Sherlock Holmes - From Age to Youth
Title: From Age to Youth
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Watson/Mycroft, Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sincerest apologies to everyone involved.
Summary: In his youth, Watson knew a very clever man who took much more than a passing interest in him. Later, he met another. No points for guessing who they were, and why this might be a problem.
Spoilers: None, unless this actually happens in the second film, which I think unlikely.
Warnings: Semi-graphic sex. Voyeurism on one half of a pair while the other half is related to you.
Word Count: 3500. Exactly.
Author's Notes: The fault of holmeswatson09. I did say I'd write this, and now I have. (Shut it, you 'ship '09!Watson/'11!Mycroft too, or you haven't seen Wilde [character/actor separation? What's that?]). With thanks to beeinmybonnet for assurances that I am indeed crazy, and that I should keep it up.
London was an incredibly exciting place for John Watson. He had started at university, his roommate was incredibly amicable, and the place was full of new things to see and do, and all sorts of different people.
One person in particular stuck out. Partly because he was very tall indeed, but it had more to do with the fact that besides filling a room with his presence, he was wonderfully soft-spoken and brilliant. A young John Watson couldn't imagine why this older, cleverer and clearly more sophisticated man would take any interest in him, but there he was, inviting him to lunch on a regular basis and teaching him all sorts of things he'd never had the opportunity to do in school before.
It was an amazing feeling, sitting beside Mycroft Holmes at the opera and having him whisper the story in your ear. Sitting in his elaborately decorated rooms and sipping brandy older than himself was another amazing feeling, and perhaps a little dizzy as well.
Not that he'd had a lot of practise himself, but he suspected that Mycroft was an incredibly competent kisser. It felt nice, anyway, and not as wrong as he'd expected it to. The rest of him obviously didn't think there was anything wrong with it, either. It seemed to be a very short trip from first kiss to bedroom to what a young Watson could only consider to be something close to heathen worship of his body, and an incredibly pleasurable sort at that.
He enjoyed Mycroft Holmes' company in this manner until he finished his degree, the only person who ever knew being his roommate, sworn to secrecy about it and Watson was fairly sure he'd keep it, in exchange for the secret of the childhood friend who was clearly Stamford's own lover, and had been for rather a long time. The excited report on their first time together when it had happened helped to tip Watson off to that, but he'd promised to keep it quiet once the excitable man realised what he'd said.
So Watson went off to fight for Queen and country, secure in the knowledge that he was a confident lover; of both genders, since Mycroft had insisted that a young man should know as much as he possibly could, and that his dear John had a talent for physical matters, and therefore should be encouraged to experiment and grow. Watson didn't mind, but he much preferred being the sole focus of Mycroft's attention wherever possible. The older man argued that it was much easier to focus on him from a distance of three feet than a distance of a scant inch, and he was probably not entirely wrong. He knew, then, that he was worthy of some tender attention, and went off to seek adventure like any other young man with no ties might.
Adventure, however, found him rather more quickly and violently than he had first expected, and left him a shadow of his former self. London was still as it had ever been, filled with old, comfortable memories of decadence and fantasy.
And love, Watson had finally decided. He had loved Mycroft, perhaps not in the passionate, romantic, sonnets-and-roses sense, but they had had a comfortable sort of love nonetheless, and that was worth something to him.
He considered looking Mycroft up; no doubt he could still be found haunting the Diogenes Club and upsetting the Prime Minister on a weekly basis; but that was a part of the old, or rather the young John Watson. The new; or rather, wiser, because he still wasn't old, despite appearances; John Watson was a man who would have to stand on his own two feet.
Two feet which were apparently determined to get him stuck soundly in debt and drunken stupors. Running into an older, wiser Stamford who had grown up to be a wonderfully sensible, balanced man was the only stroke of luck he had been afforded since his return. Still, he was grateful for the friendly face and the distinctly non-judgemental attitude the other man took toward the situation that must have been written all over his face. Years later, he would write that he'd mentioned the difficulty in finding rooms on a pension. In truth, Stamford had begged him to consider moving in with what he now realised was meant to be a stabilising influence.
