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Mycroft walked the streets of London. It was quiet at this time of night. The thrum of the night life was still present, but much less obvious in his posh neighborhood. It helped. It had been a months since the incident at Sherrinford, and yet the thoughts of the event still lingered.
He'd easily brushed off Detective Inspector Lestrade when he’d shown up at his front door, expressing concern over the ordeal he had just been through. He assured the DI that his brother's worries had been for naught, and that he was perfectly fine.
Of course, that had been a lie. But The Iceman would never admit to anyone he wasn't fine. It wasn't even what Eurus has done that was bothering him. It's what his brother had done. More specifically, it was what his brother had said.
One simple sentence had thrown him off entirely. Throughout his years, he had had much training in the field, and although he didn't partake in legwork anymore, it used to be his area of expertise. If Sherlock hadn't said those words, he would have dealt with the situation concerning the governor with precision and a lack of sentiment he had taught himself many years ago, but that wasn't what happened.
'It always revolves back to Sherlock,' Mycroft thought to himself bitterly, as he stepped around an empty beer can left on the street. Why did everything always have to come back to Sherlock bloody Holmes?
For him, it was easy. The feelings, the sentiment, the love he shouldn't have felt but did- it had always been there. Mycroft couldn't remember a time when his thoughts didn't circle around his brother like a piece of metal drawn to a magnet. Sherlock was his magnet. Always had been. Always would be. His entire life, his position in the government, his Iceman persona, had all been handcrafted to his benefit to allow him to watch over Sherlock. And why not allow himself a little self-indulgence every once and awhile? Watching his brother from afar was all he had. He could never admit out loud that his love ran deeper than brotherly compassion; could never tell anyone, least of all Sherlock, that he was in love with his little brother. Sherlock would never return the sentiment anyway, so the point was moot.
Or was it?
That one sentence flittered through Mycroft's defenses and sat at the forefront of his mind. Again. For the millionth time since that fateful day. If Sherlock felt nothing for him, if Sherlock only saw him as a brother and even that was a stretch, if Sherlock felt no qualms in pointing a gun at him and potentially killing him, then why did he say it?
Why would Sherlock ever say something so sentimental to him? Never in their lives had they ever called each other anything that was remotely considered endearing. Unless Mycroft counted the insults, mostly the fat shaming ones, but he didn't. That was just childish resentment. There was the occasional time Sherlock would call him ‘Brother Dear’, but the emphasis was always on the term ‘Brother’ and it was always said in an either sarcastic, snarky, or manipulative manner that was only meant to convey that Sherlock wanted something from him.
Had it been a slip of the tongue? (When had Sherlock ever said something unknowingly?)
Did his brother merely forget who he was talking to? (Impossible. The resentment was so strong Sherlock could never forget his presence, no matter how much he wanted to).
Had he been so focused on the situation at hand that he had momentarily thought he was talking to Doctor Watson? (Also, impossible. While Sherlock cared very strongly for the Doctor, Mycroft knew there was no romantic entanglements there. It would have been obvious otherwise. And he had never heard either of them referring to each other so fondly).
So the question remained. Why? Why had Sherlock called him a pet name? Why had he said that one sentence so endearingly? Even in the situation they were in, his brother's tone had been soft.
Do shut up, dear.
Mycroft turned the words over in his head once again.
Do shut up, dear. His brain naturally put emphasis on the shut up. Maybe Sherlock had just wanted him to be quiet, and found shouting in that situation would have only made things worse?
Do shut up, dear . He shifted the emphasis again, and his heart stuttered for a moment in his chest. Dear. Dear. Dear . Such a soft pet name. The type of pet name you gave someone you cared for deeply. Did Sherlock even care for him at all? Obviously enough to call him dear. But why? It was so uncharacteristically Sherlock.
Do shut up, dear . Emphasis on the whole sentence made it seem heart wrenchingly gentle. A phrase one would say while rolling their eyes fondly at their loved one. In any other situation, coming from anyone else's mouth, it wouldn't have caught Mycroft's attention at all. But it was Sherlock who said it. To him. With a tone that was fond and soft, while also holding an air of authority that stated he really had wanted Mycroft to be quiet.
Do shut up. A phrase Sherlock had hurled at him more times than Mycroft cared to recount. Nothing special about Sherlock telling him to shut up.
Dear. Dear . A pet name. A pet name never once uttered by his brother to anyone, let alone to him. Dear. Sentimental and soft, conveying a level of love that was never spoken. A pet name that gave Mycroft a glimmer of hope, a shiver of a promise that he wasn't the only one who felt this dark and forbidden pull to a love that was unacceptable but oh so tantalizing.
