Fic for brighteyed_jill: Solid Comfort
Title: Solid Comfort
Recipient: brighteyed_jill
Author: jain
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: fat-phobic language
Summary: Sherlock deals very badly with his desires. Mycroft understands him anyway.
Even after two years' friendship, John was frequently astonished by the speed at which Sherlock hurtled through life. Tuesday, Lestrade asked Sherlock to assist him on an apparent murder-suicide; Wednesday morning, Sherlock disappeared for a stretch of hours to pursue one of his theories; and by Wednesday evening, John and Sherlock were running the dead couple's neighbor to ground.
There was a tricky bit at the end when their suspect tried to drown Sherlock in the Thames and came far too close to success for John's comfort. But Sherlock was still alive, and the suspect (now upgraded to culprit in John's mind, at least, if not the British legal system's) was in police custody, and John had just begun to consider whether he'd prefer a nice curry or simply to go home and sleep for ten hours.
Before he'd made up his mind, a posh car glided up beside them and a door opened in invitation.
"Go away," Sherlock said querulously, his post-case high--attempts on his life notwithstanding--temporarily placed on hold. "I'm soaked through and will only ruin your upholstery, and we all know how much the government dislikes wasting money on its minor officials."
"This will take just a minute or two of your time," Mycroft's disembodied voice answered from the car's depths.
"Could it take as long as the ride to our flat?" John asked, since he wasn't particularly keen on the idea of trying to persuade a cabbie to take their custom when they were dripping unclean river water everywhere.
"Yes, certainly," Mycroft said, his voice tinged faintly with amusement.
Not needing any further invitation, John said, "All right, then," and slid onto the back seat.
Mycroft nodded genially at him from the opposite seat. John, feeling just a little too tired and cold and miserable to grin back at him as he might otherwise have done, managed a nod in response.
A moment later, Sherlock climbed into the car without further comment. He seemed to take particular pleasure in setting his sodden coat onto the seat beside him.
John rolled his eyes inwardly at the childish display, leaned his head back against the seat, and dozed determinedly. Sherlock would no doubt later recount his and Mycroft's entire conversation at length, several times, and at a considerable volume, so John didn't even have the excuse of his curiosity to keep him awake.
Sherlock didn't bother to wake him when they turned onto Baker Street, but John's body had learned the feel of the street over the course of two years' worth of cab rides, and he blinked his eyes open just as they reached number 221. He yawned once, poised on the edge between exhaustion and hyper-alertness that had become his default waking state whenever he slept anywhere other than his bed. Bart's and Afghanistan had trained him well.
Sherlock and Mycroft were both silent: Mycroft looked blandly disinterested, while Sherlock was fuming. So...business as usual, then.
"Thanks for the ride," John said.
Mycroft nodded at him; Sherlock snorted and climbed out of the car, John following him.
"He's put on at least a stone," Sherlock said as they were walking away, not quietly.
"I'd noticed that," John agreed. Mycroft's suit fit him as perfectly as ever--not that that was a surprise; Mycroft undoubtedly had enough money for a dozen wardrobes--but he filled it out more than the previous times John had seen him. It had put John in mind of a sleek, well-fed cat...not that he was planning on sharing that notion with Sherlock.
"Disgusting, isn't it?" Sherlock said.
John blinked. "I wouldn't say disgusting, no." They'd reached the front door by this time; John sincerely hoped that Mycroft wasn't sitting at the curb listening in on this conversation. He didn't turn around to check whether or not Mycroft was.
"John," Sherlock said in betrayed tones. "He's fat."
"Yeah, a bit," John agreed. "So? It rather suits him, I think."
"Are you even allowed to say that? You are a medical doctor."
John snorted. "I'm happy to check your brother's blood pressure and cholesterol levels the next time I see him, if that would make you feel better, though I'm sure he has his own private physician to do that for him."
"It's not healthy," Sherlock said stubbornly.
"This from the man who often wears multiple nicotine patches when he's not indulging his smoking habit, who refuses to eat or sleep for days on end, and who recently was addicted to cocaine. Frankly, I think your brother could gain three stone and still be of sounder health than you."
"Mycroft has an irregular sleep schedule, as well," Sherlock said in a petulant voice.
"Cocaine," John stressed.