If a man like Sherlock Holmes was the stabilising influence in your life, you were in serious trouble. But it had worked (and God bless Stamford and his odd little mix of horror and infatuation with Holmes), and it was nice to feel alive again.
Watson found quickly that the influence of a second older (but not as much older; if there were 18 months between him and his new friend, that would be the height of it, he thought; he never dared ask, though) man in his life had much the same effect on him as the first had. Holmes would sit with him, and whilst he had out-aged the brandy now, it was just as pleasant to sip it by the fire with his friend. Having operas explained to him hadn't lost it's sheen, either.
Holmes was a shyer man than Mycroft (interesting that they shared a last name and a magnificent, unfathomable intelligence, but then Watson supposed there were plenty of clever men with old surnames). At first, Watson had thought that there was simply no attraction between them; or rather, that it only came from him, and his was only because of the quiet, unaffected way Holmes had rescued him from himself. But the touch of a delicate hand against his thigh while the tale of Don Giovanni was being explained to him, the fact that they had, somehow, moved from sitting in separate armchairs to sitting too close together on the settee.
Eventually, a hesitant, nervous kiss (though not completely without skill, Watson noted) confirmed Watson's suspicions, and after that he was happy to fall body and soul for the man who had become his best friend. He remembered this kind of love well, the kind that feels rather like an old dressing gown even when it's new. The kind that does away with awkward mornings and embarrassing moments, and is filled with arguments that never mean anything.
And Holmes, like the last person Watson had loved, got away with a lot because of it. But they were happy and comfortable enough for over a year before the other man bothered to mention that he had a brother, and he'd very much like for Watson to meet him. Surprise family was not something he'd encountered before, nor could he quite agree that taking your male lover to meet your family was a wise course of action, but then he'd always imagined the Holmes family to be a little odd in their ways.
One thing he truly, honestly hadn't expected was to have Mycroft Holmes walk into the sitting room at Baker Street and greet his younger brother warmly. Before being introduced to his younger brother's flatmate as though he'd never met him before. And without flinching at all. Bastard.
If Holmes hadn't been called out on a case at that moment, Watson might well have done himself some internal injury trying to hold back the torrent of confusion, anger and embarrassment that was welling up inside him, threatening to lead him to an early death by any one of a dozen causes.
Mycroft remained as calmly civil as he had ever been while Watson shouted at him. He even tactfully failed to point out that it wasn't his fault that Watson had failed to do his research, and really, wasn't the family resemblance enough to tip him off?
The agreement that the younger Holmes could never be allowed to know was reached after some debate. Mycroft smiled a kind, knowing little smile that Watson was sure meant he realised that this was not the largely casual affair of his youth, something quite a different animal indeed.
Holmes returned shortly, and it was just as Mycroft was making his excuses that he spoke up to mention that he knew exactly what had gone on between them, and would be much obliged if they didn't treat him like an idiot. He also apologised for keeping them apart for so long, but wished them every happiness in the future, and could Mycroft avoid moving Watson out before he'd found himself a suitable new flatmate?
It took a moment for a very embarrassed, very sorry John Watson to realise what was going on in his best friend's mind. Explaining to a suddenly very young-looking Holmes that he had no intention of running away with his brother was perhaps the most surreal moment of his life so far, but when comprehension dawned on the normally-astute man, the way he lit up might have been one of the happiest moments.
Watson wasn't quite sure how he'd missed the part of this conversation that included 'I don't really mind sharing you with Mycroft when I'm on a case', but he apparently had, because the next time Holmes disappeared for a few days, he found himself being sent for by the older brother and treated rather as he had been in his youth, although given the benefit of the doubt that he'd had enough in the way of experience to last him a lifetime. Mycroft, he was amused enough to discover, hadn't changed a bit, besides a few grey hairs at his temples that secretly, Watson rather liked, but he'd never say it. He knew that Mycroft knew, anyway.
This arrangement continued to work out rather nicely, apparently without any jealousy from either brother; Watson was normally Holmes', and Mycroft borrowed him on occasion. All without having consulted him first, but he could hardly complain at being surrounded by attentive, attractive, intelligent lovers. Well, mostly-attentive in one case, but that was rather the point of having two, wasn't it?