Mycroft was startled out of his thoughts by a buzzing sensation from his pocket. With a sigh, he stopped and leant up against his umbrella to answer his phone. A shot of fear hit his heart as he saw the name appear on his phone. ‘John Watson.’
With a deep breath, Mycroft answered the call. “Doctor Watson. How can I help you this evening?”
“I think Sherlock’s having a danger night,” John said, cutting straight to the chase.
“Is that flat clear?” Mycroft asked.
“I believe so. I went through and checked everywhere after Sherrinford and didn’t find anything, but I can’t be sure,” John replied.
“Keep your eye on him, Doctor Watson. Do not allow him to fall back to drugs. He has only just cleaned up his act after the ordeal with Culverton Smith,” Mycroft said, his heart lurching into his throat. The last thing his brother needed was the ramification of drug use after everything that had happened with Eurus.
“Alright, I will. I won’t let him out of my sight,” John reaffirmed.
With that, Mycroft hung up. He allowed himself a few seconds to let the fear run rampant, hoping more than anything the Doctor could take care of his brother. After a brief moment, he tampered the fear down and pulled his Iceman shields back around him.
Realizing it would be best for him to be home in case he needed a quick way to get to Baker Street should the Doctor fail to protect his brother, Mycroft turned around and made his way back home, the cold air starting to sting his cheeks
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Mycroft had just turned the corner onto his street when he saw a dash of movement in the shadows of the building. Instinctively, his grip on his umbrella tightened. ‘If that’s another clown, I’m never speaking to Sherlock again,’ Mycroft thought to himself bitterly.
He hesitantly took a step forward and the flicker of a jacket caught his eyes. Sherlock? Instantly Mycroft moved towards his brother, the list of drugs Sherlock could have got his hands on flashing through his mind like images on a movie screen.
He moved around the corner of the building in a flurry, but he was met with the dark stillness of the night. Was he imagining things now? Was he thinking of his brother that much that he was now seeing him in places he would never be? Moving back onto the lit street, he once again pulled out his phone and hit redial.
“Mycroft?” John asked.
“My brother, is he safe? Is he still at Baker Street?” Mycroft asked, forcing himself to sound casual, but even he could hear the wobble in his voice.
“Yes, he is. I forced him to take a shower and made sure he went to bed to sleep the craving off. I checked on him ten minutes ago; was still in bed last I saw,” John replied, his voice dropping slightly in volume, presumably to not wake his flatmate.
“You’re sure he has no way of escaping?” Mycroft questioned.
“Jesus Christ, Mycroft, yes I’m sure. He’s not exactly in his right mind right now, so he’s not exactly plotting his escape. I’m watching the front door, and I made sure to lock his window beforehand. He’d have to be desperate to jump out of a two-story window,” John replied testily.
“He’s an addict, John, of course he would be desperate enough to jump out of a window,” Mycroft snapped.
“For fuck sakes, I would have heard if he unlocked the window and jumped out. Look, I’ll go check on him again if you’re that worried,” John said.
“I’m not worried, Doctor Watson. I just do not have the time or patience to ween my brother off of drugs again, mere months after the last incident,” Mycroft answered, his patience for the Doctor wearing thin.
The sound of a door being opened echoed down the phone, and the subsequent snap of the door closing felt loud to Mycroft’s ears in the otherwise silent, empty street.
“He’s in his bed, asleep, just like I told you. Now can you piss off. I told you I’d watch over him, and I am,” John snarled.
Mycroft didn’t dignify John with a response. Instead, he hung up, pulled out his key, and made his way into the house. His body was on autopilot as he re-armed his security system and trudged up to his room.
His brother was safe. John was looking after him. His relationship was almost back to normal with Sherlock- him acting as the puppetmaster behind the scenes, and Sherlock continuing on with his life none-the-wiser of his brother’s unwavering commitment to keeping him safe. After this much time having passed since Sherrinford, Mycroft was resigned to the fact he must once again stew in his unrequited love.
Finally reaching his room, Mycroft stepped inside the threshold and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Someone had been in his room. Nothing was out of place, but the presence of another human being was palpable. Brandishing the sword that was conveniently built into his umbrella, Mycroft proceeded to sweep his room, searching for anyone or anything.
His room was empty. He was alone.
The feeling of being watched was still there. Taking a deep breath and forcing himself not to shudder, Mycroft casually grabbed something more comfortable to sleep in and walked towards the en suite. Carefully he closed the door behind him and let his head drop against the wood with a thunk.