Sherlock looked more than prepared to continue the argument, but they'd reached the second floor by then, and John--his previous flirtation with the idea of a curry firmly shelved--wanted only a hot shower and to collapse on his bed under a small mountain of duvets.
"I'm going to bed," he said firmly. "Unless you develop a life-threatening illness over night--" not a complete impossibility, given the quantity of river water Sherlock had swallowed "--I don't want to see your face again until tomorrow afternoon, or I swear you'll be hunting for a new flatmate. Good night."
Sherlock gave him a sour look but didn't reply. The wail of his violin just as John settled, warm and clean, into his bed was not entirely unexpected, but neither was it sufficient to prevent John from falling into an easy and dreamless sleep.
The first memory Sherlock had was of Mycroft sharing his pudding with him. Sherlock was being punished for something--perhaps even deservedly; he couldn't recall his crime any longer--and the sense of injustice and his own childish helplessness nearly choked him. He didn't care about the pudding per se, but the fact that his portion could be denied to him simply because he was young and his parents were old was galling. He could taste bitter tears clogging his throat and coating his tongue, in counterpoint to the sweet and creamy taste of the trifle that Mycroft had spooned out for him from his own bowl. He didn't thank Mycroft, or even acknowledge him in any way, yet Mycroft smiled fondly at him as Sherlock attacked his share of the pudding with self-centered determination, as though everything would be all right once this minor victory over his parents was gained.
When they were older, Mycroft expanded his sphere of influence to protect Sherlock from the various children (neighborhood boys, fellow students, etc.) who offered to bash Sherlock's head in for him on a regular basis. At the time, it seemed only sensible that Mycroft, so much taller and bigger than he was, could stand between Sherlock and his enemies. It was only years later that Sherlock realized that Mycroft was neither strong nor a practiced fighter; that, in fact, as a fat, bookish child, he must've been as much a target for childhood violence as Sherlock. The only possible explanation was that Mycroft's talent for leveraging secrets had begun when he was eight or nine years old. Sherlock hadn't been the least surprised by this realization.
When Sherlock was twelve, Mycroft went away to university. He sent regular letters home asking about Sherlock's welfare and dispensing advice. Sherlock sent him exactly one letter in return, in which he called Mycroft obnoxious and smothering and told him in no uncertain terms to leave him alone. Mycroft didn't comply with his demand.
Mycroft's umbrella stood in the umbrella stand, as unmistakable as a calling card. Sherlock gave a moment's thought to sneaking out and avoiding his flat for the next day or so, only to dismiss the notion. It had been three months since he'd last seen his brother; while a certain amount of melodramatic petulance was expected, a too great degree of it would either make Mycroft overly suspicious or would prompt him to take even more extreme measures than simply stopping by for a (hopefully brief) chat.
Better to hear Mycroft out--or to pretend to hear him out while mentally engaged elsewhere--and then be able to avoid him with impunity for the next several months.
Sherlock drew a slow, inaudible breath, let it out, and opened his door.
Mycroft looked up from his eminently proper yet comfortable attitude on the couch and smiled at him. Sherlock closed the door with some force and sat in the chair opposite, sneering faintly. Mycroft's weight gain seemed to be slowing--in the three months since Sherlock had last seen him, he'd put on only half a stone--but it was hardly the reversal that Sherlock might have hoped for.
He focused on Mycroft's eyes, as sharp as ever. Mycroft looked faintly amused; Sherlock was certain that he cultivated that particular expression in order to appear aloof and superior and thus to place others at a disadvantage.
"I'm busy," he said in lieu of a hello. "What do you want?"
"Must I want anything beyond the wish to see you more than once a year at Christmas?" Mycroft asked. "You know how I worry about you, even with dear Dr. Watson around to help ensure your safety. You look a trifle peaky. Are you sleeping well? Eating enough?"
Mycroft was perfectly sincere--he was always sincere when the topic was Sherlock's health--yet Sherlock found himself bridling under his concern as though it were the basest insult. It made him incautious. "You seem to be eating well enough for both of us," he said viciously. "Soon you'll be too fat to leave your house comfortably. I don't imagine that that would be very conducive to your plans for world domination."
"Nonsense," Mycroft said. "Even if I were interested in such a thing--which I am not--one could quite easily rule the world over the phone and internet." Sherlock opened his mouth for a retort, when Mycroft added, "Besides, you needn't pretend to dislike it," a wealth of surety in his voice, and Sherlock's stomach iced over.