It occurred to him, as he re-invented the story of their first meeting for his stories, that the arrangement was sufficiently unusual as to be very nearly unique; although knowing the habits of the upper classes from what he's glimpsed of them, he wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't at all.
That, he supposed, was the story of how he'd ended up in the really very nice bedroom in Mycroft's rooms, being undressed by Holmes while the older brother watched.
“Don't look at me like that, John. You know I'd rather see you from here, and this way I can pretend that not only was I once considerably fitter, but that I had the good sense to adore you as an equal when we were both younger.” Mycroft instructed from where he had been directing the proceedings by the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth and looking so much like his younger brother that Watson could have kicked himself for not recognising Holmes straight away.
The younger brother blushed prettily, and concentrated very deliberately on Watson's shirt buttons. Watson thought it might be best if he came to Holmes' rescue here.
“No offence intended, but I'm enjoying the hands-on attention.”
“I am certain you are, which is why it gives me such joy to see it. Surely you can understand this, dearest John?” Mycroft smiled slowly, and Watson was again reminded that there was no point in trying to bait him, because he was always six steps ahead of you. Thankfully, Holmes chose that moment to finish getting his shirt off, and in a surge of impatience tore Watson's undershirt over his head almost before he could get his arms up. “You've gone very quiet, Sherlock. Does he often do this?”
“Yes, yes he does, I only have sex with him to shut him up, really.” Watson grinned and kissed Holmes' forehead to show that he was only joking.
“I've gone quiet, Mycroft, because not only are you doing enough talking for all three of us, but there are some things that should be savoured in silence.” Holmes chose to illustrate his point by kissing Watson's throat, effectively shutting him up as well. Mycroft smirked in a way that made it quite clear who was in charge, here.
“He's playing you.” Watson laughed softly and arched his neck to allow Holmes better access.
“What makes you think,” Holmes unbuttoned the first of the fastenings of Watson's fly, “that I'm not playing both of you?”
Mycroft chuckled from his place near the fire, “of course you are, my darling brother. Take your doctor to the bed like a good boy, now.”
Holmes stopped to glare at his sibling as he took Watson's hand. “I am only doing this because I already intended to, and you know I intended to, and you are simply trying to make me look like an idiot.”
“I don't think you're an idiot.” Watson offered quietly, and whilst it seemed he was being ignored, he knew the sentiment had gotten through when Holmes tugged on his hand again and drew him towards a bed big enough for five or six people to sleep quite comfortably on. Where Holmes was a creature of utility, Mycroft was definitely one of luxury.
Watson sat on the side of the bed in open trousers long enough for Holmes to undress completely and take a place behind him. For all his talk of being all right, there was certainly a flicker of insecurity in what he was about to do in front of his brother. He wondered if such nearly-flawless acting ability ran in the family, or if Mycroft was truly capable of the aloof detachment he seemed to be enjoying in relation to watching his brother take a former lover to bed.
Once he felt the soft touch of lips at the back of his neck, Watson wriggled out of his trousers and drawers, and moved to lay sideways on the bed as Holmes guided him, the position effectively shielding his friend's body from Mycroft's view, and putting him completely on display. He should have known that Holmes would have a clever solution to his own embarrassment. A long, pale arm reached over him for the small pot of Vaseline that was sitting innocuously on the side-table.
Shifting to make life as easy as possible to make life easy for Holmes while still affording him the shield of his larger form, Watson sought to distract both himself and Mycroft from what Holmes was actually doing in another fashion. “I see more differences than similarities between you, you know.” He began casually.
Mycroft lit up a little, possibly completely aware of the game and willing to play along, possibly not concerned that Watson was going to do anything unpleasant to him and therefore not thinking about it at all, beyond the opportunity to indulge in the gossip and ego-stroking both of the brothers seemed to revel in.
“Indeed. Holmes - Sherlock, rather - is a patently small man, where you are certainly not. And whilst there is some resemblance in the facial features, you could easily be cousins rather than brothers.”
“Interesting, John. But that isn't what you intended to remark on, is it?” He knew the game, then, but was happy to play it.
“No, you're right,” Watson's breath hitched as Holmes twisted the fingers inside him rather deliberately, “you're both very clever, but as much as he likes to pretend he's as detached as you, he's not, is he? Or maybe you aren't as detached as you make yourself seem, and I've just never gotten close enough to you to find out.”
