Bonus Fic: Blood Brothers, Part 3/3

[holmesticemods]

They spent months cleaning the house and its environs of years of despoilment.

Digging a grave deep enough to bury the remains took them a week. It was sweaty labour, with the fat flies that fed on the corpses buzzing annoyingly around their heads. They didn’t bother scaring away the crows and rats and foxes that came feasting while the bodies were lying out in the open.

Sherlock toiled as diligently as Mycroft and Billy, unperturbed by the occasional fights breaking out between rats and crows over the division of a particularly succulent piece. In the evenings, freshly scrubbed and looking like a young gentleman again he’d nudge Mycroft into plucking his violin from its case. Together they’d serenade the stars. During those hours Mycroft felt almost at peace.

The nights he spent tossing restlessly amongst the sheets, careful not to wake Sherlock, kept awake by fresh onslaughts of low craving which, unlike previously, were irksomely difficult to dispel. He loathed his body for betraying him. Surely after the rape it should wish to remain afar from such acts rather than desire them.

Countless were the times his hands sneaked downwards of their own accord, only for him to jerk them up and above the sheets again.

However, Mycroft was fighting a losing battle. Inevitably, the night arrived during which he gave in, turned his back on Sherlock and took himself in hand. White-hot light exploded behind Mycroft’s eyes, sweetness melted his veins. The shame rid hard upon the pleasure; only a pervert would masturbate next to a sleeping child, Mycroft berated himself. He was a pervert then, for his penis was already stiffening again and his hand reminding him how good it had felt to have the curiously soft skin whispering against the palm. Mycroft surged up from the bed, sank onto the floorboards and devoted himself to the rite again, adding his other hand to squeeze his testicles and oh… He gasped, pulling the air deep into his lungs.

The right wing appeared to be in the best condition so they decided to move into that part of the house. This wing also contained the kitchen, no doubt one of the most important rooms. They salvaged the best and soundest pieces of furniture from the wreckage. The rest was damaged so badly it would fetch them nothing if they tried to sell it and they chopped it for firewood. The desk in their father’s study was undamaged at least but after searching it for the account books Mycroft hacked that to pieces as well, he’d rather die than seat himself in front of it.

Basic comforts ascertained, they went combing through every nook and cranny for things of value to dispose of. They needed a new cow and at least two sacks of flour. The level of the cooking oil stood dangerously low. Candles were another necessity.

All they came up with was a pair of Mummy’s diamond earrings, a dozen silver candlesticks and a few plates of the antique Chinese eggshell porcelain, which were frankly the last things Mycroft would have expected to survive the tempest. Thanks to the accounting books Mycroft had at least an idea of their value. He would drive a hard bargain for them.

The prospect of entering the world outside the walls excited Sherlock greatly. Between fits of desperate crying he’d sit pouring over Mycroft’s old atlas with its maps of countries and England’s major cities wondering what a street looked like in reality.

“Very dirty,” Mycroft remarked.

“Spoilsport,” countered Sherlock. “Mr Talbot would be happy for me going out and about at last. All you do is pulling a long face.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. “He would be. He would have given us a different life if he could. Please remember what I told you before, Sherlock. No one must ever know about us. If they find out what we have done they’ll hang Billy and me and place you in a workhouse.”

“Yes, you’ve said so a hundred times already though I think it’s stupid for they were bad people and they murdered Mr Talbot and Wiggins first.”

“I’m afraid the judge won’t consider that an exonerating circumstance. Not when they learn of the crime I’ve committed.” Mycroft shivered.

“It wasn’t a crime but justice,” Sherlock said. “Billy explained. You’re an idiot thinking I’d mind. I wish you had told me who he was so I could have spat in his face.”

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft legged off to find and berate Billy but discovered him unrepentant. Apparently Sherlock had been pestering him to disclose why Mycroft had seemed so flurried after killing that man in the hallway. Mycroft had just delivered a long reprimand when Billy astonished him by cupping his hands around Mycroft’s face and kissing him fiercely. When Mycroft froze he gentled the pressure of his lips, tickling Mycroft’s with his tongue.