"Wishful thinking, Mycroft? Because you've decided to embrace your grosser nature, you suppose that everyone's as enamored of it as you seem to be?"
It was a last ditch effort, and Sherlock wasn't surprised that it didn't work. Mycroft's inconvenient perceptiveness had already failed him for twenty years (twelve if one only counted the years in which Sherlock had been self-aware, which he didn't necessarily; Mycroft had more than once known Sherlock's thoughts before Sherlock did). Sherlock had expected him to discern the truth for a very long time now.
What was surprising was that Mycroft's expression--which Sherlock could read as he could read few others'--wasn't disgusted or angry or even pitying. It was accepting.
"My dear boy," Mycroft said, smiling gently. "Surely you must understand that I don't mind."
Sherlock's brain, that admirable machine that almost never failed him and even more rarely disappointed him, ground to a metaphorical halt.
His lapse only lasted three or four seconds, but that was disconcerting enough. More than that, it was a sufficient length of time for Mycroft to notice the discomposure his comment had caused.
Mycroft's fiercely intelligent eyes catalogued his reaction, and then Mycroft rose to his feet, as agile as ever. He crossed the room to Sherlock's chair and bent slowly enough to telegraph his intentions to someone far stupider than Sherlock. The kiss might have looked fraternal to an outside observer; Sherlock, who'd never before felt his brother's mouth touch his, knew for certain that it wasn't.
Mycroft drew back and raised an inquiring eyebrow at him.
Sherlock said, "Yes."
"My car is--"
"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Here will do."
Mycroft frowned slightly, but didn't refuse outright. "John?" he asked delicately.
"At the clinic all evening," which Mycroft almost certainly knew, "at his girlfriend's afterwards," which he might not, "and wouldn't care in any case." Sherlock warmed a little to say the last part; John's intense pragmatism had become an obscure source of pride for him.
Mycroft did him the courtesy of not questioning that assessment. He nodded and said, "In that case, allow me to send my driver home for the evening." He drew out his phone and tapped out a quick text message; Sherlock didn't bother trying to read it.
Instead, he headed towards his bedroom, trusting Mycroft to follow once he'd finished setting his affairs--and likely the nation's, as well--in order. He could feel his heart thumping heavily in his veins. It was close to nine years since he'd last had sex with anyone; the fact that he was about to sleep with Mycroft was almost less unexpected than the fact that he was about to sleep with anyone at all.
If he were more given to flights of fancy...or more prone to using drugs...he might wonder if this were really happening. As it was, he sat on his unmade bed and removed his shoes and socks.
Mycroft tapped on the open door once before entering. He closed and locked it behind him, then joined Sherlock in stripping off his clothes.
Sherlock, relieved, began to unbutton his own shirt. He'd had lovers who'd insisted on taking that chore for themselves and who'd expected Sherlock to return the favor, imbuing the act with a significance that Sherlock couldn't and didn't want to understand. If the point of sex was touching someone and being touched in return, then it only made sense to get naked as quickly and efficiently as possible. Sherlock didn't want to waste any time fumbling with Mycroft's clothing that could be better spent--Mycroft stepped out of his trousers and pants and drew Sherlock into a full-body embrace, and Sherlock shivered with pleasure--touching Mycroft skin to skin, just like this.
Mycroft's broad hands were warm and solid on Sherlock's hips; Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, his hands raising almost of their own accord to stroke the soft skin of Mycroft's sides.
No one could mistake this kiss for anything but what it was: soft and slow and wet and passionate. Sherlock licked the lingering taste of mint from Mycroft's mouth, drew his tongue down the length of his soft palate before tangling briefly with Mycroft's tongue. His body was becoming cold everywhere it wasn't pressed against Mycroft; soon they'd have to break apart to get under the covers, but not yet, not yet.
Six minutes later, Mycroft pulled away to brush an affectionate kiss against Sherlock's cheek. "What do you want?" he asked, and Sherlock's imagination darted from one option to the next. Still, there was one that he wanted most, and he said, his voice thick:
"Fuck me."
"All right," Mycroft said, without hesitation. He let go of Sherlock and leaned down to pick up his suit jacket, which he'd uncharacteristically dropped on the floor earlier, and took a tube of lubricant from the front pocket.
