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*
"Something to drink, Mr Holmes?"
Mycroft shook his head absently, his attention fixed upon the early-indicating general election poll results from India. "See if my brother needs anything."
"Certainly, sir. Nothing at all?"
"No," Mycroft replied impatiently, waving the flight attendant away. He enlarged the tiny print on the screen and rubbed at his eyes, aching with fatigue. He was far off his schedule, and getting Sherlock past the Baron's outer perimeter and into the waiting helicopter had been more problematic than he'd anticipated. Then there had been electrical problems with the aeroplane, and they'd sat on the tarmac for the better part of three hours before finally taking off. Now, in the cool, comfortable dimness of the rear cabin compartment, Sherlock, filthy and exhausted, slept in the fold-out bed whilst Mycroft's work went on as usual.
PM Singh was almost certainly on his way out, if the polls pointed in the correct direction.
A muffled roar from the rear of the cabin startled Mycroft out of his hard-won placidity. Adrenaline surged through him once more; he leapt to his feet and tore open the rear door. Anthea followed behind at a sedate pace.
Sherlock was sitting up in bed, his eyes wide, his mouth open in a snarl. "Get her out."
"What the hell is going on?" Mycroft demanded.
The flight attendant, young and immaculately groomed, took a staggering step away from Sherlock. "I…I just tried to open the window shade, sir. Mr Holmes was awake and I thought he'd like some natural light –"
"I didn't ask you to open the window shade," Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft glanced around the darkened cabin and stepped inside. "I think it would be best if you retired to the galley. It would also be best if you remained there for the duration of the flight. My assistant will find you if we need anything. Thank you." He nodded curtly and waited for her to leave.
Tears standing in her eyes, the flight attendant limped out of the cabin – evidently she'd broken a heel – and closed the door behind her. Mycroft sighed. "Really, Sherlock. Was that necessary?"
"Yes. I can't abide service with a smile."
Mycroft turned to Anthea. "Smooth things over, will you?" As Anthea left, a tilted little grin curving her mouth, Mycroft sat on the bed. "You're not having some sort of post-traumatic stress reaction, I hope. Bit predictable, wouldn't you say?"
"No," Sherlock retorted. "I haven't seen daylight for the better part of a week. I'd just woken, and the idiot asked me if I wanted tomato juice and flung the shade up." Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. "I thought you'd briefed her."
"I didn't think you wanted coddling, judging by your remarks upon boarding. What was it – 'I can climb a flight of fucking stairs on my own, you fat git.' Was that it, or am I not remembering correctly?"
"Oh, shut up." Sherlock flopped back onto the bed and hissed in agony.
"Sherlock –" Mycroft was up in a flash and moving toward him. He caught Sherlock's hand, wincing at the marks on his wrist. Not ordinary ligature marks, no – deep raw welts made deeper by clear efforts to tear himself free. Foolish boy.
Mycroft's heart clenched; his vision blurred. "You should have let the doctor patch you up a bit more."
"'M fine," Sherlock mumbled, and turned onto his side, wrenching his hand from Mycroft's light grip.
"You could have at least accepted the shower they offered."
"I don't want anyone touching me. Hovering, henning, clucking. I've had enough."
For the first time, in the closed cabin, Mycroft discerned the smell of Sherlock's unwashed body drifting upward to his sensitive nostrils. "You're rather fragrant."
"You're rather fat."
"Hm." Mycroft regarded the backs of his hands. "It's true I've been indulging a bit more than usual lately. Stress and worry, don't you know."
"As if you need an excuse. Leave me alone, Mycroft. Let me sleep. Wake me when we get to London."
"Very well." Mycroft hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on his brother's dirty, matted hair. He felt Sherlock tense beneath him, then relax, allowing the caress.
The people who had dared to hurt Sherlock had paid dearly. Each and every one of them had paid. Mycroft had seen to it personally.
For now, Mycroft was satisfied.
*
Sherlock walked wet and dripping from the shower, casually scrubbing a towel over his newly shorn hair. Mycroft glanced at him and then averted his eyes. No. That wouldn't happen again. He would not and could not allow it, even if Sherlock did. "Well. I almost recognise you again," Mycroft said with nearly as much insouciance as his brother.
"Oh, don't be stupid. I'm not going to attack you. You can look." Sherlock stepped in front of him, head tilted back, one hip canted arrogantly.
Mycroft concealed his stuttering indrawn breath with an impatient shake of his head. I'm not going to attack you. Water under the bridge, an old and familiar ritual that had come to a swift and decisive end – an unspoken end – when Sherlock had left two years ago. One last tumble in these very rooms, one last forbidden and exquisite exploration punctuated by falsely offhand questions and answers and a shared cigarette.
Tickets, money, passport?
Tickets. How quaint. No, just the latter two, I'm afraid.
You're no fun.