Mycroft shoved at Billy, sending the servant crashing against the kitchen table.

‘What do you think you’re doing,’ he signalled.

‘You want it. I know. I watch you at night.’

‘What? How dare you?’

‘Through the keyhole.’ Billy’s gesture needed no words. ‘I like it, I like you. We could do it together. Please.’ His hand dove for Mycroft’s fly behind which counterevidence was straining to belie the motions of his fingers. The bulge in Billy’s trousers was unmistakeable.

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

Why not indeed? How to refuse such a reasonable enough request?

Because he abhorred his body’s base demands, despised his weakness each time he sought the rush of delight and his seed spurted out of his quivering penis. Because it wasn’t Billy’s face Mycroft envisioned when he pursued the pleasure. If anyone’s, it mostly resembled his mother’s. Another agonising aspect that should have lessened his hand’s zeal, not taught it to twist and stroke with more seductive competence at each new surrender.

‘I can’t.’ Caution advised him to mollify his rejection. Billy was docile by nature but, as Mycroft’s own tenacious yearnings indicated, the urges of his flesh might incite revolution. So, after a slight hesitation Mycroft added, ‘Sorry.’

Billy assessed his face. Mycroft met the scrutiny, unblinking; the servant’s gaze was the first to slant away, towards the crack along the tiled flooring.

Outside the kitchen window a robin was scratching at the soil, pulled a fat wriggling worm from the loosened earth.

‘You are free to go, if you want to,’ offered Mycroft. Considering the circumstances it seemed the most decent option. Still, it was a relief when Billy shook his head almost immediately.

‘No, where would I go?’ Sincere hurt shaded Billy’s eyes. ‘Who would have me?’

‘I would.’ For that was the truth. After everything they’d tackled together he’d confront the very gates of hell for Billy’s sake. ‘Just not that way.’

‘But you will let me look?’

Lord no, every fibre in Mycroft’s body rebelled against the idea. Yet, it furnished him with a perfect solution to the conundrum of keeping Billy satisfied and fulfilling Mycroft’s obligation to the man.

‘Fine,’ he motioned.

‘Tonight,’ Billy demanded.

‘No!’ Mycroft repeated the gesture thrice for emphasis. ‘No! No!’

More than a week passed before Mycroft succumbed. The knowledge an eager eye watched his every move sped his hand even faster and the white-hot light flashed brighter than ever before. The sound of Sherlock’s regular breathing behind his shivering back added to the shame.

The city welcomed them with its arms wide. Sherlock’s eyes were as big as saucers, his gaze darting from a fast-wheeled barouche transporting a gay well-dressed party to the multitude of beggars who’d gone to great lengths to display their impairments to best advantage. His nostrils sucked their fill with the stench of coal fires and the unappetising wares on the street sellers’ carts. In the evening he complained about the continuous noise. LeFeuvre’s reign had also consisted of long spells of silences.

A part of Mycroft had been looking forward to rediscovering the sights and smells and sounds that had excited him so as a small boy.

Then he’d believed the world a sympathetic place that existed solely to provide him and his family with joy. Now he found he trusted no one, not the maid at the inn who cooed over the little gentleman’s nice black curls, nor the jeweller who sat examining Mummy’s earrings through his jeweller’s loupe. The man complained about the old-fashioned bezel setting. Mycroft defended the stones’ quality (a quick cast around the jeweller’s wares told him the man had nothing remotely comparable on offer) and suggested the bevel yielded enough gold for modern prongs. In the end, after throwing in two of the candlesticks, he got an amount that’d supply them with five years of provision for them, provided they spent the money wisely.

“I like the city but not the people living there,” Sherlock announced on the return journey. “Most of them are stupid and crude. That dull maid groused about her wages and stole from the kitchen. And those people in the room next to ours were sniggering behind Billy’s back every time they thought we didn’t see.”

“Most people have a serious flaw to them.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about Mr Talbot’s flaws.”

Indignation rose in Mycroft’s chest. “Mr Talbot,” he bristled. “Have you taken leave of your senses and forgot everything our tutor sustained on our behalf?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock’s pique matched Mycroft’s. “I love and esteem Mr Talbot and cherish his memory as much as you do. But you must admit his plan didn’t work. He must have acknowledged so early on and yet hung on to it mulishly. That’s deliberately foolish. He should have fled and taken us with him.”