Sherlock took the opportunity to slide under the rumpled duvet, shivering slightly at the touch of the cold sheets.
Mycroft tossed the lube onto the bed beside him. "I have condoms, as well, if you'd like me to use one," he offered. Sherlock immediately shook his head. There was no one in the world more jealously careful of Sherlock's well-being than Mycroft; the very fact that he considered barebacking an option meant that there was nothing to fear from his end. As for Sherlock, he knew himself to be clean, and additionally knew that Mycroft must be as up-to-date on his medical history as Sherlock himself was, if not more so.
"All right," Mycroft said again and joined him in the bed. Sherlock curled into him immediately, soaking up the delicious warmth from Mycroft's skin, even as he grabbed the lube and uncapped it. "Here," Mycroft invited, holding his hand out, and Sherlock passed it over.
Mycroft lifted Sherlock's right leg and hooked it over his hip, so that Sherlock was spread open for him. Their erections rubbed together--Sherlock could feel the wetness at the tip of Mycroft's cock smear across his own stomach, while his cock rubbed wetly against Mycroft in turn. It would be too easy to arch into that sweet pressure, but that wasn't what either of them wanted.
Sherlock slid his right hand down Mycroft's broad back to grope his arse, round and soft and perfect in his hand. Sometime in the future, he'd have to take the opportunity to fuck Mycroft; just the thought of sliding his cock into the warm, damp crevasse that his fingertips were currently exploring made his breath catch and his cock twitch.
And then there was a wet finger circling his own arsehole and pressing slowly yet inexorably inside, and Sherlock briefly stopped thinking at all.
The soft touch of Mycroft's mouth against his own brought him back to himself, and he parted his lips to kiss him back properly. He stroked his hand along Mycroft's spine, so much smoother than Sherlock's own bony vertebrae, then back to Mycroft's arse to squeeze the soft flesh there and knead it with his fingers.
The finger in his own arse was joined by another, the two of the sparking off Sherlock's nerve endings as Mycroft stroked them in and out, his thumb rubbing in gentle counterpoint against Sherlock's perineum.
Sherlock's stomach and cock were both tight with desire, and when Mycroft finally slipped his fingers out of his arse and eased him over onto his stomach, Sherlock went with alacrity.
There was the clicking sound of the lube being uncapped again, and then Mycroft's cock nudged against Sherlock's arse, smooth and slippery. Sherlock held himself still with some effort as Mycroft placed a steadying hand on his left hip and used the right to guide his erection to the right place and angle for penetration; Sherlock could feel the press of his hand, the brush of his fingers as he found the best position and thrust slowly inside.
It was absurd to think that Mycroft's body size had any bearing upon the thickness of his cock, yet Sherlock couldn't prevent his mind from making the association, as Mycroft fucked into him in gorgeous bursts of pleasure-pain and his soft, heavy body blanketed Sherlock, pressing his aching cock into the mattress with the perfect weight.
It was literally being surrounded by pleasure, the strokes of Mycroft's cock inside him--now coming easier and easier as Sherlock's body adjusted to his girth--and the beautifully inescapable touch of Mycroft's skin all along his own. Sherlock closed his eyes to feel it better, almost unconscious of the quiet moans and gasps Mycroft was drawing from him until the whole wealth of sensation crescendoed into a pulse of pleasure and release that somehow managed to relax him even further.
Sherlock drifted languorously, feeling Mycroft's continuing touch with a sort of lazy contentment of which he'd considered himself constitutionally incapable. Mycroft was becoming vocal now, as well, or perhaps he had been all along and Sherlock had been too blissful to notice. A minute or two later, Mycroft made a desperate noise (of which Sherlock might have considered him constitutionally incapable) and came, shaking, pulling out of Sherlock so that he could collapse beside him.
With his usual relentless focus, Mycroft barely let himself relax for twenty seconds before he was back at work, nudging Sherlock into rolling out of the wet spot and wiping them down with a blanket and rearranging the covers around them. When the two of them were dry and marginally clean, Sherlock opened his mouth, only for Mycroft to anticipate him.
"Shh," he said before Sherlock could say anything. "We'll talk about it in the morning." He slung one heavy arm over Sherlock's waist, his leg across both of Sherlock's, and held him close.
And Sherlock, pinned by that warm, comforting weight, found it for once no hardship to hold back a caustic rejoinder, close his eyes, and fall asleep.
