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“Yes, but I’ve been away for two years.”
“So?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a goldfish.”
“Change the subject – now!”
The Empty Hearse, Season 3
His brother looks deliciously rumpled, debauched even, from a mix of heat-induced hormones and the hot, sticky, July evening. The way that Mycroft trembles under his touch, skin damp with sweat, just makes Sherlock want him that much more.
Sherlock leans back down and licks a stripe down Mycroft’s pale neck, nuzzles the juncture between neck and shoulder. Delights in the desperate sounding whine his normally-reticent brother can’t hold back, the sting of nails in flesh as he presses Mycroft’s wrists into the pillow above his head.
The other hand he slips down Mycroft’s body. Slowly. He takes a long moment to tease a nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Pinching it, drawing harsh intakes of air from his brother each time. Suppresses a giggle as Mycroft’s profusion of chest hair tickles the soft skin of his forearm.
He loves to pet Mycroft’s gently rounded belly. Over their various shared heats Mycroft’s weight has fluctuated, but Sherlock doesn’t actually care for all his needling barbs. Given their past few meetings, it’s clear his brother is losing weight. Even more obvious when he lies naked under Sherlock.
Ignoring his brother’s hard, weeping cock as it bobs with every small moment Mycroft makes, Sherlock traces a path along the crease between thigh and pelvis. A quick press at the skin just beneath Mycroft’s balls causes his brother to jerk and gasp. Sherlock drops a kiss at the corner of his brother’s lips in a silent apology before dipping his fingers again.
In an instant his hand is slick and sticky. Sherlock’s surprise is enough that he releases Mycroft’s wrists as he pulls back on his haunches to get a better look.
“Christ, Mycroft,” he swears. The sheet under his brother’s body and thighs is nearly transparent and it sparks concern in Sherlock. It’s not that he doesn’t expect Mycroft to be wet given he’s in heat but the amount of fluid was concerning. “You’re soaking.”
Mycroft turns his head, tries to hide it under a pillow but Sherlock can see the flush of skin creeping down his pale skin. It’s at odds with how his brother spreads his legs, fluid glistening as the late evening sunlight streams through the windows.
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock frowns when his brother refuses to answer. Or look at him. Mycroft, the British Government for god’s sake, who can look anyone in the eye and make them crumble – politicians, blackmailers, criminals or Alphas. He turns and falls back on to the bed, turning on his side to face his brother immediately. Extending an arm, he lets his thumb brush against the only part of Mycroft’s face left exposed, his cheek.
“Mycroft?” he tries again in a gentler tone.
His brother mumbles something but it’s garbled, spoken through the pillow. He can see Mycroft starting to tense but he doesn’t withdraw. Yet. Sherlock, anxious for his Mycroft to re-emerge, cards his fingers through his brother’s dark hair, lightly scraping his blunt nails against his scalp in just the way he knows his brother loves when he’s coming down from his heats.
He smiles when he hears a muffled purring noise from under the pillow but it quickly turns to alarm when Mycroft pulls his face out from under the pillow. Sherlock moves so he’s half on top of his brother, legs tangled together and hands free. He reaches up and wipes away the tears that collect at his brother’s closed eyes and fall down his cheeks and jaw.
Mycroft never cries.
All his life, Mycroft defies expectations. He’s the most powerful man in the country, defends England from foes, looks after and protects Sherlock. Many people the world over couldn’t imagine such a thing from an omega.
Imbeciles the lot of them.
Sherlock waits.
The tears have stopped but Mycroft still keeps his eyes closed. His concern for his brother means Sherlock’s pushed his baser needs to the side but that doesn’t stop him admiring how his pretty his brother’s lashes are. A somewhat strange observation, Sherlock notes absently.
On instinct, he tucks his face into the curve and dip of Mycroft’s neck. His brother’s skin is hot, fevered – from being in heat. A little too hot, Sherlock considers, compared to their last shared heat.
Sherlock mutters curses under his breath, into his brother’s damp skin. He pulls back a little before speaking. “I’m sorry.”
When Mycroft finally opens his eyes, Sherlock takes a deep breath, not at the gorgeous blue of his brother’s eyes as he normally does but the shame lurking in them.