“Both valid possibilities. I should like to point out, doctor, that your own detachment is apparently very impressive indeed. Shouldn't you be mewling with need by now?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“I'm proud to say that not only has my self-control improved since I-” another hitched breath, and a very, very quiet giggle that Holmes would never admit to, “since I was at university, but there is a great deal of skill being employed to ensure I won't feel much at all until he's ready.”
'Until he's ready' turned out to be 'right now', and Watson cut off with a silent cry as Holmes seated himself inside him in one swift movement. A hand was laid on his belly, just too high to touch where it was most wanted, and everything went still. Mycroft smirked.
“You see? The look on your face right now would be very difficult for me to enjoy were I in my brother's position.”
Holmes glared at his elder brother over Watson's shoulder, before beginning with a slow, deep thrust. Having worked out long ago that there was no point in lying to either of the Holmes brothers, Watson felt no need to hold back a heart-felt moan.
“That's perfect. Keep it slow, Sherlock. Don't be afraid to tease, no matter what names he calls you for it.”
Now it was Watson's turn to glare at the older Holmes. Unfortunately, he knew that Mycroft was right, which made the suggestion that much more annoying. Worse still, Holmes was taking his brother's advice, tickling lightly at the trail of hair leading away from his belly-button and pulling out slowly enough that the movement was almost imperceptible. It took him so long, in fact, that Watson groaned embarrassingly loudly in relief when he pushed back in with a hard shove.
Mycroft was smirking again. “You see, mon petit frère? I can teach you things about your dear doctor.”
Watson should have taken the slight flexing of Holmes' fingers as a warning of what was to come, but four quick, short and incredibly well-aimed thrusts later he was biting his tongue to avoid embarrassing himself any more than necessary. Through all of this, though, he didn't miss that Holmes had taken rather a possessive hold on him now.
“I don't need you to teach me. I am perfectly capable of satisfying my partner without your guidance.”
“Our partner, Sherlock.” Mycroft corrected teasingly.
“No,” Watson felt Holmes tighten his hold, and was a little surprised at having a leg thrown over his own, foot wrapped around his calf as tightly as was possible from the awkward angle, “not yours. Mine.”
Watson was too busy being stunned to answer that if that was what Holmes wanted, he would agree to it in a heartbeat. He'd only continued his affair with Mycroft under the impression that Holmes had entrusted him to the other man's care while he was unavailable.
“You'd better tell him that, don't you think?” The older Holmes brother seemed almost amused at the turn of events, but not cruelly so.
Holmes was silent for a few moments, and then leaned in close to Watson's ear to utter the most difficult sentence he'd had to in many years. “I love you, and I want to be the only one.”
Watson swallowed difficultly and then nodded, offering Mycroft a sympathetic look that was brushed off as unnecessary. “I know exactly what he said, John, and I truly wish you all the happiness in the world. I let you go a long time ago, and as much as I've enjoyed playing at being young again, it's time you were handed over completely to someone more capable of loving you fully than I.”
Holmes laughed nervously, but didn't change his grip on Watson at all. “You can't be seriously giving him up? Not if he'd still have you.”
Mycroft paced over to them and tilted Watson's chin up with one hand, before leaning down to kiss him in an entirely chaste fashion. Holmes growled softly all the same, and held on to Watson tightly enough to bruise. When the older man straightened again, he was smiling softly, with a hint of sadness. “He wouldn't. Not after your confession of a moment ago. But you needn't take my word for it.”
“But I-”
“Sherlock, if you are about to say something unkind about your ability to love, I will be forced to throw you out. Whether I throw your clothes after you will be another matter.” Mycroft looked at him seriously.
Taking the silence as an opportunity to speak up, Watson turned his head awkwardly towards the younger of the Holmes brothers. “He's not wrong. But then I think you know that. And if you are about to say something unkind about yourself, I'm leaving and taking your clothes with me.” Watson nodded decisively. He could feel Holmes pouting, despite not being able to see it.
“Excellent. Well, now that we've gotten the metaphorical banging of heads together sorted, I believe I'm still owed a show.” Mycroft smiled like the proverbial cat, and went to resume his place by the fire.