Recipient: brighteyed_jill
Author: jain
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: fat-phobic language
Summary: Sherlock deals very badly with his desires. Mycroft understands him anyway.
Even after two years' friendship, John was frequently astonished by the speed at which Sherlock hurtled through life. Tuesday, Lestrade asked Sherlock to assist him on an apparent murder-suicide; Wednesday morning, Sherlock disappeared for a stretch of hours to pursue one of his theories; and by Wednesday evening, John and Sherlock were running the dead couple's neighbor to ground.
There was a tricky bit at the end when their suspect tried to drown Sherlock in the Thames and came far too close to success for John's comfort. But Sherlock was still alive, and the suspect (now upgraded to culprit in John's mind, at least, if not the British legal system's) was in police custody, and John had just begun to consider whether he'd prefer a nice curry or simply to go home and sleep for ten hours.
Before he'd made up his mind, a posh car glided up beside them and a door opened in invitation.
"Go away," Sherlock said querulously, his post-case high--attempts on his life notwithstanding--temporarily placed on hold. "I'm soaked through and will only ruin your upholstery, and we all know how much the government dislikes wasting money on its minor officials."
"This will take just a minute or two of your time," Mycroft's disembodied voice answered from the car's depths.
"Could it take as long as the ride to our flat?" John asked, since he wasn't particularly keen on the idea of trying to persuade a cabbie to take their custom when they were dripping unclean river water everywhere.
"Yes, certainly," Mycroft said, his voice tinged faintly with amusement.
Not needing any further invitation, John said, "All right, then," and slid onto the back seat.
Mycroft nodded genially at him from the opposite seat. John, feeling just a little too tired and cold and miserable to grin back at him as he might otherwise have done, managed a nod in response.
A moment later, Sherlock climbed into the car without further comment. He seemed to take particular pleasure in setting his sodden coat onto the seat beside him.
John rolled his eyes inwardly at the childish display, leaned his head back against the seat, and dozed determinedly. Sherlock would no doubt later recount his and Mycroft's entire conversation at length, several times, and at a considerable volume, so John didn't even have the excuse of his curiosity to keep him awake.
Sherlock didn't bother to wake him when they turned onto Baker Street, but John's body had learned the feel of the street over the course of two years' worth of cab rides, and he blinked his eyes open just as they reached number 221. He yawned once, poised on the edge between exhaustion and hyper-alertness that had become his default waking state whenever he slept anywhere other than his bed. Bart's and Afghanistan had trained him well.
Sherlock and Mycroft were both silent: Mycroft looked blandly disinterested, while Sherlock was fuming. So...business as usual, then.
"Thanks for the ride," John said.
Mycroft nodded at him; Sherlock snorted and climbed out of the car, John following him.
"He's put on at least a stone," Sherlock said as they were walking away, not quietly.
"I'd noticed that," John agreed. Mycroft's suit fit him as perfectly as ever--not that that was a surprise; Mycroft undoubtedly had enough money for a dozen wardrobes--but he filled it out more than the previous times John had seen him. It had put John in mind of a sleek, well-fed cat...not that he was planning on sharing that notion with Sherlock.
"Disgusting, isn't it?" Sherlock said.
John blinked. "I wouldn't say disgusting, no." They'd reached the front door by this time; John sincerely hoped that Mycroft wasn't sitting at the curb listening in on this conversation. He didn't turn around to check whether or not Mycroft was.
"John," Sherlock said in betrayed tones. "He's fat."
"Yeah, a bit," John agreed. "So? It rather suits him, I think."
"Are you even allowed to say that? You are a medical doctor."
John snorted. "I'm happy to check your brother's blood pressure and cholesterol levels the next time I see him, if that would make you feel better, though I'm sure he has his own private physician to do that for him."
"It's not healthy," Sherlock said stubbornly.
"This from the man who often wears multiple nicotine patches when he's not indulging his smoking habit, who refuses to eat or sleep for days on end, and who recently was addicted to cocaine. Frankly, I think your brother could gain three stone and still be of sounder health than you."
"Mycroft has an irregular sleep schedule, as well," Sherlock said in a petulant voice.
"Cocaine," John stressed.
Sherlock looked more than prepared to continue the argument, but they'd reached the second floor by then, and John--his previous flirtation with the idea of a curry firmly shelved--wanted only a hot shower and to collapse on his bed under a small mountain of duvets.