Be careful in Dubrovnik. Bjelopera is still after you.
It's under control. Mycroft….
What?
Look after John.
Mycroft had pretended not to hear the plaintive longing in Sherlock's voice, and that the dart of pain in his midsection was indigestion.
Naturally, Sherlock.
Naturally.
And now he stared at his naked brother, and his blood surged and surged and his cock twitched beneath worsted and cotton, unbearable. How pale Sherlock was after his imprisonment, almost luminous under the bright lights of the bathroom. The marks on his flesh still stood out in harsh relief. He was thinner, harder-looking, but still…God, yes, still so very beautiful.
Sherlock drew the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, gazed frankly, unwaveringly. That expanse of white skin (so white! How long since he'd seen the sun?), the delicate cup of his navel, the thatch of hair, his limp cock an invitation in itself.
Attack me.
Oh, Christ, Mycroft wished it were so.
*
Several weeks had passed, and every day – well, not every day, but near enough as made no difference, Sherlock had come here. Only in the dark, only when he knew that John and Mary, neither of them social butterflies, were in for the evening.
And what does he do? Mycroft wanted to know.
He just…stands there, sir. Watching.
That wouldn't do at all. So Mycroft had come, and now he stood at a discreet distance, watching his forlorn brother watch John Watson's flat. It was so obvious, and not a little embarrassing.
He'd encouraged their friendship, of course. It must have been so frustrating for Sherlock as a child, to have Mycroft as an older brother. Small wonder he'd grown up resentful. It was good, Mycroft had decided, for Sherlock to have one person to…well, to admire him, to bask in his brilliance. Dr Watson had seemed just the man to do it. A strong independent streak so that Sherlock wouldn't be disturbed by clinging, a frustrated yearning for danger, loyal, honest, and not staggeringly stupid.
He hadn't anticipated that Sherlock would fall under John's spell.
A tiny, needlelike barb of jealousy pierced Mycroft's heart, bleeding out poison. It was unworthy of him, but he couldn't –
Mycroft disentangled himself from the shadows of a hedge and stepped beneath the streetlight. "Sherlock –"
Sherlock gasped and pivoted on his heel. He hadn't heard Mycroft, hadn't sensed him with the perception they sometimes shared. He took a step forward.
For a split second, less time than it took for the thought to occur, Mycroft was aghast at the sight of Sherlock's face – such raw need in his eyes, such hunger. Another barb threaded its way in. I've looked after him all his life. He's known John for a year and a half.
"Mycroft." The hunger drained from his gaze, replaced by disgust. "Piss off." He turned and walked away, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, but let him go. He watched his brother's retreating figure, then gazed at John and Mary's flat. Their bedroom window.
I could dispose of him. It would be so easy.
No. That was no solution at all.
Crushing his yearning, Mycroft drew a deep breath and retreated to his car.
*
Same address, same time of night. This time Mycroft concealed himself well and watched Sherlock pacing restlessly, prowling, staring at the window as if he could draw John out by sheer force of will.
It was no use giving Sherlock advice; Sherlock was the obstinate sort who would act in direct opposition to any guidance Mycroft offered for the sheer joy of provocation. Why, Sherlock hadn't even told John the truth about his disappearance, preferring to cut his own nose off to spite his face. It would make one wonder how much Sherlock really cared about John, if one didn't know him. But during their infrequent meetings, in which Sherlock doled out tiny pieces of himself, the hunger a constant presence in his eyes, Mycroft saw Sherlock's increasing unhappiness, his countenance that with each successive encounter grew paler and thinner, while Mycroft's anger, anxiety, and desire simmered into the bitterest of brews.
Mycroft's stomach gurgled suddenly and at an inappropriate volume, almost loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He massaged it, shaking his head. He'd dined sumptuously – traditional English, one of his few weaknesses.
Sherlock turned his head, frowning.
Breathless, Mycroft drew back. Could Sherlock have known he was here? Was it that old extra-sensory perception at work?
So pale.
It worried Mycroft.
*
Dear God, brother mine.
Sherlock looked dreadful, haggard, unhealthy. John had spoken to him a bare handful of times, and nothing had been resolved. It wouldn't do. Mycroft had to step in.
Mycroft exited the car, closing the door with a soft click. He walked toward Sherlock, deliberately adding weight to his tread so that Sherlock would hear him coming.
"I know it's you, Mycroft," Sherlock said without turning. "How long have you been spying on me? Since before that first time?"
"Now and then," Mycroft replied. "I do have other duties."
"Then why waste your time on me?"
Have you looked in a mirror recently, my dearest boy? You look like a wraith. Can it be that you truly have no idea how worried I am? Someone who longs so desperately for another human being must grasp the concept of concern to some degree. He'd been accustomed to if not exactly content with their arrangement, used to Sherlock's careless and occasional bursts of affection, to the casual offering of his body, as if it meant nothing more than exertion and release. He had been mentally prepared for Sherlock's withholding for a long time, and during Sherlock's absence had assured himself that it would never happen again. But his need grew in direct proportion to his brother's longing for a man he could not possess, and his response to Sherlock's presence had become physiological: his blood surged and surged and surged.