‘What is wrong with me tonight?’ Mycroft thought to himself angrily. Forcing himself to dispel the notion that he was being watched, because apparently lack of sleep causes paranoia, Mycroft took a quick shower and dressed into his pajamas.
After almost five days of political affairs reducing his sleep schedule to just one hour a night, he was more than ready to crawl into bed and sleep for a fortnight.
Had it not been for his years of training in the MI5, Mycroft surely would have had a heart attack when he opened his door to find his little brother perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes trained on the bathroom door, waiting for his older brother. “Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing here? Isn’t John supposed to be watching over you at Baker Street?” Mycroft demanded.
Sherlock shrugged casually, as if sneaking out of his flat, past his flatmate, and breaking into his brother’s house past the newly updated security system wasn’t all that important. “Didn’t want to be with John tonight,” Sherlock answered vaguely.
Mycroft sighed heavily. He was not in the mood to deal with his brother’s mind games. “Give me the list, Sherlock.”
“List?” Sherlock asked, his eyes locking with his brother’s. “What list?”
“The list of drugs you are on tonight,” Mycroft snapped.
Sherlock frowned, the action causing deep lines to criss-cross across his forehead. Mycroft wanted to reach out and soothe them away with his thumb. He refrained, keeping himself rooted to the spot so his treacherous body could not give in to his mind's desires. “I’m not on any drugs, Mycroft. I’m clean; I have been since the Culverton Smith case.”
“Your pupils are dilated, your right hand has a slight tremor, and your cheeks are flushed red. Need I go on? Now give me the bloody list, Sherlock,” Mycroft yelled, his patience for his brother completely gone.
“There is no list because I haven’t taken anything!” Sherlock finally snapped back, lurching off the bed to stand in front of Mycroft. “I’m not high, and I’m not drunk. So go on, Brother Mine; if you’re really the smart one, then deduce me.”
Something about the way Sherlock said ‘deduce me’ had a slight shiver running down Mycroft’s spine, and his cock gave a twitch in interest. Mentally chastising himself, Mycroft shifted his body weight slightly to hide his treacherous reactions. “I’m not playing this game with you, Sherlock. I’m exhausted and I don’t have time for your childish antics.”
Sherlock moved backwards and dropped himself unceremoniously onto the bed. He lay back, propping himself up on his elbows. “Go on,” Sherlock prompted, his tone dropping to something Mycroft had never heard from his brother before. “You’re curious why I’m here.”
Mycroft scowled. He always hated when Sherlock read him like that. “Who sold to you? Where did you get the drugs?” he repeated, not rising to the bait.
“Do you know how much I hate repeating myself? I’m clean. I’d tell you to ask John to prove it, but well, that defeats the object of slipping past him, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked.
Mycroft stood frozen, his eyes wandering up Sherlock's body despite himself. Finally he caved and asked the question he knew Sherlock wanted to hear. “Why are you here, Sherlock?” he asked, his voice wavering.
“I'm here because John can't help me. He doesn't understand, but you do. I didn't know where I was going when I left, just knew John wasn't what I needed. Then I found myself seeking you out. It wasn’t until I got here though that I realized why,” Sherlock said, leaving the sentence to hang in the air.
‘How very unlike him. He always steam rolls on without pausing, company be damned,’ Mycroft thought to himself.
It wasn't until Mycroft glanced up that he realized Sherlock was staring at him again. “What are you looking at?” he finally snapped.
“You,” Sherlock answered simply.
“Yes, that’s fairly obvious, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.
“Did you know you really aren’t as smart as you think you are?” Sherlock pointed out.
Mycroft sighed heavily. “I’m done playing this game with you. You obviously know where the door is,” he said, gesturing with his hand.
“I’m not leaving until you deduce me. That’s why I came here. I want you to deduce me ,” Sherlock said, his tone showing the first signs of frustration, yet his eyes held a glint Mycroft couldn’t quite name.
He felt his cock twitch again, and he forced himself to look away from the detective. “If I deduce you, will you proceed to leave me the hell alone?”
Sherlock shook his head, that glint in his eyes only brightening. “If that’s what you insist, Mycroft.”
With a huff of indignation, Mycroft cast his gaze back to Sherlock. Shutting down the part of his mind that craved the younger man, he let his eyes wander over his brother in a more clinical fashion. He still saw the same signs as earlier, easily signals of drug usage, but he forced himself to rule that out. While his brother could be- scratch that, he was always- a pain in his arse, Sherlock was not a liar. If he proclaimed to not be on drugs, then Mycroft had to take him up on his word.