"I'm going to bed," he said firmly. "Unless you develop a life-threatening illness over night--" not a complete impossibility, given the quantity of river water Sherlock had swallowed "--I don't want to see your face again until tomorrow afternoon, or I swear you'll be hunting for a new flatmate. Good night."
Sherlock gave him a sour look but didn't reply. The wail of his violin just as John settled, warm and clean, into his bed was not entirely unexpected, but neither was it sufficient to prevent John from falling into an easy and dreamless sleep.
The first memory Sherlock had was of Mycroft sharing his pudding with him. Sherlock was being punished for something--perhaps even deservedly; he couldn't recall his crime any longer--and the sense of injustice and his own childish helplessness nearly choked him. He didn't care about the pudding per se, but the fact that his portion could be denied to him simply because he was young and his parents were old was galling. He could taste bitter tears clogging his throat and coating his tongue, in counterpoint to the sweet and creamy taste of the trifle that Mycroft had spooned out for him from his own bowl. He didn't thank Mycroft, or even acknowledge him in any way, yet Mycroft smiled fondly at him as Sherlock attacked his share of the pudding with self-centered determination, as though everything would be all right once this minor victory over his parents was gained.
When they were older, Mycroft expanded his sphere of influence to protect Sherlock from the various children (neighborhood boys, fellow students, etc.) who offered to bash Sherlock's head in for him on a regular basis. At the time, it seemed only sensible that Mycroft, so much taller and bigger than he was, could stand between Sherlock and his enemies. It was only years later that Sherlock realized that Mycroft was neither strong nor a practiced fighter; that, in fact, as a fat, bookish child, he must've been as much a target for childhood violence as Sherlock. The only possible explanation was that Mycroft's talent for leveraging secrets had begun when he was eight or nine years old. Sherlock hadn't been the least surprised by this realization.
When Sherlock was twelve, Mycroft went away to university. He sent regular letters home asking about Sherlock's welfare and dispensing advice. Sherlock sent him exactly one letter in return, in which he called Mycroft obnoxious and smothering and told him in no uncertain terms to leave him alone. Mycroft didn't comply with his demand.
Mycroft's umbrella stood in the umbrella stand, as unmistakable as a calling card. Sherlock gave a moment's thought to sneaking out and avoiding his flat for the next day or so, only to dismiss the notion. It had been three months since he'd last seen his brother; while a certain amount of melodramatic petulance was expected, a too great degree of it would either make Mycroft overly suspicious or would prompt him to take even more extreme measures than simply stopping by for a (hopefully brief) chat.
Better to hear Mycroft out--or to pretend to hear him out while mentally engaged elsewhere--and then be able to avoid him with impunity for the next several months.
Sherlock drew a slow, inaudible breath, let it out, and opened his door.
Mycroft looked up from his eminently proper yet comfortable attitude on the couch and smiled at him. Sherlock closed the door with some force and sat in the chair opposite, sneering faintly. Mycroft's weight gain seemed to be slowing--in the three months since Sherlock had last seen him, he'd put on only half a stone--but it was hardly the reversal that Sherlock might have hoped for.
He focused on Mycroft's eyes, as sharp as ever. Mycroft looked faintly amused; Sherlock was certain that he cultivated that particular expression in order to appear aloof and superior and thus to place others at a disadvantage.
"I'm busy," he said in lieu of a hello. "What do you want?"
"Must I want anything beyond the wish to see you more than once a year at Christmas?" Mycroft asked. "You know how I worry about you, even with dear Dr. Watson around to help ensure your safety. You look a trifle peaky. Are you sleeping well? Eating enough?"
Mycroft was perfectly sincere--he was always sincere when the topic was Sherlock's health--yet Sherlock found himself bridling under his concern as though it were the basest insult. It made him incautious. "You seem to be eating well enough for both of us," he said viciously. "Soon you'll be too fat to leave your house comfortably. I don't imagine that that would be very conducive to your plans for world domination."
"Nonsense," Mycroft said. "Even if I were interested in such a thing--which I am not--one could quite easily rule the world over the phone and internet." Sherlock opened his mouth for a retort, when Mycroft added, "Besides, you needn't pretend to dislike it," a wealth of surety in his voice, and Sherlock's stomach iced over.