Which too eloquently summed up Mycroft’s own reflections on the subject.

“Not another word,” he cut off the discussion.

Over next months’ course they established a pattern. Arise at dawn, breakfast, work the garden or at whatever task required to keep their part of the house functioning properly enough to shelter them. After lunch Mycroft and Sherlock would retire to the schoolroom to continue Sherlock’s education. Sherlock translated and studied history, geography, geometry and statistics under Mycroft’s direction. They fenced and played duets on their violins, often compositions of Sherlock’s devising. They danced, gravely counting the beats as they stepped and whirled around each other. Sherlock derided the fencing and dancing classes’ necessity but consumed it avidly. His face radiated pure elation each time he performed a particularly deft counter riposte or entrechat.

In the evenings Billy patched their clothes or aided Sherlock in his experiments in the scullery they’d transformed into a provisional laboratory while Mycroft read yet another volume full of advice on whatever pest they were dealing with at the time.

Occasionally Mycroft felt compelled to ask both Billy and Sherlock whether this mode of life was sufficient, only to meet similar derision from both of them.

‘I knew what I let myself in for,’ Billy’s fingers flew in time to Sherlock’s, “you’re an idiot, Mycroft.”

Never his brother spoke words more true. Over the years the vision Mycroft conjured while he sought pleasure from his hand transformed itself from his mother into that of his brother. Sherlock had turned fifteen last winter and his body was no longer a child’s but all intriguing slants and angles. Flowing long limbs and firm flesh. His mouth grew wider, fuller. Mycroft studied it chewing, laughing, arguing, sipping water from a glass. What would it feel like against Mycroft’s? The sense memory of Billy’s lips sprang up, their desperate warmth. But Billy’s lips were razor thin and often chapped, nothing like the soft rose-hued petals that uncurled themselves at dawn to wish him a good morning after Mycroft had fantasised another night about bruising them. And he hadn’t wanted to kiss Billy. He wanted Sherlock’s mouth beneath his. So very, very much.

One day, while browsing the library for a book with a cure for the curious bleeding disease that had affected one of their apple trees Mycroft unearthed a stash of erotica from behind a false set of books. Mr Talbot’s sad “Every young man of means is granted a brief spell of tomfoolery to better appreciate the comforts of marriage after,” ran around his mind while he perused them, one eye guarding the library door. Their discovery nearly undid him, providing his imagination with a variety of alternative uses for Sherlock’s mouth.

His little brother’s mouth.

And yet, when Mycroft caught Billy one day in the kitchen surreptitiously rubbing his trousers while gaping at an oblivious Sherlock chopping wood outside he was onto him in an instant.

‘No!’

Billy’s face darkened as he pushed at Mycroft and signalled, ‘Only looking. You said I may look.’

‘At me, yes. He’s too young.’

Billy snorted. ‘You think so.’ He gave Mycroft another shove for emphasis, stalked to the stove and rattled various handles to announce the conversation was over.

‘You think so.’ The insidious expression that had accompanied the motions of Billy’s fingers.

Considering his impaired hearing the servant had an uncanny aptitude for stealthy movement, occasionally startling Mycroft who’d been so intent on whatever task he was busy with he’d been temporarily deaf to the world. Had he caught… Mycroft shut down that line of thought straightaway for the debilitating implications on his predicament.

The idea of Sherlock’s newly-matured body dictating his brother’s mind as Mycroft’s body dictated his’ was too harrowing to consider; if only for the inevitable outcome. For nature dictated that in a world of three, his brother’s attentions would settle on Billy, reducing Mycroft’s role to that of jealous outsider. He’d be the one perching with his eye at the keyhole.

Repugnant as the pictures were, yet those now crowded his fevered brain as he performed for Billy’s gratification. Self-loathing and jealousy guided him onto the floor to participate in the rite that left him sobbing in pain rather than moaning in pleasure. A part of him implored the servant’s initiative, reasoning the accomplished fact would be easier to bear than this prolonged waiting for the inevitable outcome.