He started trying to make a mental list of the things that could also cause those symptoms, but his mind was drawing blank. He opened his mouth, about to just tell Sherlock to get the hell out, when his eyes traveled down past Sherlock’s crotch, and he saw the bulge straining against his trousers. His mind went white for a second, and his mouth felt dry. His jaw snapped shut with an audible click. Was this really happening, or was he imagining things?
A sudden laugh broke the heavy silence in the room. Mycroft’s eyes flicked up from Sherlock’s erection to his eyes. “That took you four minutes longer than I thought it would take you. You’re getting slow, Mycroft. Are you sure it’s not you who’s on drugs?” Sherlock quipped.
Mycroft tried to open his mouth to speak, but the words remained stuck in his throat.
Sherlock grinned, fluttering his eyelids and looking up at Mycroft through his lashes. “I told you before, but were you really listening? I figured out what I wanted; what I needed. It’s quite simple really. You. I want you ; preferably as a quivering and begging mess underneath me, but right now, I’d happily have you above me, taking me apart with your tongue,” Sherlock said casually, as if propositioning his older brother was an everyday occurrence.
For a moment in time, the two brothers looked at each other; Sherlock with a twinkle of desire shining in his eyes, and Mycroft with a look of utter shock. The moment was broken when Mycroft's body finally caught up with what Sherlock had said, and all his blood rushed south to his thickening cock.
“You want me ?” Mycroft asked in disbelief.
“Brilliant deduction, Mycroft. Yes, I'm pretty sure that's what I said. I want you in every way I can have you, but right now, I want nothing more than to have you fuck me into this mattress until I'm gasping for release,” Sherlock said, his tone dropping into something sultry and alluring.
Mycroft’s cock gave another jump at Sherlock’s words, and he was sure his brother had noticed. Mycroft felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Was Sherlock really offering him everything he had ever wanted?
“Are you just going to stand there staring or are you going to fuck me?” Sherlock asked impatiently.
Mycroft shuddered and his knees suddenly felt weak. He quickly reached out and grasped onto the wall for support. Taking a deep breathe, Mycroft looked back up towards his brother. “If you don't stop talking like that, I won't get the chance.”
Sherlock frowned for a second, before a smirk broke out across his face. “Oh, Brother Mine, are you implying that hearing me talk dirty to you is getting you off? Does hearing my voice like this, needy and desperate for you, turn you on?” Sherlock teased.
A groan ripped its way through Mycroft's throat, and his head tipped back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a second to regain his composure, and when he opened his eyes Sherlock was standing right in front of him. There was the usual spark of mischief in Sherlock's eyes, but now, up close, Mycroft could see his pupils were blown wide with desire.
Sherlock stepped into his personal space, until they were mere centimeters apart. “I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock said.
Those words hit Mycroft like a bucket of ice. His sudden desire to pin Sherlock to the bed was washed away, and he felt his cock soften almost instantaneously. How could he have been so naive, so selfish, as to have misread the signs? “Sherlock, I-”
Sherlock cut the sentence off with a growl. He shoved Mycroft up against the wall, and attached his lips to Mycroft’s neck. The politician let out a sound of surprise, and his hands came up to his brother's shoulders to keep them balanced. He groaned again as he felt Sherlock's teeth graze against his skin.
“I changed my mind on how I want you,” Sherlock tried again. “I want to make you come without touching you. I want to watch you fall apart from nothing but my voice.”
Sherlock pulled his head back, looking up at Mycroft expectantly. Mycroft tried to open his mouth to speak, but he found himself utterly speechless. He forced himself to nod; to give the detective some kind of approval.
Sherlock grinned, stepped away from his brother, and climbed back onto the bed. The broken sound that slipped from Mycroft's lips at the loss of contact surprised both the brothers.
“Oh, Brother Dear, look how desperate you are already. You're so eager for it. I should have known that you of all people would have a voice kink. I wonder how many times I've unknowingly brought you to the edge just by talking to you. Is it something you indulge in often? Do you bring up my voice in your mind palace when you have a wank? All those times we fought, was it really anger you felt or was it frustration of me getting you off with nothing but my voice?” Sherlock teased.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped out, his eyes locking with the detective’s. He felt a zing of arousal shoot through his body, settling in his groin. “God, Sherlock, I can’t.”
Sherlock grinned triumphantly, and held out his hand to his brother. “Come here, dear. Join me on the bed, and let me indulge in watching you come apart with my words.”