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Watson/Mycroft, Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sincerest apologies to everyone involved.
Summary: In his youth, Watson knew a very clever man who took much more than a passing interest in him. Later, he met another. No points for guessing who they were, and why this might be a problem.
Spoilers: None, unless this actually happens in the second film, which I think unlikely.
Warnings: Semi-graphic sex. Voyeurism on one half of a pair while the other half is related to you.
Word Count: 3500. Exactly.
Author's Notes: The fault of holmeswatson09. I did say I'd write this, and now I have. (Shut it, you 'ship '09!Watson/'11!Mycroft too, or you haven't seen Wilde [character/actor separation? What's that?]). With thanks to beeinmybonnet for assurances that I am indeed crazy, and that I should keep it up.
London was an incredibly exciting place for John Watson. He had started at university, his roommate was incredibly amicable, and the place was full of new things to see and do, and all sorts of different people.
One person in particular stuck out. Partly because he was very tall indeed, but it had more to do with the fact that besides filling a room with his presence, he was wonderfully soft-spoken and brilliant. A young John Watson couldn't imagine why this older, cleverer and clearly more sophisticated man would take any interest in him, but there he was, inviting him to lunch on a regular basis and teaching him all sorts of things he'd never had the opportunity to do in school before.
It was an amazing feeling, sitting beside Mycroft Holmes at the opera and having him whisper the story in your ear. Sitting in his elaborately decorated rooms and sipping brandy older than himself was another amazing feeling, and perhaps a little dizzy as well.
Not that he'd had a lot of practise himself, but he suspected that Mycroft was an incredibly competent kisser. It felt nice, anyway, and not as wrong as he'd expected it to. The rest of him obviously didn't think there was anything wrong with it, either. It seemed to be a very short trip from first kiss to bedroom to what a young Watson could only consider to be something close to heathen worship of his body, and an incredibly pleasurable sort at that.
He enjoyed Mycroft Holmes' company in this manner until he finished his degree, the only person who ever knew being his roommate, sworn to secrecy about it and Watson was fairly sure he'd keep it, in exchange for the secret of the childhood friend who was clearly Stamford's own lover, and had been for rather a long time. The excited report on their first time together when it had happened helped to tip Watson off to that, but he'd promised to keep it quiet once the excitable man realised what he'd said.
So Watson went off to fight for Queen and country, secure in the knowledge that he was a confident lover; of both genders, since Mycroft had insisted that a young man should know as much as he possibly could, and that his dear John had a talent for physical matters, and therefore should be encouraged to experiment and grow. Watson didn't mind, but he much preferred being the sole focus of Mycroft's attention wherever possible. The older man argued that it was much easier to focus on him from a distance of three feet than a distance of a scant inch, and he was probably not entirely wrong. He knew, then, that he was worthy of some tender attention, and went off to seek adventure like any other young man with no ties might.
Adventure, however, found him rather more quickly and violently than he had first expected, and left him a shadow of his former self. London was still as it had ever been, filled with old, comfortable memories of decadence and fantasy.
And love, Watson had finally decided. He had loved Mycroft, perhaps not in the passionate, romantic, sonnets-and-roses sense, but they had had a comfortable sort of love nonetheless, and that was worth something to him.
He considered looking Mycroft up; no doubt he could still be found haunting the Diogenes Club and upsetting the Prime Minister on a weekly basis; but that was a part of the old, or rather the young John Watson. The new; or rather, wiser, because he still wasn't old, despite appearances; John Watson was a man who would have to stand on his own two feet.
Two feet which were apparently determined to get him stuck soundly in debt and drunken stupors. Running into an older, wiser Stamford who had grown up to be a wonderfully sensible, balanced man was the only stroke of luck he had been afforded since his return. Still, he was grateful for the friendly face and the distinctly non-judgemental attitude the other man took toward the situation that must have been written all over his face. Years later, he would write that he'd mentioned the difficulty in finding rooms on a pension. In truth, Stamford had begged him to consider moving in with what he now realised was meant to be a stabilising influence.
If a man like Sherlock Holmes was the stabilising influence in your life, you were in serious trouble. But it had worked (and God bless Stamford and his odd little mix of horror and infatuation with Holmes), and it was nice to feel alive again.