***

“When will we arrive? We passed the last village ages ago?”

“I told you the house’s location is remote,” Sherlock spoke tiredly from the corner of the carriage.

“Yes, but I thought everything in Europe was small compared to America,” Victor retorted in a petulant tone.

Mycroft poked Sherlock’s shin with his boot’s pointed toe. His nerves were rubbed raw after two weeks of the boy’s inane company. A ‘recovered’ Sherlock ought to be making up for lost time, not sulking as far away from his lover as the conveyance’s small space permitted.

Hint taken Sherlock unbuttoned his gloves. The pale moonlight glimpsing through the small windows revealed pale fingers seeking Victor Trevor’s. He pulled, rather roughly, but Victor liked it as proven by that annoying high giggle of his as he collapsed against Sherlock’s chest, lingered there blissfully.

Sherlock blew into Victor’s hair, stroked his jaw, gaze steady on Mycroft who shifted in his seat and switched his attention to the silver-outlined landscape hurtling past, its few features appearing even more forlorn without the sun’s scarlet graze warming the scant trees and shrubs. His ears subverted the effects of his outward disinterest, fixed as rigidly on the rustle of clothes transmitted from the opposite seat as his eyes on the desolate swamp they were crossing.

Fell whispering; then the piercing giggle again, all the more jarring offset against the deep rumble of Sherlock’s baritone, enticing the boy into sighing. A quivering, high-pitched “oh my darling”.

Sloppy, moist sounds. They were kissing. Sherlock’s white hand settled on what must be Victor’s thigh, inched higher. A spider closing on its prey, tangled unaware of the danger in the silken webbing, moaning its consent.

It took several attempts for Mycroft’s trembling fingers to extract his handkerchief from his jacket pocket.

The boy was nothing but a fly. A fat writhing fly they needed to keep happy and alive for another four weeks. Only a month and the money would be deposited into their father’s bank account and they’d be free of the nuisance for the rest of their lives. Five months earlier they’d been in desperate straits. It was Mycroft who’d determined they’d go sailing the seas in search of fish again. And what a fish they’d caught. Three hundred and thirty thousand pound sterling of fish. If only its taste wasn’t so sour.

Sherlock was acting his part. Playing the boy as deft as his violin, in accord with Mycroft’s virtual command. The aching jealousy was uncalled for. Sherlock was Mycroft’s. Neither of them had ever partaken of another body but his sibling’s.

Then what was his handkerchief doing in Mycroft’s mouth? He bit it to stifle his snarl for Sherlock to quit. Another moan from the boy. His leg shuddered, touched Mycroft’s briefly, before raising itself to coil around Sherlock’s.

Mycroft screwed his eyes shut against the view. Victor Trevor’s sense of entitlement, he decided, was what irked him so. The cool assumption he warranted the devotion and attention of such a superior creature. Perhaps Mycroft ought to prepare him a small lecture on the benefits of true Christian modesty.

The sermon’s composition supported him for the duration of the ride. Still, he heaved a sigh of relief when the coach rattled past the high entry gates at last.

***

For months Mycroft’s days consisted solely of agonising and longing and waiting for Billy to place his opening bid. In the evenings he sat turning the leaves of his book with eyes as blind as Billy’s ears were deaf, listening for the sounds drifting out of the scullery. The tinkle of glassware, the creaking of the pump handle followed by the splatter of water in a pail. After his failure with Mycroft the servant would likely choose a less bold approach.

If only it were over and done with. Then he could sleep again at least.

Once, as they trudged up the stairs after another long evening Mycroft had wasted in a morass of jealousy and misery absolute certainty smote him like a bolt from the heavens he’d forsworn. Sherlock and Billy had already reached an understanding, behind his back. Modesty made them conduct the affair outside the house.

Except, Mycroft pondered as they sat waiting at the kitchen table for the servant to cut up the pair of rabbits he’d prepared, modesty wasn’t Sherlock’s strongest suit.