Mycroft took his brother’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled onto the bed next to Sherlock. “When did you start calling me dear?” he asked, slightly breathless at being so close to the person he had wanted his whole life.
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, but a faint blush flittered across his cheeks. “Since I started to feel my emotions towards you changing. I wasn’t quite sure what it meant at first, but now I know. It’s you, Mycroft. You’re the only one I want.”
Mycroft shuddered. He reached out and trailed a finger down the warm skin of Sherlock’s cheek. “How do you want me?” he asked softly.
“Just like this,” Sherlock said, his eyes softening for a moment, before the spark of lust appeared again. In one swift movement, Sherlock shifted so he was hovering over Mycroft. “How long have you wanted me, dear? Days, weeks, months…?” he trailed off.
“Years. Years, Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped out, his eyes fluttering shut.
“What a pity. You could have been fucking me years ago if you had just made a move on me,” Sherlock tutted.
Mycroft pressed his head back into the mattress; a moan slipping past his lips as he did. “You-you never would have accepted my advances, Sherlock. It had to be on your terms.”
Sherlock grinned and reached out to trail his long fingers down Mycroft’s chest, unbuttoning his pajama shirt as he did. “Oh, I beg to differ. I’ve always felt something for you. I would have willingly given myself to you a long time ago. All you had to do was ask, Brother Dear.”
“Sherlock, please, I want you now ,” Mycroft said, opening his eyes to look up at the detective desperately.
Sherlock smirked, his eyes raking up and down his brother’s chest. “Your impatience is endearing. There are so many things I want to do to your chest. I want to lick and kiss everywhere I can reach. I want to trail bites all over your chest, so that I can claim every inch of you. I want to mark you so that you know who you belong to. I want to rut against you, and paint your chest in my come. I want to leave marks with my fingernails all over your skin as you fuck me. I want to ride you and run my fingers through your chest hair. I want-”
Mycroft cut Sherlock off by reaching up and pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. The kiss they shared was rough; teeth clacking, tongues colliding, and lip biting. Mycroft pulled back, panting.
The smirk of triumph on Sherlock’s face radiated pride. “Why, Mycroft Dear, I had no idea hearing all this would turn you on this much.”
“Shut up,” Mycroft hissed, dropping his head back onto the mattress.
Sherlock chuckled, leaning further over Mycroft so that their bodies were lined up, but remaining tantalizingly out of reach of his brother. “Oh, but I don’t think you really want me to shut up, do you? I think you want me to keep talking,” Sherlock whispered.
Mycroft whined, reaching out to Sherlock, but Sherlock pulled back.
“Tell me what you want, Mycroft. Do you want me to shut up?” Sherlock teased.
“No, God, no. Never stop talking to me, Sherlock,” Mycroft begged.
“That’s what I wanted to hear, dear,” Sherlock praised, leaning back over his brother again. “Do you know how tempting it is to just reach down and touch you? I want nothing more than to just get my hands, and my mouth, all over your body. I’ve always wanted to tear those tailored suits off your body, and just admire what’s underneath. You and those damn suits. Do you know what they do to me? I know you do it on purpose; have them hand-tailored to accentuate your crotch. Every time you walk into Baker Street, my eyes are always drawn to your cock. It took me far too long to realize seeing you like that turned me on so much. Do you want to know one of my fantasies? I want you to fuck me while you’re wearing one of your suits.”
“Fuck, Sherlock, yes. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you,” Mycroft cried out, his eyes squeezing shut tightly.
“Oh, I know exactly what you’re doing right now. You’re picturing it in your mind palace, aren’t you? How about I provide some words for that fantasy? You come back from a long day at work doing whatever it is you do as the British Government, and you open the front door and there I am, naked and waiting for you. I pounce on you the second you step into the house. I push you up against the wall by the door, and shove a bottle of lube in your hand. I press you against the wall and I kiss you desperately, letting you know exactly what I want. Once I’ve thoroughly fucked your mouth with my tongue, I’ll tell you that I’ve already used my fingers to open myself up, and that I want you inside of me right then and there. I’ll slide my hand down to unzip your zipper, and I’ll beg for you to fuck me just like that- with me naked and you completely clothed in your suit. And you won’t be able to control yourself. You’ll flip us, and you’ll push me up against the wall as you desperately pull your cock out of your trousers,” Sherlock said, desperation evident in his tone.
“Oh, Sherlock, yes. That sounds… exquisite-” Mycroft panted out. “More- tell me more.”