Really, Sherlock knows he should have put the clues together more quickly than he had. His brother’s heats had long since stabilised to January and July – regularity and order suited Mycroft.
Sherlock had left England shortly after his confrontation with Moriarty in June, the need to handle the more volatile elements of his web time-critical. The planning, research and adapting to Moriarty’s fanatical plan to discredit him had distracted him – although Sherlock will admit he usually relies on Mycroft to keep him informed of his heats.
Mycroft’s body – his fevered skin, how wet he is and now that he thinks about it, how needy Mycroft is this heat – tells its own story. Sherlock had missed five heats while handling Moriarty’s organisation.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
His brother turns his head to the side, facing Sherlock and finally speaks. “I knew what would happen when I sent you off. It was more important.”
“More important than you? Have you no regard for your own well-being?”
“Don’t be silly, Sherlock,” Mycroft dismisses but he looks away for a long moment.
Sherlock bites his lips. Wonders if he has any right to ask but he knows he will. “Who did you ask?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Then tell me.”
“Why?
“Why not?” Sherlock replies flippantly. He immediately regrets it but Mycroft is already retreating.
“It’s of no consequence, Sherlock.”
“Your refusal to answer indicates the opposite.” Sherlock frowns. “Mycroft. I know this is just an arrangement to handle an inconvenience of biology. I just want to know you were treated well while I was gone.”
“I’m well and whole.”
“I could compel an answer.” Sherlock winces at the glare he gets in return.
Mycroft pulls away and hisses. “You wouldn’t dare, Sherlock.”
“Mycroft!” Sherlock gapes at his brother’s reaction. He makes to move forward, stopping when Mycroft flinches. “Fuck. Mycroft. I won’t, I’m not going to make you do anything. Calm down. Breathe.” Sherlock deliberately inhales and exhales. Slowly. Waits until his brother calms down. Only then does he reach out and tangle his fingers in Mycroft’s. “We’ve never kept secrets in bed, Mycroft. If you don’t want to tell me whatever is … whatever it is, fine. But you’re not okay.”
His brother’s fingers tighten their grip around his and there’s a pained look on Mycroft’s expressive face. And then it’s gone. “I … there was someone after you had left the country. It wasn’t expected. Not something either of us wanted,” Mycroft finally says is a whisper. “It was the usual when he realised I was an omega.”
Sherlock takes a sharp breath. Someone Mycroft knows then. But has distanced himself, or has been avoided by, since then.
Mycroft interrupts Sherlock’s musings. “Don’t, Sherlock. I don’t want you to investigate or deduce it. Leave it be.”
He huffs as he tugs on their still linked hands, pulling Mycroft closer and into an embrace. “They’re all simpletons, Mycroft. Unworthy of someone like you.”
“Of that I’m aware.”
“Did the next one treat you better?” Sherlock asks hesitantly.
“Certainly not worse.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there wasn’t anyone else after that,” Mycroft finally snaps.
He’s stunned into silence as the implications sink in. “Damn,” he curses. “Three heats? Mycroft!”
“Yes.” Mycroft sounds both defiant and a little broken.
Sherlock wants nothing more than to press every bit of Mycroft against himself. To comfort, sooth and reassure his omega, his brother. To share his scent so Mycroft instinctively knows he isn’t alone.
While evolution reduced the number of heats omegas’ experience, it had in turn increased the intensity. There are omegas who can withstand one heat. Mycroft, being who he is, managed to almost bear through two consecutive heats without an Alpha until Sherlock had offered. Unable to watch his brother suffer – from contending through a heat on his own or suffering from the foolish alphas who couldn’t handle a headstrong, strong omega who was smarter than them. That had been nearly twenty years ago.
To endure three heats without an Alpha was rare. And research into the topic scarce. Most people couldn’t consider the possibility that an Omega could do without an Alpha for any length of time.
Ignoring three heats certainly explains why his brother’s body was reacting in the way it is. Definitely something Sherlock could fix. The biologically-stunted Alpha who had hurt Mycroft on the other hand. “Are you sure I can’t find and teach this idiot about biology, intelligence and manners?”