Watson found quickly that the influence of a second older (but not as much older; if there were 18 months between him and his new friend, that would be the height of it, he thought; he never dared ask, though) man in his life had much the same effect on him as the first had. Holmes would sit with him, and whilst he had out-aged the brandy now, it was just as pleasant to sip it by the fire with his friend. Having operas explained to him hadn't lost it's sheen, either.
Holmes was a shyer man than Mycroft (interesting that they shared a last name and a magnificent, unfathomable intelligence, but then Watson supposed there were plenty of clever men with old surnames). At first, Watson had thought that there was simply no attraction between them; or rather, that it only came from him, and his was only because of the quiet, unaffected way Holmes had rescued him from himself. But the touch of a delicate hand against his thigh while the tale of Don Giovanni was being explained to him, the fact that they had, somehow, moved from sitting in separate armchairs to sitting too close together on the settee.
Eventually, a hesitant, nervous kiss (though not completely without skill, Watson noted) confirmed Watson's suspicions, and after that he was happy to fall body and soul for the man who had become his best friend. He remembered this kind of love well, the kind that feels rather like an old dressing gown even when it's new. The kind that does away with awkward mornings and embarrassing moments, and is filled with arguments that never mean anything.
And Holmes, like the last person Watson had loved, got away with a lot because of it. But they were happy and comfortable enough for over a year before the other man bothered to mention that he had a brother, and he'd very much like for Watson to meet him. Surprise family was not something he'd encountered before, nor could he quite agree that taking your male lover to meet your family was a wise course of action, but then he'd always imagined the Holmes family to be a little odd in their ways.
One thing he truly, honestly hadn't expected was to have Mycroft Holmes walk into the sitting room at Baker Street and greet his younger brother warmly. Before being introduced to his younger brother's flatmate as though he'd never met him before. And without flinching at all. Bastard.
If Holmes hadn't been called out on a case at that moment, Watson might well have done himself some internal injury trying to hold back the torrent of confusion, anger and embarrassment that was welling up inside him, threatening to lead him to an early death by any one of a dozen causes.
Mycroft remained as calmly civil as he had ever been while Watson shouted at him. He even tactfully failed to point out that it wasn't his fault that Watson had failed to do his research, and really, wasn't the family resemblance enough to tip him off?
The agreement that the younger Holmes could never be allowed to know was reached after some debate. Mycroft smiled a kind, knowing little smile that Watson was sure meant he realised that this was not the largely casual affair of his youth, something quite a different animal indeed.
Holmes returned shortly, and it was just as Mycroft was making his excuses that he spoke up to mention that he knew exactly what had gone on between them, and would be much obliged if they didn't treat him like an idiot. He also apologised for keeping them apart for so long, but wished them every happiness in the future, and could Mycroft avoid moving Watson out before he'd found himself a suitable new flatmate?
It took a moment for a very embarrassed, very sorry John Watson to realise what was going on in his best friend's mind. Explaining to a suddenly very young-looking Holmes that he had no intention of running away with his brother was perhaps the most surreal moment of his life so far, but when comprehension dawned on the normally-astute man, the way he lit up might have been one of the happiest moments.
Watson wasn't quite sure how he'd missed the part of this conversation that included 'I don't really mind sharing you with Mycroft when I'm on a case', but he apparently had, because the next time Holmes disappeared for a few days, he found himself being sent for by the older brother and treated rather as he had been in his youth, although given the benefit of the doubt that he'd had enough in the way of experience to last him a lifetime. Mycroft, he was amused enough to discover, hadn't changed a bit, besides a few grey hairs at his temples that secretly, Watson rather liked, but he'd never say it. He knew that Mycroft knew, anyway.
This arrangement continued to work out rather nicely, apparently without any jealousy from either brother; Watson was normally Holmes', and Mycroft borrowed him on occasion. All without having consulted him first, but he could hardly complain at being surrounded by attentive, attractive, intelligent lovers. Well, mostly-attentive in one case, but that was rather the point of having two, wasn't it?
It occurred to him, as he re-invented the story of their first meeting for his stories, that the arrangement was sufficiently unusual as to be very nearly unique; although knowing the habits of the upper classes from what he's glimpsed of them, he wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't at all.