Sherlock chuckled, his breath puffing out across Mycroft’s cheek. His eyes darted down from his brother’s face to his straining cock. He flickered his gaze back up and he raised an eyebrow at Mycroft questioningly. “May I?” he asked, batting his eyelids innocently, but quirking his lips in a flirtatious manner.
A shudder ran through Mycroft, and he had to swallow and lick his lips just to bring some moisture back to his mouth. He cleared his throat and nodded to Sherlock. “Y-yes,” he managed to stutter out.
Another radiant smile lit up Sherlock’s face, and he tugged down Mycroft’s pants, revealing dark black silk boxers. The detective licked his lips, his fingers dancing over the waistband of the boxers. He kept his touches fleeting, allowing his fingertips to graze gently across the soft material. “I'm half-tempted to let you come in these. What do you think?” Sherlock asked.
Mycroft let out a choked off groan, his eyes rolling back into his head and his hand reaching out to grasp hold of Sherlock’s bicep tightly.
“I'm not sure what I find more arousing… the fact you're more kinky than I ever predicted, or that I have successfully managed to render you speechless,” Sherlock said, tugging the silk boxers down enough to allow Mycroft's cock to spring free.
Mycroft gazed up at his brother, and Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat at how gorgeous Mycroft looked spread out beneath him. “God, My…” Sherlock trailed off.
A grin spread across Mycroft’s face. “Now look who’s speechless, Brother Dear,” he teased, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. He flickered his gaze down Sherlock’s body before looking back up at his face. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
A flush rose across Sherlock’s cheeks, but he kept his eyes locked with Mycroft’s. “What can I say, I enjoy staring at the finer things in life.”
“That was incredibly cliché,” Mycroft replied, rolling his eyes fondly.
“Shut up,” Sherlock mumbled, leaning down to kiss the politician. As Sherlock pulled back, he captured Mycroft’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged lightly. Mycroft moaned in the back of his throat, and shifted on the bed underneath Sherlock. “Now, you’re going to stay quiet, while I finish explaining my fantasy to you. You’re going to come while you listen to me talk, and I’m going to have the pleasure of watching you fall apart in front of me.”
Mycroft nodded dumbly, finding himself at a loss of words again. Only Sherlock could have the ability to render him speechless. He made a mental note that he would wipe that smug look off his brother’s face later.
“Now, where was I before you rudely interrupted me?” Sherlock teased, his grin growing wider. “Ah, yes, I remember. I was just at the point of my fantasy where you were about to fuck me. Now, since you would have had such a long day at work, I know you’ll be itching to get inside of me. As soon as you’ve got your cock out, you’ll use the lube I shoved into your hand to slick yourself up, and you’ll bury yourself to the hilt inside of me as fast as you can. I’ll scream out in pleasure, and I’ll beg for you to move. You’ll be rough and fast, pounding into me with precision. You’ll hit my prostate with every stroke, and I’ll be a begging mess; crying out for more. You’ll happily oblige, giving it to me even faster. You’ll grip hold of my hips, and you’ll pull me into every thrust to make sure I feel every single inch of your cock inside of me. I’ll blindly reach out for you, gripping hold of your arms to anchor myself as you rock into me.”
The older man gasped out, his eyes glazing over as he body began to shudder. “Sher-Sherlock,” he gasped out. “I’m- I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.”
Sherlock beamed in pride. “I’m pretty sure I would say something to that effect as well. You would push me against the wall even harder, your teeth biting against the skin of my neck, and your tongue running along the bite marks you’ll leave behind. You would try to slip your hand around my body to wrap your fingers around my cock, but I would bat your hand away and gasp out that I wanted to come without being touched. You would growl in my ear and fuck me even harder, each thrust pushing me up against the wall. And I would love every second of it. I would cry out for more, more, more, until I knew you were giving it to me as fast and hard as you possibly could. Then you would twist my hips down as you thrust up, and you would hit my prostate perfectly. That would be the final push I needed; I'll come across the wall with a loud scream and your name on my lips. And you would only be able to thrust into me one more time before you would fill me up and claim me as yours,” Sherlock panted out.
Mycroft couldn't stop the choked off moan that slipped out, nor could he stop his body from desperately thrusting up into Sherlock's.