“Quite sure,” Mycroft says into his neck. Sherlock smiles when he feels his brother relax against his body. “He’s found a supposedly sweet Omega of his own now. Besides you have terrible manners.”
“Not my fault.”
“Appalling manners, even.”
Sherlock blinks. “Wait, what?”
“A poor, neglected Omega,” Mycroft continues but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that fills Sherlock with relief. That Mycroft can and is moving past whoever hurt him. Because Sherlock is back. “Just lying here with his Alpha who is merely cuddling him.”
“I don’t cuddle.”
Mycroft snorts and throws him a pointed look before glancing down at Sherlock’s hands wrapped around his middle. “I beg to differ. Current evidence, Sherlock.”
When Sherlock replies, there’s a growl in his voice that makes his brother’s breath quicken. “Oh, my dear Mycroft. When I’m done with you, your heat-gap will feel like a distant memory. In fact, if you are even able to think then it must mean you and your greedy little hole are just begging for more.” His words are a filthy promise.
Mycroft throws his head back, exposing his lovely, pale neck again, and whines deep in his throat. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I won’t.” Sherlock runs his eyes over Mycroft, assessing. Three heats on his own. Sherlock would need to appeal to Mycroft’s deepest kinks. “Tell me what you want.”
“I need you to take me.”
Sherlock dips and kisses Mycroft – demanding and hard. His brother responds wonderfully, devouring him in turn, nipping at his lower lip because he knows how much he likes it. Sherlock pulls away with a groan. “Obviously, but what do you need,” he asks huskily.
“Own me, Sherlock.”
He captures Mycroft’s pretty mouth in another kiss. This one sweet and gentle. A promise. “Okay. Trust me.”
“Always.”
Sherlock’s next words are a clear command. “Present yourself.”
Mycroft hurries to reposition himself on his hands and knees, head up and proud. Sherlock takes his time to admire, caress his brother’s body, kiss the abundance of freckles and trace a path up the long, lean legs until Mycroft is trembling once more but his brother doesn’t say anything. Yet.
He moves until he’s crouching behind his brother. Takes a long moment to admire Mycroft’s lovely arse before dipping his head. He flattens his tongue and licks at the trails of fluid trickling down Mycroft’s thighs, making his way up with small murmurs of approval.
With his hands Sherlock pulls at Mycroft’s arse, his brother hissing and shuddering as Sherlock’s hot breath hits his wet hole. He laps at it, quick touches, teasing until Mycroft growls his name and pushes his bottom into Sherlock’s face.
Taking the hint, Sherlock buries his face, thrusting into Mycroft’s hole with his tongue. So wet, tasting like sweet with undertones of coffee and citrus. As he traces circles around the tight ring with his tongue, Sherlock feels it start to flutter, releasing even more fluids. He purses his mouth and sucks until Mycroft is moaning continuously and his legs shake so much that Sherlock stops, lest his brother collapses on himself.
“On your back, Mycroft.” Sherlock doesn’t recognise his voice. He pumps his cock, hard, thrice. Just to take the edge off. It doesn’t work. As soon as Mycroft settles on his back, Sherlock is on him. Kissing him, letting his brother’s taste his own sweet juices. Smears the fluid on his face over Mycroft’s face and neck as they rut against each other. “You’re so wet for me, Mycroft. I could slide right in. You’re desperate for me to do that and take you hard?”
Mycroft’s answering moan is rich and desperate, his body making his opinion clear when he spreads his legs.
Sherlock wraps a hand around Mycroft’s weeping cock, hard and red, and presses into his slit. Pre-come collects in his hand and he uses it to work his brother’s cock. “Beg me, Mycroft,” he whispers fiercely. “Tell me you want my cock, my knot. Beg me to fill you up. You have missed it, haven’t you?”
“Language,” Mycroft manages to gasp, ever the older brother. Sherlock giggles into his brother’s neck. “Please, Sherlock.”
“Please what?” Sherlock asks, alternating soft nuzzles to his brother’s tempting neck and hot, wet licks into his ear. His hand drops to rub and caress Mycroft’s balls, fingers sliding easily given how slick and wet his brother is.
