looks back up to his brother’s face. Slowly, he pushes forward, breath held in his chest as his cockhead slides past relaxed muscle.
Sherlock never tires of the expression on Mycroft’s face at the moment of penetration. He looks solemn and devoted and the effort of concentration creates a wrinkle in his forehead. Enraptured by his brother’s features, he’s oblivious to any discomfort. He can feel the sizeable cock pushing its way into him, driving wide his inner walls, but it feels only of adoration.
At a challengingly slow pace, Mycroft presses all the way in without pausing. Only when he’s buried to the hilt does he go still. Resting both hands on his brother’s knees, he takes a few deep, steadying breaths. “You feel incredible, Lockie.” He says warmly, allowing the depth of his affection to show on his face.
Sherlock bites his lower lip shyly and finds Mycroft’s hands with his own, interlacing their fingers atop his knees. The sensory input coming from inside slides back into the focus from the emotional to the physical realm. Hot pressure pushes out from his core. “Move.” He directs.
The single word from his brother’s lips sends Mycroft into careful action. With a groan he pulls back a scant couple of inches then slowly pushes back in. He repeats the action, gradually increasing the distance of withdrawal until he’s unsheathing the length of his shaft up to the frenulum before sliding back in. He gazes at the adored face of his brother as he moves inside of him. Sherlock’s fingers have loosened their hold, his head is tipped back into the pillow, eyes closed, mouth open and gently panting. It’s the most beautiful sight Mycroft reckons he will ever see.
Time is no longer measured in seconds or minutes but by the slow thrusting of Mycroft’s cock. Sherlock floats in the feeling, a glorious tangle of trust, affection, and righteousness. The two of them were not made for this world. They can play at fitting in but neither of them ever truly will. They can see what motivates and moves human kind, they understand it and manipulate it, but they do not feel it in the same way as others. They see rules and laws but choose which ones to abide by. They are both of the law and above it. They do wrong to do right every week in their work. In this crucible of love between them, they also do what they know is wrong, but right. They weren’t made for this world, they were made for each other.
Making love to his brother always makes Mycroft feel like a man in his prime. No other part of his life offers him a high as exquisite as reaching orgasm with Sherlock. The transience of human life is a fact he integrated at a young age. In response, he eyed up the playing field that is the earth and decided what patch of it he would claim for his own before returning to dust. He staked out that territory and inhabits it well. Till his dying breath he will do as he pleases and deems fit. His younger brother was always part of the picture, always a part of his territory. That Sherlock chooses to fill the role of his lover is extraordinary.
Sherlock pulls his heavy eyelids open and focuses dreamily on his brother. The scent of drying blood is a presence in the room now, further fuelling his sense of well-being. It serves as a reminder not only of his victory, his cunning, his skill, but his devotion. In his more suspicious moments, he wonders if Mycroft intentionally makes himself a target every so often. His brother invented games for him as a child, it’s not a great leap to think he still does.
“Kiss me.” Sherlock reaches up for his brother’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around him as Mycroft lowers himself.
Forearms propped on the bed, Mycroft nuzzles his brother’s face for a moment before bringing their lips together. The air in the room has grown thick with the odours of sex and sweat and blood. Perspiration is beading on his forehead and the kiss tastes of salt. “Quite all right, dearest?” He murmurs then presses his lips to Sherlock’s temple. Kissing mid-coitus is wonderful but he’s finding oxygen to be in short supply.
Sherlock hums contentedly and wraps his long legs around Mycroft’s waist. “Come in me, My. I want to feel it. I want to feel your cum running down my thighs.”
“As you wish, brother.” Mycroft answers huskily then kisses him deeply for as long as his lungs hold out. Gasping a breath, he shifts to prop himself up on his hands. Sherlock’s hands cup his elbows, feeling like support braces. He moves his attention from his brother to the sensory data coming in from his groin. He moans as the information floods in.
“Yes, My. Fuck.” Leaves Sherlock’s mouth in response to the uncensored sound.
Mycroft picks up the tempo, sliding home harder and feeling the arousing slap of his balls against Sherlock’s arse. “Ughh, Lockie.” He growls, sweat dripping from his face onto his brother’s pale torso.
Sherlock meets the motion as well as he can, tightening his abdominal muscles to lift his hips in rhythm. He feels himself being moved incrementally closer to the headboard with every powerful stroke. To save himself a concussion, he raises his arms over his head and braces himself against the carved wood.