Billy placed the plate in front of Mycroft, and another in front of Sherlock before seating himself. The portions on each plate were equal in quantity and quality. If they were lovers surely Billy would deal Sherlock the best and most juicy pieces of meat.

Oh lord, the maddening jealousy. Mycroft wanted to pound his head against the table, smash the plate against the wall and watch the runny dark sauce dribble slowly down the newly whitewashed plaster.

And still the torture would have been endurable if his fevered brain hadn’t stoked the fire in his loins. The madness drove Mycroft from the bed relentlessly to shed his offer into the cup that never ran over, close to hating the body that drowsed in seemingly innocent sleep behind him.

One night, after a particularly exhausting session Mycroft was hauling himself back between the sheets when his searching hand encountered Sherlock’s. Quickly, he tried to pull his hand away but Sherlock held on.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, urgently. “Let me go.”

Instead of loosening his grip Sherlock tightened his fingers. “There’s no need to lower your voice, Mycroft,” he chuckled. “No one will hear you. No one but I.”

“Sweet lord, no.” Shame painted Mycroft’s back with sweat. “Sherlock,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll never touch you. I swear.” Despair sapped his strength. When he renewed his attempts to wrench himself loose Sherlock restrained him as easily as if he were a kitten.

“You’re an idiot, Mycroft,” he said. “A blind idiot.”

He yanked Mycroft’s arm to tug him closer.

Mycroft fell forward. Their foreheads would have collided if Sherlock hadn’t angled his head. Unlike Mycroft, he knew exactly what was happening.

“An idiot,” he repeated and engulfed Mycroft’s mouth with his to suck and lick without finesse, his hand clamping Mycroft’s arm to prevent his brother’s struggling. Which was fortunate the sensible part of Mycroft’s mind lectured him sternly for he ought to concentrate on shoving off his brother’s body, instead of relishing the inexpert sweep of his lips over Mycroft’s. Your own flesh and blood, his conscience reminded him. Stop this.

“Stop this,” Sherlock said peevishly when he broke the assault for a breath of air. “I’m giving you what you want. You haven’t exactly been quiet, you know.”

“Sherlock, forgive me,” stammered Mycroft. “I’ve been in the wrong, wronged you. You must see this can never be.”

“Why?” Sherlock queried and used Mycroft’s bewilderment over the question to clamber upon Mycroft and slot his front flawlessly along Mycroft’s, nearly undoing him as the evidence of his desire prodded Mycroft’s abdomen through their nightshirts.

“Why?” he reiterated, his hips quivering but not quite thrusting yet. The white of his eyes glistened in the shards of moonlight peeping through the cracks of the shutters as if he were truly desirous to learn Mycroft’s motivations.

“You said you didn’t believe in heaven and hell anymore,” he continued, his voice lilting, soft, the muslin shifting over Mycroft’s belly with each push and pull. “You’d abandoned the world. And yet you still cling to its arbitrary rules. Now if I were your sister I’d abide with your objections for we’d run the risk of you losing me in childbirth.”

Blood-soaked bedding. Sherlock’s skin, shining whiter than ever against the sodden crimson sheets and the deep black curls that surround his face like a halo and the shadow of death.

Mycroft shivered, moaned, scrunched shut his eyelids to dispel the dreadful image.

“You see,” Sherlock whispered. “Thankfully I’m not your sister. We can do whatever we want, Mycroft. For there’s no one to stop us.” He lowered his face to Mycroft’s to align their lips again, much gentler this time, and then they were kissing, tongues twining and breaths mingling. Sherlock loosened his grip on Mycroft’s arm and Mycroft used his hand not to push at his brother but cradle his head as his lips teased and pressed at Sherlock’s in an ecstasy of delight.

Sherlock moaned and then he was thrusting with quick drives of his hips, slanting his face to bury it into Mycroft’s shoulder. He spasmed. Mycroft kept kissing his sweaty curls, murmuring praise. Warm moisture sank through the muslin and glued the fabric to Mycroft’s skin. Such waste, Mycroft thought, his fingers rubbing soothing circles over Sherlock’s back, which was quivering with aftershocks. He would have liked a nip.