But he would be gentle, for Sherlock's sake.
"Sherlock…he's going to marry her. You know that." Mycroft's words would have been a twist of the knife to anybody but his brother. Sherlock had a firm grasp of the inevitable.
"I know." Sherlock's body sagged, and Mycroft grasped his arm and held him upright. Sherlock allowed it; more than that, he clung to Mycroft's side, yielding, weary.
"I'm sorry."
A heavy sigh wrenched itself from Sherlock's throat. Cold air plumed from his mouth. "Mycroft, take me home."
"Come along, then." Mycroft tucked Sherlock's arm firmly into his and led him to the car. He ushered Sherlock inside and climbed in. "Baker Street," he ordered the driver.
"No," Sherlock said. "Yours."
Mycroft shivered imperceptibly. "Very well." He was a second choice; there was no sense in denying it. And he would never refuse Sherlock. They both knew that, to Mycroft's pain. Best to accept and move on.
They neither spoke nor touched on the ride to Mycroft's house. Silently they ascended the staircase; silently Mycroft settled into a chair to watch Sherlock undress. It was how it had always been. Sherlock had no difficulty exhibiting his naked body, nor any difficulty calling Mycroft a prude and teasing him about his weight. When they were twined together in the darkness, though, it was a different story altogether; Sherlock caressed him, kissed him, fondled every part of Mycroft's body. But they always began this way, because Sherlock knew he was a feast for the eyes.
And Sherlock's thorny barriers, for the moment, were still intact.
Mycroft's stomach rumbled.
"Hungry? Well, it has been at least an hour since you've eaten." Sherlock tossed his socks to one side and stripped off his trousers and underwear.
"Ravenous, in fact," Mycroft murmured truthfully.
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and unbuttoned his shirt. He toyed with the last button, making a pretence of difficulty, then slid the fine-gauge cotton from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. He straightened, holding Mycroft's gaze.
Too thin, entirely too pale. Almost translucent, for the love of God. And still pining for John. Still, some things were difficult if not impossible to falsify. It didn't matter who occupied Sherlock's thoughts; his stiffening cock proclaimed itself prepared.
"Touch yourself," Mycroft said.
Sherlock did, rubbing his cock with a slow, languorous stroke. He moved closer to Mycroft.
"No. Lie on the bed. Spread your legs."
"What are you planning to do to me tonight, brother?" Sherlock's voice was unsteady despite the casual carnality of his stroking hand. He'd denied himself for too long.
Mycroft merely smiled. Usually it was Sherlock who directed events. That he was willing to cede control seemed extraordinary. Sublimating, doubtless, his pain. That was fine. A little pain was perfectly acceptable. Mycroft rose with some effort – he was hard, his cock pushing at his trousers – and moved closer to the bed, watching his brother's languid sprawling, more than a touch of the actor in him. He knelt and reverently stroked the insides of Sherlock's thighs. Softness, even on Sherlock's hard, lean body. Lovely, yielding softness, downy-gold hair. He kissed Sherlock's left kneecap, a healing cut courtesy of Baron Maupertuis.
Sherlock let his arms drop to his sides. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. When Mycroft lifted his leg to kiss the tender spot behind his knee, his calves flexed and tensed, and his toes curled. Mycroft suckled his toes, nibbled down the soles of his feet and up again. He kissed his way upward to Sherlock's thighs, then urged him onto his belly.
"Mycroft…." It was the one thing that made Sherlock uncomfortable.
"Please."
Perhaps knowing he'd treated Mycroft cruelly, Sherlock folded. "All right." He spread his legs wider and emitted a shuddering sigh.
Mycroft climbed onto the bed and grasped Sherlock's arse. Marvellous, round, tight. "Keep touching yourself." He waited until Sherlock complied, then spread the cheeks of Sherlock's arse apart, bent, and pushed his tongue inside.
Sherlock's moan was muffled by the pillow. His body tightened, pushed against Mycroft's probing tongue. Too pleasurable, more than he could bear. He pushed again, an unspoken plea. Deeper.
Slowly, Mycroft pulled out.
"Mycroft –"
"Shh." He rolled Sherlock over again, happy to see the faintest blush on that pale skin, and in his jutting cock.
Lovely.
"Why'd you stop?"
"Quiet." Mycroft took hold of Sherlock's wrists, moving his frantically stroking hand away from his cock and imprisoning him. He bent to Sherlock's left inner thigh again, kissing, flicking his tongue against the soft skin of his balls. He'd lost the sense memory of Sherlock's secret pockets of softness, was surprised to discover that they still existed. Wasn't John Watson a fool.