“Please…” his brother begs brokenly but Sherlock wants to hear the words spill from Mycroft’s mouth. He’s always loved it the sound of coarse words coming from his usually pristine, immaculately put together brother, in his plummy tones.
“Come on, Mycroft. Tell me.”
“Oh god. I … I want. I need…” Mycroft’s hips move constantly, trying to persuade Sherlock to drop his fingers.
Sherlock sucks on his brother’s earlobe. Nips it. “You can let go with me, brother mine.”
Mycroft gasps out loud. “Oh … oh, fuck!” he swears as Sherlock slips a finger into Mycroft’s slick hole. “Take me, fuck me, Sherlock,” he babbles. “I want to feel it, feel you take me. Fill me up with your come. Please.”
As his brother ruts back, Sherlock smiles and catches Mycroft’s mouth with his again. His brother raises his hands to card them through Sherlock’s damp and sticky – from Mycroft’s natural lube – curls. He feels Mycroft’s breath stutter when he adds a second finger, dragging them across his prostate and Sherlock growls possessively. “This is mine, Mycroft,” he declares as he twists his fingers, adds a third. “I’m going to fill you up with my knot and my come until you’re full and swell.”
“Please, Sherlock.”
“Christ, you’re tight, Mycroft. Soon your pretty little hole will be stretched around my cock. We should get a mirror in here so you can see if for yourself next time.”
“Oh god.”
“Or maybe a camera? Capture you all debauched and filthy and fucking gorgeous. Would you like that?” Sherlock blinks when he feels Mycroft’s arse grow slicker around his fingers. It felt like he could try to squeeze all his fingers into his brother’s hole. “Oh, you do like that.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Sherlock demands. There’s a squelching noise as his fingers slip from Mycroft’s loosened hole.
Mycroft’s voice is thick, gravelly and his words punctuated by his panting. “I’d like to sit on your lap while we watch ourselves,” his brother confesses. “See how far we’d get into it before we give in and fuck to the background of ourselves.”
“How narcissistic and delightfully perverted,” Sherlock comments, his own breathing harder at his brother’s painted words.
He drags his own cock, swollen and leaking, in the slick crease of Mycroft’s thighs. Drags the tip over his brother’s balls and across his tender hole, eliciting a wild buck of hips and an unintelligible sound of pure need.
“You want?”
“Dammit, yes.” Mycroft’s hands curl over Sherlock’s arse and he pulls. He whines when all that happens is Sherlock’s cock grazes his hole again. “Sherlock, please. Knot me. Own me.”
On instinct, Sherlock dips his head to the curve of neck and shoulder – where a bond bite would go – and he sucks. Hard. He’s not so far gone as to initiate a bond, but the idea of it curls in his mind like a dark temptation. Mycroft’s reaction – the way his body goes lax and how his hold on Sherlock grows tighter – is more curious. Sherlock gentles the pressure of his mouth on his brother’s body as he shift his hips, Mycroft further spreading his hips to accommodate.
Mycroft cries out in pleasure as Sherlock adds just the slightest pressure from teeth to sore skin as he breaches his brother’s slick, welcoming hole. “Christ, you’re tight,” Sherlock hisses as he rocks his hips into Mycroft, slowly but firmly.
His brother sighs with every movement. “Harder,” he asks and Sherlock obliges. Pulling out slowly but thrusting back in with more force as Mycroft adjusts to his cock. When Sherlock drags his cock across his brother’s prostate, Mycroft arches his back and the sound he makes is positively filthy.
Sherlock grunts in satisfaction, muscles tense as he tries to keep the same angle to his thrusts, though it’s made harder by how Mycroft shudders and shakes around and under him. But he manages to hit his brother’s prostate often enough that Mycroft is a quivering, sweaty mess under him. And Sherlock loves it.
“Oh Mycroft,” he whispers, dipping his head so he can direct his words into his brother’s ear. Wants to make up for their missed heats. “I wish you could see yourself right now. You’re gorgeous all flushed and filthy like this. The most delicious sounds coming from that pretty mouth of yours.