“Do you know what the best part of the whole ordeal would be?” Sherlock asked rhetorically. “There would be traces of you all over me for the world to see. I'll have massive hickeys covering my neck that I won't be able to hide. And with how hard you will have fucked me, I won't be able to walk or sit properly for days. Not only will I be reminded of you every time I move, but everyone will see that I belong to someone. There would be bruises on my hips where you gripped onto me, and red marks on my chest from being slammed into the wall from every thrust of your hips. And I would be able to look at every mark on my body and feel every ache in my muscles, and I'll remember that I'm yours and that I belong to you and only you.”
Mycroft couldn't even get a word of warning out of his mouth before he fell over the edge. His back arched off the bed, and he felt his orgasm rip through him. He registered the feeling off his cock pulsing for a brief moment, but he almost instantly blacked out; the force of his orgasm hitting him with a strength he had never experienced before.
When he slowly blinked his eyes open again, the first thing he saw was the glint of pleasure and pride in his brother's eyes. Sherlock gazed down at Mycroft in awe. “That- by far- was the most erotic and intoxicating thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. God, My, I can't even explain how breathtaking you look when you come undone like that,” Sherlock said, reaching out to trace a finger across Mycroft's cheek.
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft reached out and wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s neck, dragging him closer. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he mumbled against the detective's lips. Sherlock hummed happily and kissed Mycroft deeply.
When they broke apart, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably above his older brother. Mycroft rose his eyebrows questioningly, but when his eyes darted down to the bulge in Sherlock’s pants, he chuckled. “My,” Sherlock whined.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, did you need a hand with that?” Mycroft asked when he could finally find his voice again.
Sherlock grunted, collapsing onto the bed and tugging on Mycroft’s hand. “God, yes. Please My, I need release.”
The urge to laugh bubbled up inside Mycroft, and he couldn’t help but let himself revel in the lighthearted feeling for once in his life. “Never once did I think I would hear you direct those words at me.”
“Stop gloating, My. It’s annoying and I have no patience for your teasing right now,” Sherlock snapped as he unbuttoned his own shirt and tugged it open so his chest was exposed.
Mycroft laughed again, quickly pulling his pants off and dropping them onto the ground. He then heaved himself up enough so he could hover his body over Sherlock’s; his eyes darting across the perfectly angular planes of the detective's chest. “Tell me what you want, Brother Dear.”
“I’ve already told you that,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.
“That wasn’t very specific, Sherlock, and you know it.”
Sherlock sighed. “Why must you spoil the moment by being so uptight? I just want you to make me come. Better yet, I want us to come together.”
“Sherlock, I’m not as young as I once was. The likelihood of me being able to get it up again that quickly is almost statistically impossible.”
“Fine. Deny me what I want most in the world. I’ll just go back to John and see if he’ll give me what I want.”
Mycroft growled low in his throat. He reached down and quickly unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, shoving both the trousers and pants down in one swift movement. “Don’t you fucking dare. You belong to me, Sherlock. Mine. Do you hear me? Mine,” Mycroft snarled, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock and jerking it roughly.
“Ah-ah, My… Mycroft,” Sherlock gasped out.
“Oh, I know what you need, Sherlock. I’m just not sure if you deserve any.”
Sherlock let out a shuddery gasp at Mycroft’s words. “J-jealousy looks good on you.”
Mycroft growled again, jerking Sherlock off for a few more strokes before he shifted his weight away from the younger man’s body to reach the drawer. He quickly grabbed the rarely-used bottle of lube and squeezed some into his palm. He wasted no time in wrapping his hand back around Sherlock’s cock; quickly setting a fast pace.
The detective whined, snapping his hips up to meet Mycroft’s hand. “You’re hot when you’re jealous, do you know that?” he panted out. A hint of a smile flashed across Mycroft’s face, which made Sherlock buck his hips up even harder. “Mycroft, please,” he said, reaching out towards his brother’s semi-erect cock.
Hesitating for a moment, Mycroft weighed out his options. Either deny Sherlock what he wanted and risk Sherlock’s wrath but save himself the embarrassment, or attempt to give Sherlock what he wanted and risk embarrassment at not being able to get off twice in a short span of time. Who was he kidding, he could never deny Sherlock anything he wanted.
“I can’t promise anything, dear, but I’ll try,” he said carefully, giving Sherlock the chance to change his mind.
Sherlock didn’t waver in his decision, groaning appreciatively and pressing his hips up into Mycroft’s palms. “God, yes please, My. I need it- need you- right now.”
Releasing his grip on Sherlock’s cock, he squeezed more lube into his hand and proceeded to wrap both his and Sherlock’s cocks into his grasp. They both cried out in pleasure; Sherlock’s head hitting the pillow while Mycroft screwed his eyes shut tightly. The elder Holmes took a deep breath to steady himself, before opening his eyes and focusing in on pleasuring Sherlock.