Sherlock's back arched. "Put your mouth on me."
Mycroft did – not on Sherlock's cock, but on the inside of his right thigh, where the femoral artery pulsed, delicate and vulnerable.
Oh, God. He was so hungry.
I can't. I can't. He's my brother, for God's sake….
But then need eclipsed reason. He opened his mouth and sank his teeth in.
Sherlock froze with a sharp cry. "Mycroft!"
Mycroft drew back and, anguished, looked at his brother's shocked, angry face. "I'm sorry." He stared down at the wounds: tiny, almost insignificant but for those two swelling drops of glistening blood.
He bent again.
"Mycroft – ouch!" Sherlock jerked his hands from Mycroft's light grip and swatted at him. "What the hell are you –" He gasped, drawing in a quick breath as Mycroft achieved adequate exit points and suckled with all his strength. "You're hurting me – Mycroft –"
Mycroft couldn't listen, couldn't stop. The hunger was too great, the taste too sublime. He sucked deeply at the artery, pulling and pulling. Delicious. Faster, now, too fast for Sherlock's circulatory system to compensate.
"You –" Sherlock half-sat up and met Mycroft's eyes.
Too late to stop, even as confusion was replaced by terror. In that moment, they shared full communion, and even if Mycroft hadn't been able to discern Sherlock's thoughts, his face was tragically simple to read.
Can't be can't be this isn't possible a lot of fairy stories and nonsense folktales porphyria only saw him at night John where's John get me out get me out of here oh God oh God
Sherlock opened his mouth to scream, and Mycroft lunged up, faster than sight, and clamped a hand over Sherlock's lips. The scream became a stifled whimper, and Sherlock's writhing body was pinned beneath Mycroft's.
Mycroft was so much stronger now. It was terrifying and exhilarating. Still smothering Sherlock's screams, Mycroft turned his brother's face to one side, caught one flailing hand and pressed it to the pillow, and bent his head, his blood-slicked mouth, to Sherlock's carotid artery.
Oh, yes. YES. Delicious. Undeniably delicious. He'd craved this for so long. Sherlock struggled beneath him, beating at him with his free hand, trying to kick him and failing. He bit Mycroft's palm hard; it stung. A little.
"Sherlock." Mycroft's wet lips grazed Sherlock's ear, leaving a kiss-print of scarlet. "Don't fight me."
Sherlock gave a muffled howl and clawed at Mycroft's face. Let me go, let me go! And beneath that, a woeful, wounded lack of understanding. Why?
"Oh, little brother. I am sorry, truly I am. It won't be forever, I promise. A week, two at most. Then I'll bring you over to join me." Mycroft kissed Sherlock's throat and licked up the spilling blood. The jagged punctures were ugly, but they would fade, in time. "It won't hurt for long."
Sherlock's struggles weakened. Tears formed in his eyes.
The sight tore at Mycroft's heart. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I need you with me. It's…it'll be better than before, believe me. And…and if you like, you can have John." He felt Sherlock's struggles cease. Yes. Thought so. Carefully, he took his hand away from Sherlock's mouth and examined the palm. Torn. He licked it, Sherlock's blood mingling with his own, a lovely zinging sensation. The wound closed. Mycroft showed Sherlock his unblemished hand. "Valiant effort."
"John." Sherlock's voice was a dry rasp. His skin was white again.
"Yes. Not like this, though. Small sips, if you can bear it." And if Sherlock insisted upon having John permanently, well…he could refuse Sherlock nothing, in the end.
"Mycroft."
Mycroft stroked Sherlock's brow. His own erection was still pressed between Sherlock's legs, but Sherlock's cock was limp again. Understandably. No blood. "Yes, brother mine?"
Sherlock's brow knotted. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. He was already dying; Mycroft had been greedy. Finally, he forced a word. "How?"
A gentle smile curved Mycroft's mouth. It was a relief, really; even in death, that endless curiosity. "I'll tell you," he promised. "I'll tell you everything. Will you come with me?"
"John."
Always John. Well, some things never changed, even with extraordinary transformation. Mycroft was still Mycroft. He still worked, and relished it. A romantic doubtless would have found it laughably mundane, but it mattered very little. And Sherlock…Mycroft had no doubt that his work, too, would continue. But Sherlock's new condition bestowed certain advantages. Mycroft would worry about him far less.
That alone was worth the price of John Watson.
"Yes, of course. John too."
It wasn't that he disliked John; in fact, he was rather fond of the man. He wasn't accustomed to sharing, but…ça va s'arranger. Ms Morstan was another obstacle, though. Well, he would decide that later. For now, he was still hungry.
"Sherlock? Will you come?"
Faintly, Sherlock nodded.
Mycroft bent his head to Sherlock's throat once more, and feasted.
End.