That, he supposed, was the story of how he'd ended up in the really very nice bedroom in Mycroft's rooms, being undressed by Holmes while the older brother watched.
“Don't look at me like that, John. You know I'd rather see you from here, and this way I can pretend that not only was I once considerably fitter, but that I had the good sense to adore you as an equal when we were both younger.” Mycroft instructed from where he had been directing the proceedings by the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth and looking so much like his younger brother that Watson could have kicked himself for not recognising Holmes straight away.
The younger brother blushed prettily, and concentrated very deliberately on Watson's shirt buttons. Watson thought it might be best if he came to Holmes' rescue here.
“No offence intended, but I'm enjoying the hands-on attention.”
“I am certain you are, which is why it gives me such joy to see it. Surely you can understand this, dearest John?” Mycroft smiled slowly, and Watson was again reminded that there was no point in trying to bait him, because he was always six steps ahead of you. Thankfully, Holmes chose that moment to finish getting his shirt off, and in a surge of impatience tore Watson's undershirt over his head almost before he could get his arms up. “You've gone very quiet, Sherlock. Does he often do this?”
“Yes, yes he does, I only have sex with him to shut him up, really.” Watson grinned and kissed Holmes' forehead to show that he was only joking.
“I've gone quiet, Mycroft, because not only are you doing enough talking for all three of us, but there are some things that should be savoured in silence.” Holmes chose to illustrate his point by kissing Watson's throat, effectively shutting him up as well. Mycroft smirked in a way that made it quite clear who was in charge, here.
“He's playing you.” Watson laughed softly and arched his neck to allow Holmes better access.
“What makes you think,” Holmes unbuttoned the first of the fastenings of Watson's fly, “that I'm not playing both of you?”
Mycroft chuckled from his place near the fire, “of course you are, my darling brother. Take your doctor to the bed like a good boy, now.”
Holmes stopped to glare at his sibling as he took Watson's hand. “I am only doing this because I already intended to, and you know I intended to, and you are simply trying to make me look like an idiot.”
“I don't think you're an idiot.” Watson offered quietly, and whilst it seemed he was being ignored, he knew the sentiment had gotten through when Holmes tugged on his hand again and drew him towards a bed big enough for five or six people to sleep quite comfortably on. Where Holmes was a creature of utility, Mycroft was definitely one of luxury.
Watson sat on the side of the bed in open trousers long enough for Holmes to undress completely and take a place behind him. For all his talk of being all right, there was certainly a flicker of insecurity in what he was about to do in front of his brother. He wondered if such nearly-flawless acting ability ran in the family, or if Mycroft was truly capable of the aloof detachment he seemed to be enjoying in relation to watching his brother take a former lover to bed.
Once he felt the soft touch of lips at the back of his neck, Watson wriggled out of his trousers and drawers, and moved to lay sideways on the bed as Holmes guided him, the position effectively shielding his friend's body from Mycroft's view, and putting him completely on display. He should have known that Holmes would have a clever solution to his own embarrassment. A long, pale arm reached over him for the small pot of Vaseline that was sitting innocuously on the side-table.
Shifting to make life as easy as possible to make life easy for Holmes while still affording him the shield of his larger form, Watson sought to distract both himself and Mycroft from what Holmes was actually doing in another fashion. “I see more differences than similarities between you, you know.” He began casually.
Mycroft lit up a little, possibly completely aware of the game and willing to play along, possibly not concerned that Watson was going to do anything unpleasant to him and therefore not thinking about it at all, beyond the opportunity to indulge in the gossip and ego-stroking both of the brothers seemed to revel in.
“Indeed. Holmes - Sherlock, rather - is a patently small man, where you are certainly not. And whilst there is some resemblance in the facial features, you could easily be cousins rather than brothers.”
“Interesting, John. But that isn't what you intended to remark on, is it?” He knew the game, then, but was happy to play it.
“No, you're right,” Watson's breath hitched as Holmes twisted the fingers inside him rather deliberately, “you're both very clever, but as much as he likes to pretend he's as detached as you, he's not, is he? Or maybe you aren't as detached as you make yourself seem, and I've just never gotten close enough to you to find out.”