Except, Sherlock was right of course. There was no one to stop them and keep Mycroft from sampling every part of his brother’s body for the rest of his life if such was what his brother desired.

“No one will stop us,” he promised Sherlock, fingertips still caressing the long stretch of his quietly vibrating back. His brother’s limbs were so heavy and placid Mycroft concluded the boy must have fallen asleep on top of him, exhausted from exertion. It was enough for now, Mycroft thought, adjusting his leg to a more comfortable position. They could talk tomorrow if they needed to.

His eyelids were fluttering closed when the heavy weight slithered off him and came to a rest at his side. Then he prodded and nudged with his head until Sherlock’s head rested on Mycroft’s chest and both Mycroft’s arms were clasped around his waist.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock sounded wide-awake.

“Yes.”

“What do we do about Billy?”

Mycroft swallowed. “Billy?” he stalled for time. “What about him?”

“I’ve caught him at it one day, last summer, when I was swimming in the stream.”

“What?” Mycroft roused himself so suddenly he launched Sherlock onto the mattress. “What? What did he do? Did he touch you?”

“No!” Sherlock’s fist thumped the bed. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t even try to defend himself when I accosted him. He told me it was all right, that the two of you had an understanding. That he was allowed to look.”

“Yes,” growled Mycroft, “at me. That’s what we agreed upon. But not at you. He lied. For how long has this been going on.” Every muscle in his body was straining to jump from the bed, yank open the door and trash the servant for his brazen impunity.

“Oh, too long.” Sherlock shrugged. “All the time I sat waiting and waiting for the cows to come home and you to act.” He scooted to his knees and grasped Mycroft’s hands, turning them palm upwards. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” he murmured, lifting each hand to press kisses on the fingertips and sweep his gaze upwards at Mycroft from beneath thick lashes. “Do you love me very much, Mycroft?”

“Yes.” Denial was useless, especially since Mycroft’s defence system had been defective from the start. “Yes, that’s why I never said anything openly, Sherlock. To protect you against me.”

“You’d rather I’d have taken up with Billy.”

“No.” Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock, you are right, I was an idiot. All these objections I’ve been phrasing this past year until my head was filled with webbing and you’ve torn it away with the one argument that counts. I’d rather cut off my own hand than allow Billy to touch you and all this time I’ve been telling myself it would be best if he did for your sake and his.”

“Well, that definitely proves both Billy and I are cleverer than you whatever you may think, Mycroft,” Sherlock said smugly. “But it only leads us back to the beginning of our quarrel. Do you think he’s looking at us now?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft answered truthfully. Sherlock peered into the darkness at the door. “He isn’t,” he said at last.

“What? How can you know that? He’s very quiet.”

“It’s a full moon and plenty of light falling into the room. If he were watching now you’d see the glint of his eye behind the keyhole,” Sherlock explained.

“You mean-.” Lord, this was too absurd. “Yes,” Sherlock said and they both burst out laughing.

“I think he didn’t know where to look just now,” Sherlock sniggered.

“Perhaps it would be best to just carry on and keep up the pretence,” suggested Mycroft. “Or do you think we should speak to him?”

“No,” Sherlock decided. “Billy will understand. Do you remember how Mr Talbot always said Billy was one of the cleverest boys he’d ever met?”

“That’s only because he never got the chance to see your full potential,” Mycroft said, drawing him close for a kiss.

***

Billy had been hard at work. The mahogany furniture in the yellow drawing room shone reddishly with beeswax, the chair and table legs reflecting the merrily leaping flames of the quickly laid fire dancing in the grate. He supplied their honoured guest with tea and toast with deferentially lowered eyelids before scurrying off to draw Victor a hot bath.

“How can you have only one servant?” Victor complained, while sampling the tea.

“Is it to your liking, dearest?” Sherlock queried anxiously, while Mycroft answered the question. “Unlike others Billy has little to distract him. That and his versatility lead to him doing the work of three in less time than it would have taken six men.”

“The tea is good,” Victor conceded none too graciously. “And I could do with a bath after that hideously long journey.”

“We all could,” Mycroft endorsed heartily. “I’m afraid we’ve only the one bathroom, Victor. Billy keeps it meticulously clean, of course.”