"Wishful thinking, Mycroft? Because you've decided to embrace your grosser nature, you suppose that everyone's as enamored of it as you seem to be?"
It was a last ditch effort, and Sherlock wasn't surprised that it didn't work. Mycroft's inconvenient perceptiveness had already failed him for twenty years (twelve if one only counted the years in which Sherlock had been self-aware, which he didn't necessarily; Mycroft had more than once known Sherlock's thoughts before Sherlock did). Sherlock had expected him to discern the truth for a very long time now.
What was surprising was that Mycroft's expression--which Sherlock could read as he could read few others'--wasn't disgusted or angry or even pitying. It was accepting.
"My dear boy," Mycroft said, smiling gently. "Surely you must understand that I don't mind."
Sherlock's brain, that admirable machine that almost never failed him and even more rarely disappointed him, ground to a metaphorical halt.
His lapse only lasted three or four seconds, but that was disconcerting enough. More than that, it was a sufficient length of time for Mycroft to notice the discomposure his comment had caused.
Mycroft's fiercely intelligent eyes catalogued his reaction, and then Mycroft rose to his feet, as agile as ever. He crossed the room to Sherlock's chair and bent slowly enough to telegraph his intentions to someone far stupider than Sherlock. The kiss might have looked fraternal to an outside observer; Sherlock, who'd never before felt his brother's mouth touch his, knew for certain that it wasn't.
Mycroft drew back and raised an inquiring eyebrow at him.
Sherlock said, "Yes."
"My car is--"
"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Here will do."
Mycroft frowned slightly, but didn't refuse outright. "John?" he asked delicately.
"At the clinic all evening," which Mycroft almost certainly knew, "at his girlfriend's afterwards," which he might not, "and wouldn't care in any case." Sherlock warmed a little to say the last part; John's intense pragmatism had become an obscure source of pride for him.
Mycroft did him the courtesy of not questioning that assessment. He nodded and said, "In that case, allow me to send my driver home for the evening." He drew out his phone and tapped out a quick text message; Sherlock didn't bother trying to read it.
Instead, he headed towards his bedroom, trusting Mycroft to follow once he'd finished setting his affairs--and likely the nation's, as well--in order. He could feel his heart thumping heavily in his veins. It was close to nine years since he'd last had sex with anyone; the fact that he was about to sleep with Mycroft was almost less unexpected than the fact that he was about to sleep with anyone at all.
If he were more given to flights of fancy...or more prone to using drugs...he might wonder if this were really happening. As it was, he sat on his unmade bed and removed his shoes and socks.
Mycroft tapped on the open door once before entering. He closed and locked it behind him, then joined Sherlock in stripping off his clothes.
Sherlock, relieved, began to unbutton his own shirt. He'd had lovers who'd insisted on taking that chore for themselves and who'd expected Sherlock to return the favor, imbuing the act with a significance that Sherlock couldn't and didn't want to understand. If the point of sex was touching someone and being touched in return, then it only made sense to get naked as quickly and efficiently as possible. Sherlock didn't want to waste any time fumbling with Mycroft's clothing that could be better spent--Mycroft stepped out of his trousers and pants and drew Sherlock into a full-body embrace, and Sherlock shivered with pleasure--touching Mycroft skin to skin, just like this.
Mycroft's broad hands were warm and solid on Sherlock's hips; Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, his hands raising almost of their own accord to stroke the soft skin of Mycroft's sides.
No one could mistake this kiss for anything but what it was: soft and slow and wet and passionate. Sherlock licked the lingering taste of mint from Mycroft's mouth, drew his tongue down the length of his soft palate before tangling briefly with Mycroft's tongue. His body was becoming cold everywhere it wasn't pressed against Mycroft; soon they'd have to break apart to get under the covers, but not yet, not yet.
Six minutes later, Mycroft pulled away to brush an affectionate kiss against Sherlock's cheek. "What do you want?" he asked, and Sherlock's imagination darted from one option to the next. Still, there was one that he wanted most, and he said, his voice thick:
"Fuck me."
"All right," Mycroft said, without hesitation. He let go of Sherlock and leaned down to pick up his suit jacket, which he'd uncharacteristically dropped on the floor earlier, and took a tube of lubricant from the front pocket.
Sherlock took the opportunity to slide under the rumpled duvet, shivering slightly at the touch of the cold sheets.