He resumed his fast pace, jerking them both off with long and swift strokes. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock; watching as his younger brother writhed, panted, and begged for more. ‘Oh yes, I think I could get used to this,’ he thought to himself.
“My-Mycroft,” Sherlock gasped out, breaking himself off to swear violently.
The politician grinned triumphantly. “Who knew; it is actually possible to make Sherlock Holmes incoherent.”
“Shut. Up.” Sherlock cried, reaching out desperately to tug Mycroft closer. Mycroft went willingly, allowing Sherlock to line their bodies up. When Sherlock craned his neck up, the politician couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss those perfect lips.
Twisting his hand on the downward stroke, Mycroft smirked in glee as Sherlock let out a muffled scream against his lips. He couldn't stop himself from breaking the kiss and letting his eyes wander down Sherlock's body. He catalogued every detail- from the way the sweat glistened against Sherlock's skin, to the way the younger man's body was arched into his as if Sherlock couldn't bear not having their bodies pressed together- and stored it all in his mind palace; wary that he would ever get the chance to touch Sherlock like this ever again.
Forcing himself to tear his gaze away from Sherlock's beautiful body, he focused on applying more pressure to their cocks. The sudden shift in roughness caused Sherlock to snap his hips up desperately. “Ah… My! Don't stop, God please, I'm- I just need…”
“Shush, Brother Dear, I know,” Mycroft murmured. He sped up the pace even more, tightening his hold and bringing their cocks closer together so they rubbed against each other tantalizingly. With practiced ease, he managed to circle Sherlock's head with his thumb on the downward stroke, and as he dragged his hand back up he dug his fingernails in slightly.
Sherlock cried out in ecstasy; his eyes rolling back into his head, his hand squeezing Mycroft's shoulder with a vice-like grip, and Mycroft's name on his lips as he came.
Mycroft hadn't even realized how close he was himself, but seeing Sherlock completely blissed-out was enough to send him into his second orgasm of the night; his own release shooting out and mixing with Sherlock's across the younger man's chest.
Finding he no longer had the strength to hold himself up, Mycroft slumped down against Sherlock and rode out the waves of pleasure that were still running through his body. Sherlock grunted slightly at the added weight, but he reached up and tangled his fingers into Mycroft's hair and hummed happily as he slowly came down from his high.
For just a few minutes they lay together in silence; their limbs tangled and their breaths ghosting across each other's skin. Resisting the urge to bury his head into Sherlock’s shoulder and breathe in his brother’s scent, Mycroft started to push himself off of Sherlock, but the younger man whined and wrapped his arms tightly around Mycroft’s back. “Please don’t,” he mumbled. “Don’t want you getting up and regretting this.”
Mycroft frowned. “Why would I regret this, Sherlock? I told you earlier, I’ve wanted you for many years.”
Smiling softly, Sherlock tugged Mycroft back down onto his chest. “Good. Now that we’ve ascertained the feelings are mutual, I demand that you stay and cuddle me.”
Shaking his head fondly, Mycroft rested his body on top of Sherlock’s again and tucked his head into the crook of the younger man’s neck. “You do realize we are now both covered in-” Mycroft started to say.
“Yes, I’m perfectly aware, dear. However, I’m much too tired to care and I’m comfortable just like this.”
Instead of replying, Mycroft reached out and dragged the blankets up and over their cooling bodies. He shifted his weight slightly so he was half-leaning on Sherlock and half-draped across the mattress. Sherlock hummed contentedly and pressed his body against Mycroft's.
The two fell into a comfortable silence once again, and Mycroft listened to Sherlock's soft breathing as it slowly evened out. He lay his arm out across Sherlock's upper chest and sighed happily when Sherlock reached up and grasped his hand, their fingers tangling together.
“Mycroft?” Sherlock whispered, startling the older man as he thought the detective had fallen asleep.
“Yes, dear?”
“Thank you,” Sherlock replied softly. He squeezed Mycroft's hand, which was resting in his, and dropped his head down to rest his chin on top of Mycroft's head; nuzzling closer.
‘Sentiment,’ Mycroft thought to himself. He couldn't stop himself from smiling at the fondness of Sherlock's words, nor could he remember the last time Sherlock had said something so simple yet so touching to him.
Instead of replying out loud, he squeezed Sherlock's hand in return and pressed a gentle kiss to his brother's shoulder; finally allowing himself to fall asleep in the arms of his lover.