“Fuck.” Mycroft spits, his tone in full-blown passion sounding much like another person’s angry voice. He rears back onto his knees and clamps one of Sherlock’s legs to his shoulder, holding him in place.
“God, My, yes!” Sherlock loves it when his brother lets go and lets instinct take the reins. He plants his other foot on the mattress, giving himself more leverage to work with.
“God damnit. Fucking fuck.” Breathing heavily, Mycroft’s quietly panted utterances sound like a man frustrated with a simple piece of equipment that just won’t slot together as it should. His hips snap at speed, sweat runs down his chest.
“M- M- M-” Sherlock can produce no more than the initial consonant sound of his brother’s name. Mycroft’s hair has gone wild, every inch of his pale skin is flushed pink, his eyes blaze like bonfires. Sherlock reckons it’s the most beautiful sight he’ll ever see.
“Lock.” Mycroft grunts, the pressure building in his core, tightening his balls, is close to unbearable. “Take it.” He commands, nodding brusquely at his brother’s erection bouncing against his enviably muscled lower abdomen.
Sherlock looks to where his brother is looking and cottons on. He’d been so focused on feeling the hard prick inside of him that he’d forgotten he had one of his own. He removes a hand from the headboard, swipes the palm over the mingled sweat and pre-cum coating his stomach, then wraps his fingers around his feverishly hot cock. His hips jolt with the touch, driving him onto Mycroft’s member.
Mycroft snaps out a, “Fuck!” At the sensation and the sight before him. Grunting shamelessly with every drive forward he accelerates to a heart-pounding tempo.
The coil of desire and need running through Sherlock’s body tightens, arching his back, and drawing his head and shoulders into the mattress. His eyes are clenched shut, the hand around his cock is still, letting his brother’s force fuck his hand. Imagining Mycroft’s prick impaling him, stabbing all the way through his body to slide through the tunnel of his fist, the spring snaps, and his body entirely leaves conscious control. Hips jerking, ejaculate spouting, he moans a protracted, “My.”
“Fuck. Fuck” Mycroft grits out. His cock is clenched by his brother’s internal walls and it pushes him to the breaking point. Three hard thrusts through the spasming muscles and he stills, breath caught in his chest, a burst of cum jetting forth. He exhales with a groan of indescribable relief then thrusts a dozen or so more times, the rate and magnitude of his movements slowing to a stop.
Sherlock’s leg slides free of its captivity against his brothers chest and is lowered to the bed in the crook of Mycroft’s elbow. He’s taking deep breaths, trying to restore his body’s oxygen stores to normal levels while seemingly random muscle spasms make his breath stutter. His body feels well used and useless. The hand still against the head board is turning to pins and needles. His other hand is sprawled over his stomach, sticky with his own ejaculate.
Mycroft groggily crawls over Sherlock’s leg and practically collapses on the mattress beside his brother. Laying on his side, he finds his brother’s cum-covered hand with his own and entwines their fingers. Every muscle in his body feels like its melting, his mind is quiet, the rhythm of his own chest rising and falling, though elevated, still threatens to lull him to sleep. The pleasant twilight drifting is interrupted by the sound of his brother giggling.
“What?” He asks, noticing he needs something to drink.
“I think you can skip the treadmill routine tomorrow.” Sherlock snickers good naturedly, rolling to his side and drawing the arm above his head between their chests with a wince at the stiffness in his shoulder.
Mycroft agrees with a hum. “I believe I may sleep in tomorrow.” He confesses, dipping his head to kiss Sherlock’s knuckles.
Minutes of silence pass in absent minded petting and vague caresses. They grow cold as sweat and cum evaporate from their skin. The interior of Mycroft’s mouth is gummy and his throat burns mildly with thirst. Despite telling Mycroft otherwise in the heat of the moment, Sherlock is not particularly enjoying his brother’s release oozing down his thigh.
Mycroft sighs and rolls onto his back. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, steeling himself for what must be done. “I’m going to the kitchen.” He states, more a command to himself than an announcement for his brother. “Would you like anything?” He turns his head on the pillow to look at Sherlock’s peaceful expression once more before getting up.
“No.” Sherlock answers, stretching lazily. “Think I’ll shower.”
“I’ll join you shortly.” Mycroft says, willing his legs to support him as he gets up from his thoroughly soiled bed.