“Both valid possibilities. I should like to point out, doctor, that your own detachment is apparently very impressive indeed. Shouldn't you be mewling with need by now?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“I'm proud to say that not only has my self-control improved since I-” another hitched breath, and a very, very quiet giggle that Holmes would never admit to, “since I was at university, but there is a great deal of skill being employed to ensure I won't feel much at all until he's ready.”
'Until he's ready' turned out to be 'right now', and Watson cut off with a silent cry as Holmes seated himself inside him in one swift movement. A hand was laid on his belly, just too high to touch where it was most wanted, and everything went still. Mycroft smirked.
“You see? The look on your face right now would be very difficult for me to enjoy were I in my brother's position.”
Holmes glared at his elder brother over Watson's shoulder, before beginning with a slow, deep thrust. Having worked out long ago that there was no point in lying to either of the Holmes brothers, Watson felt no need to hold back a heart-felt moan.
“That's perfect. Keep it slow, Sherlock. Don't be afraid to tease, no matter what names he calls you for it.”
Now it was Watson's turn to glare at the older Holmes. Unfortunately, he knew that Mycroft was right, which made the suggestion that much more annoying. Worse still, Holmes was taking his brother's advice, tickling lightly at the trail of hair leading away from his belly-button and pulling out slowly enough that the movement was almost imperceptible. It took him so long, in fact, that Watson groaned embarrassingly loudly in relief when he pushed back in with a hard shove.
Mycroft was smirking again. “You see, mon petit frère? I can teach you things about your dear doctor.”
Watson should have taken the slight flexing of Holmes' fingers as a warning of what was to come, but four quick, short and incredibly well-aimed thrusts later he was biting his tongue to avoid embarrassing himself any more than necessary. Through all of this, though, he didn't miss that Holmes had taken rather a possessive hold on him now.
“I don't need you to teach me. I am perfectly capable of satisfying my partner without your guidance.”
“Our partner, Sherlock.” Mycroft corrected teasingly.
“No,” Watson felt Holmes tighten his hold, and was a little surprised at having a leg thrown over his own, foot wrapped around his calf as tightly as was possible from the awkward angle, “not yours. Mine.”
Watson was too busy being stunned to answer that if that was what Holmes wanted, he would agree to it in a heartbeat. He'd only continued his affair with Mycroft under the impression that Holmes had entrusted him to the other man's care while he was unavailable.
“You'd better tell him that, don't you think?” The older Holmes brother seemed almost amused at the turn of events, but not cruelly so.
Holmes was silent for a few moments, and then leaned in close to Watson's ear to utter the most difficult sentence he'd had to in many years. “I love you, and I want to be the only one.”
Watson swallowed difficultly and then nodded, offering Mycroft a sympathetic look that was brushed off as unnecessary. “I know exactly what he said, John, and I truly wish you all the happiness in the world. I let you go a long time ago, and as much as I've enjoyed playing at being young again, it's time you were handed over completely to someone more capable of loving you fully than I.”
Holmes laughed nervously, but didn't change his grip on Watson at all. “You can't be seriously giving him up? Not if he'd still have you.”
Mycroft paced over to them and tilted Watson's chin up with one hand, before leaning down to kiss him in an entirely chaste fashion. Holmes growled softly all the same, and held on to Watson tightly enough to bruise. When the older man straightened again, he was smiling softly, with a hint of sadness. “He wouldn't. Not after your confession of a moment ago. But you needn't take my word for it.”
“But I-”
“Sherlock, if you are about to say something unkind about your ability to love, I will be forced to throw you out. Whether I throw your clothes after you will be another matter.” Mycroft looked at him seriously.
Taking the silence as an opportunity to speak up, Watson turned his head awkwardly towards the younger of the Holmes brothers. “He's not wrong. But then I think you know that. And if you are about to say something unkind about yourself, I'm leaving and taking your clothes with me.” Watson nodded decisively. He could feel Holmes pouting, despite not being able to see it.
“Excellent. Well, now that we've gotten the metaphorical banging of heads together sorted, I believe I'm still owed a show.” Mycroft smiled like the proverbial cat, and went to resume his place by the fire.