“We won’t get out of this bed for days, Mycroft,” Sherlock promises. “All you need is my cock, my knot. All I need is you wrapped around me. Isn’t that right?”
Mycroft reply is muffled. Indistinguishable because it’s spoken into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Filling you with my come. Again and again. You need that, don’t you?”
“God, yes,” Mycroft throws his head back and chants with a broken groan. His blunt nails dig into Sherlock’s arse. “Yes, yes. Please.”
“So desperate, so beautiful,” Sherlock growls as he quickens his thrusts. His hips snap with more force and the room is filled with the soft moans of the two brothers and the dirty, slick squelch of Alpha fucking Omega. Sherlock continues the almost brutal pace he’s set until Mycroft is shaking with each thrust. His cock bouncing against his pale skin with sloppy sounding slaps.
He can feel his knot start to swell. Mycroft must too if the volume of his cries are any indication. Sherlock returns his mouth to the reddening bruise on Mycroft’s body as he takes his brother’s cock in hand and Mycroft howls.
“Are you going to claim me?” Mycroft stutters between harsh pants. His brother sounds as if he’s approaching the limits of his endurance.
Sherlock sucks in a hard, long breath before replying. “Do you want me to?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know!”
It isn’t fair, asking Mycroft at this moment, Sherlock knows. But he can feel how his brother’s pulse flutters at the thought. Sherlock tightens his grip around Mycroft’s cock as he aligns his thrusts into his brother’s lovely, slick hole with his strokes along his cock. His knot is almost at full size and it pulls at Mycroft with each movement.
Just before Sherlock bares his teeth and takes Mycroft’s bruised shoulder between his teeth and clenches – hard enough to hurt deliciously but not enough to break skin – he whispers brokenly. “I love you.”
Mycroft comes as he echoes Sherlock’s words.
And as he comes, Mycroft clenches around Sherlock’s cock and the pressure on his knot makes Sherlock’s mind spin and then just stop. His balls tighten and then he pulses. Spills into Mycroft again and again. Sherlock releases Mycroft’s shoulder when he realises his hand is sticky and wet from Mycroft’s come dripping over his fingers. “Christ. That was-”
Mycroft’s arms come around him and hold Sherlock tight against his body. Not that Sherlock will be moving anytime soon with his knot locking them together. “Very well done.” Mycroft sounds hoarse.
Perhaps he’s still swimming through the endorphins coursing through his body. “Bloody amazing, I think you mean, Mycroft,” Sherlock chastises with a pout, nudging his nose at the bruised skin. Mycroft jerks a little to his satisfaction.
His brother peers at him with semi-glazed eyes as Sherlock moves his arms up. One hand moves to card through Mycroft’s sweaty locks while the other feathers against the bruise he’s left. “Would you have?” asks Mycroft.
“Not without your explicit permission, Mycroft,” Sherlock reassures, understanding his brother’s worry that’s two decades old. “But you must admit you got off on the thought of it.”
“I might have,” Mycroft hedges as Sherlock curls his face into Mycroft’s negative space between neck and shoulder. Sherlock raises the fingers he used to bring Mycroft off, still wet, to his mouth and laps them. “Gods, we’re filthy.”
Sherlock hums contentedly, offering up his semi-cleaned fingers to his brother. For all his words, Mycroft wraps his talented tongue around them and sucks. Sherlock hips try to buck but his knot buried in his brother’s arse won’t let him. Yet. “No point in moving yet since we can’t. Given how hot your body still is, I suspect we’ll need to fuck at least once more before we get a resting period.”
His fingers, cleaner and slick with Mycroft’s spit, slip from his mouth. “Well if we’re already dirty, I suppose…”
Sherlock giggles, quickly turning into body-shaking laughter.
“What?” Mycroft looks amused, tender.
“Oh nothing,” Sherlock manages between deep intakes of air. “Just wondering what it would be like if you hadn’t stripped us both naked down in the hallway. What your dry cleaning bill would look like,” he continues. “Maybe next time.”
The horrified look on Mycroft’s face is enough to set Sherlock off again.