Sherlock watches with amused fondness as Mycroft wobbles over to retrieve a dressing gown, slips it on gracelessly, then leaves the room. Rolling to a dry spot near the edge of the mattress, he takes a minute to luxuriate in his brother’s bed. The dry patch of sheet becoming markedly less so as he lays there, he’s soon up and hobbling back to the bathroom.
“Shall I wait for you?” Sherlock calls from in the shower, hearing movement in the room beyond as he efficiently scrubs himself down.
“Not if you’ve finished.” Mycroft answers.
“Right.” Sherlock replies plainly, tipping his head back under the spray to rinse the conditioner from his hair. It’s his third shower in the last eight hours and frankly, he’s bored with the process. After a final rinse, he turns off the taps and slides open the glass door. Mycroft, still in his dressing gown is walking back into the room with the white terry robes they wore earlier.
“Feel better?” Mycroft asks, running an appreciative look over his brother’s dripping body.
Sherlock hums in agreement and takes a towel as Mycroft hangs the robes on their hooks. The rubbish bin beside the toilet has been emptied, the bin liner replaced. Sherlock’s coat has gone from the vanity.
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks, drying himself and watching Mycroft slide out of his dressing gown and fold it onto the vanity.
“Very much alive and positively filthy.” Mycroft answers with a devilish, wry smile.
“Long may you stay that way.” Sherlock returns silkily, tucking the towel around his waist and stepping within kissing range.
Mycroft meets him in a kiss, their tongues tangle heatedly even as they hold their bodies apart. “You’ll have to suffice with the figurative sense of filthy, I’m going to shower.” He murmurs, lips brushing his brother’s as he speaks.
“Go ahead.” Sherlock mutters in return. “I’ll cope until I have the pleasure of bespoiling you again.” He pecks a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek then steps aside, making way for him. He goes about brushing his teeth as his brother starts the shower.
Clean and wrapped loosely in his terry robe, Mycroft rejoins his brother. He walks first to the window he’d opened earlier, closes and locks it, then heads for the bed. He doesn’t fail to appreciate the way his brother’s gaze follows him around the room. He disrobes, laying the garment at the foot of the bed, and crawls between the fresh sheets he put on as his brother showered.
“Lamp, please.” Mycroft states, stifling a yawn as he reaches to turn off the lamp on his side of the bed.
Sherlock stretches over and leaves the room in darkness with a click of the switch.
“Have you plans for the morning?” Mycroft asks, settling comfortably into his bed.
“I should have until about ten before Lestrade calls.” Sherlock replies, shuffling closer.
“You’ll suggest it be bumped to the secret services?” Mycroft’s question is more of a statement. Sherlock’s fingers begin combing combing through his chest hair and he feels sleep stealing nearer.
“Naturally. Dead, foreign agents are outside the Met’s purview.” Sherlock explains, his tone making it clear that his brother should already know that. None too carefully, he rolls his brother onto his side and spoons in behind him.
“And the agents called in to take over will find themselves at a dead end.” Mycroft’s statement is more of a question.
“Stop worrying.” Sherlock says plaintively, propping himself on an elbow and lightly biting Mycroft’s shoulder.
“Expressing concern isn’t cause to savage someone.” Mycroft scolds lightly, suppressing a shiver.
“I’m not tolerating baseless worries from you. You’ll become neurotic if I let you.” Sherlock returns, only half-teasing.
Mycroft reacts too late to stop the chuckle that arises. The irony contained within their relationship suddenly seeming farcical. Sherlock trying to prevent him from being taken over by nerves as Mycroft tries to prevent his brother from becoming the next great serial killer.
“What?” Sherlock asks with a light scowl. He can’t see Mycroft’s face to glean anything from his expression.
“Saving me from my enemies and also myself, you do have a full plate.” Mycroft replies with affected archness, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Sherlock accepts the answer with a dubious hum and pulls Mycroft closer. “Yes, I have. Now relax, I’ve worked hard this week and I want to sleep for a few hours.”
Mycroft easily sets his concerns aside and nestles into Sherlock’s possessive hold. The murder won’t be traced back to his brother. Should anyone find a thread that could tie him to it, Mycroft will simply cut the thread. The loss of the life is of no importance, nor is Smythe likely to be missed by anyone; persons such as herself rarely have family, close friends, loved ones. Mycroft, however, has Sherlock and Sherlock has him.
“Thank you, Lockie.” Mycroft gently says into the darkness.
“Love you, My.” Sherlock mumbles, already half-asleep.