Mycroft tossed the lube onto the bed beside him. "I have condoms, as well, if you'd like me to use one," he offered. Sherlock immediately shook his head. There was no one in the world more jealously careful of Sherlock's well-being than Mycroft; the very fact that he considered barebacking an option meant that there was nothing to fear from his end. As for Sherlock, he knew himself to be clean, and additionally knew that Mycroft must be as up-to-date on his medical history as Sherlock himself was, if not more so.
"All right," Mycroft said again and joined him in the bed. Sherlock curled into him immediately, soaking up the delicious warmth from Mycroft's skin, even as he grabbed the lube and uncapped it. "Here," Mycroft invited, holding his hand out, and Sherlock passed it over.
Mycroft lifted Sherlock's right leg and hooked it over his hip, so that Sherlock was spread open for him. Their erections rubbed together--Sherlock could feel the wetness at the tip of Mycroft's cock smear across his own stomach, while his cock rubbed wetly against Mycroft in turn. It would be too easy to arch into that sweet pressure, but that wasn't what either of them wanted.
Sherlock slid his right hand down Mycroft's broad back to grope his arse, round and soft and perfect in his hand. Sometime in the future, he'd have to take the opportunity to fuck Mycroft; just the thought of sliding his cock into the warm, damp crevasse that his fingertips were currently exploring made his breath catch and his cock twitch.
And then there was a wet finger circling his own arsehole and pressing slowly yet inexorably inside, and Sherlock briefly stopped thinking at all.
The soft touch of Mycroft's mouth against his own brought him back to himself, and he parted his lips to kiss him back properly. He stroked his hand along Mycroft's spine, so much smoother than Sherlock's own bony vertebrae, then back to Mycroft's arse to squeeze the soft flesh there and knead it with his fingers.
The finger in his own arse was joined by another, the two of the sparking off Sherlock's nerve endings as Mycroft stroked them in and out, his thumb rubbing in gentle counterpoint against Sherlock's perineum.
Sherlock's stomach and cock were both tight with desire, and when Mycroft finally slipped his fingers out of his arse and eased him over onto his stomach, Sherlock went with alacrity.
There was the clicking sound of the lube being uncapped again, and then Mycroft's cock nudged against Sherlock's arse, smooth and slippery. Sherlock held himself still with some effort as Mycroft placed a steadying hand on his left hip and used the right to guide his erection to the right place and angle for penetration; Sherlock could feel the press of his hand, the brush of his fingers as he found the best position and thrust slowly inside.
It was absurd to think that Mycroft's body size had any bearing upon the thickness of his cock, yet Sherlock couldn't prevent his mind from making the association, as Mycroft fucked into him in gorgeous bursts of pleasure-pain and his soft, heavy body blanketed Sherlock, pressing his aching cock into the mattress with the perfect weight.
It was literally being surrounded by pleasure, the strokes of Mycroft's cock inside him--now coming easier and easier as Sherlock's body adjusted to his girth--and the beautifully inescapable touch of Mycroft's skin all along his own. Sherlock closed his eyes to feel it better, almost unconscious of the quiet moans and gasps Mycroft was drawing from him until the whole wealth of sensation crescendoed into a pulse of pleasure and release that somehow managed to relax him even further.
Sherlock drifted languorously, feeling Mycroft's continuing touch with a sort of lazy contentment of which he'd considered himself constitutionally incapable. Mycroft was becoming vocal now, as well, or perhaps he had been all along and Sherlock had been too blissful to notice. A minute or two later, Mycroft made a desperate noise (of which Sherlock might have considered him constitutionally incapable) and came, shaking, pulling out of Sherlock so that he could collapse beside him.
With his usual relentless focus, Mycroft barely let himself relax for twenty seconds before he was back at work, nudging Sherlock into rolling out of the wet spot and wiping them down with a blanket and rearranging the covers around them. When the two of them were dry and marginally clean, Sherlock opened his mouth, only for Mycroft to anticipate him.
"Shh," he said before Sherlock could say anything. "We'll talk about it in the morning." He slung one heavy arm over Sherlock's waist, his leg across both of Sherlock's, and held him close.
And Sherlock, pinned by that warm, comforting weight, found it for once no hardship to hold back a caustic rejoinder, close his eyes, and fall asleep.