The idea of sitting in the same tub as Mycroft seemed to perturb Victor. Then his gaze swerved to Sherlock who hid the lower half of his face behind cup and saucer.

“In that case we might as well share,” the boy ventured. “You must feel like a bath as well, Sherrinford.”

“Much as Sherrinford might want to I’m afraid he can’t,” Mycroft cut that suggestion down sharply. He plastered an apologetic smile to his face. “We’ve been away for a long time, Victor, which means we’ve pressing business to attend to. You know how it works.”

Victor opened his mouth, the frown creasing his forehead evidencing he was about to object. Sherlock jumped in after a quick glance at Mycroft. “My brother is a slave driver as you can see. But he will spare me a few minutes to scrub your back, dearest. Go up to enjoy your soak.”

Momentarily free of the vexing urchin at last they stared at each other. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lord, what a moron. His puerility will do us in before we can lay our hands on him. Now that would be ironic.”

“You didn’t seem averse to having your hands wandering all over him,” Mycroft replied coldly.

“What?” Sherlock’s disbelief was hardly a match for his outrage. “It was you who told me to cushion the idiot. I have a bruise on my shin to prove it.”

“Since when is sweetening a synonym for making love? There was no need to bring the boy to completion before my eyes.”

For a maddening instant Sherlock looked proud of the accomplishment. Then his expression settled into a scowl and his hand slashed the air. “Nonsense. You know I did nothing of the kind. It’s hardly my fault you chose a lust-riddled reprobate this time.”

“There’s no need to stoke the fire.”

“My point exactly.” Sherlock was almost shouting, his voice only curbed by the severity of Mycroft’s glare. “I’ve four weeks of keeping the fellows hands at bay without raising his suspicions to look forward to. Not the most rousing of prospects. It would help if you’d steer clear off your unwarranted jealousy in the meantime.”

Relief flooded Mycroft’s chest but he needed the reassurance, despising the restless and needful creature in his stomach that rebuffed Sherlock’s every gesture and word of proof he was Mycroft’s.

“Unwarranted,” he repeated. “I’ll hold you onto that.”

“For crying out loud!” Sherlock threw his hands into the air and stalked out of the room.

Mycroft lifted the poker from its rack and prodded at the flames until they nearly leapt out of the grate.

***

The sluice gates were open wide and they tumbled and played as happy as a pair of seals in the newly liberated waters. Sherlock was shameless and nearly insatiable, tackling Mycroft whenever the fancy overtook him, regardless of their surroundings. The need to reign in base desire dispensed with Mycroft abandoned himself eagerly to Sherlock’s wantonness until he was convinced there wasn’t an area left on the grounds that hadn’t witnessed the consummation of their love.

The meaning of the dances they still studied finally revealed itself to Mycroft as they bowed their heads to each other from across the room, approached the middle with long solemn steps and aligned their right hands, gazed into each other’s eyes over the rim of their welded fingertips.

This must be what Ovid and Shakespeare hinted at, Mycroft thought, as they pivoted around the centre pole of their combined hands. This mix of joy and pain and achievement was what their father had known and lost and for a moment Mycroft felt almost inclined to pity the man.

Though no remorse. For if their father had lived Mycroft would have been forbidden to partake of this sweet fruit that now said in a peeved tone, “For heaven’s sake, that’s the second time you stepped on my toe. Watch what you’re doing.”

Such blessedness couldn’t last, naturally, Mycroft considered that winter evening shortly after Sherlock’s twenty-first birthday when the three of them sat nursing their rumbling stomachs and huddling close to the kitchen stove in an attempt to keep warm. The money from the last candlesticks and porcelain had long since been consumed, save for twenty pounds set apart for dire emergencies.

Billy stood up to pour them all another cup of tea. That, at least, they had still plenty of.

“There must be something we can do,” complained Sherlock. “If we part ways no one will ask questions we’d rather not answer. You could easily find yourself a position as a tutor to some thick-headed cretin, Mycroft.”

“Less easy than you’d think without a letter of introduction or proof of any formal education.”

“Then I could offer my services as a violin tutor. I’d only need to give a recital for a family to hire me.”

“No,” Mycroft decreed. “I won’t be separated from you.”

“Fat lot of good that will do us when it ends with the three of us starving,” snorted Sherlock.
“We can’t go on like this, Mycroft.”

“Yes, thank you very much for that totally redundant information,” Mycroft snarled and cut himself off, horrified by his tone’s ferocity. They were on the brink of their first proper row. Over something as base as money.

“I have-,” he began, tentatively, for if they broke into their small treasury now their ultimate ending would arrive the sooner. However, Sherlock, cut in, his face lit with excitement.

“Listen,” he said. “If we can’t go out to the world why not bring the world here? We’ll go abroad together, Mycroft, and present ourselves as gentlemen of means. I’ll make someone fall in love with me and do it so well they’ll be desperate to follow me here. Then, once we’ve secured their money we’ll do away with them.”

“What?” Mycroft was appalled. As Billy caught sight of his astonishment and outrage he nudged Sherlock in the side to ask him for a translation of his proposal. Sherlock eagerly complied, outlining the scheme to the servant who first looked perplexed, then obviously grasped the essence of the plan and nodded his approval.

“You’re both mad,” Mycroft stated. “What you propose is we murder innocent people for money. That would mean we’re no better than a gang of pirates, or highwaymen. No better than LeFeuvre.” Much, much worse than that rapist debauched roué. They truly would be wolf unto men where formerly they’d only defended themselves. “We can’t,” he ended.

“It’s either that or one of us finding a position,” Sherlock countered. “Your choice, brother dear.”

A choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. But the devil was disguised as his brother - his breathtakingly beautiful brother whom he adored and whose body he hankered after even as pangs of hunger gnawed at his stomach, and the sea was filled with the anonymous visages of the people who’d let them rot when Mr Talbot pleaded for their help. It wasn’t much of a choice really.

“But it’s cold-blooded murder.” Mycroft’s conscience flickered briefly in a last attempt to ward off impending reality.

Sherlock snorted. “Thirty-seven degrees Celsius isn’t that cold. My feet are a lot colder I assure you.” His tone gentled. “They needn’t suffer, Mycroft. They’ll believe themselves loved. We’ll do it while they’re asleep.”

“The bedding will be horribly smirched.”

Sherlock laughed. “Thank god we’re experts at removing blood stains.” He translated the sentence for Billy’s benefit who guffawed and pretended to engage in a fierce bout of elbow greasing. Sickened with their callousness and the knowledge he’d already concurred with the scheme Mycroft leapt up and fled the kitchen.

He warded off Sherlock’s attentions that night but the next morning he joined his brother and the servant in shifting through their wardrobes for the pieces that with a little reworking would help Sherlock and him resemble a pair of gentlemen.

True to Sherlock’s predictions his feelings were remarkably calm as he angled the man’s head for Sherlock to sever the brachiocephalic artery with one quick slash. What helped was the hatred he’d nurtured for the man during the weeks of their acquaintance, reduced to observing the lout fondling his brother while his hands were tied at his back with invisible bonds.

The next one was easier and their booty more bountiful, but it had never been enough. Over the years they’d grown bolder. The first lustre of Sherlock’s youth was dimming. He still turned every head walking into a room but they’d only a few years left to rake in the cash that would support the three of them for a lifetime.

Really, they’d been extremely lucky to encounter Victor Trevor. He was their treasure trove.

***

They buried the limp body next to the others. The flowers in this area of the grounds were more abundant than those in any other part. Mycroft told himself their profusion was just another unappetising aspect of the flowers themselves. He’d never been a lover of poppies, their blatant crimson colouring always vaguely nauseated him.

Thankfully the spot was hidden from sight, behind the orchard wall.

In the kitchen they washed their hands. Billy stoked the fire and put the kettle on while Mycroft laid the table and Sherlock cut the bread.

They ate and drank heartily, thankful to be free at last of the hateful intruder.

Afterwards Sherlock took Mycroft by the hand and led them to their bed. There they made love until the first tentative sunrays slanted through the window and painted Sherlock’s pale skin a glowing deep red.