Play with Me [1/1]
anonymous
September 12 2010, 22:33:44 UTC
The way Mycroft sees it, this has always been the most logical option.
His brother insists on playing him like his violin but Mycroft wasn’t born to be played. He was born to introduce order into chaos, security into disorganization. He was born to pull the strings and all others were just his puppets. Had he been given to belief in fate, he might have called their destiny.
Sherlock is a quiet storm, all frenzy and quicksilver movements, blowing from one case to the next. Utterly uncontrollable. Until the day John Watson leaves to marry his first wife. Mycroft doesn’t have to use pretense to get into his brother’s lonely flat. He carries a small case with his umbrella.
Ready for the storm.
Injectable cocaine. Rare even in London. His brother stares out the window on the street below, as though refusing to acknowledge his empty home. The weight of all of the British government rests on Mycroft’s shoulders but, for just one moment, he pauses. He thinks of how much freer it will be when his brother decides to help him. Because, before John Watson, Sherlock needed no one. After, he needed whoever got there first.
“I am going to miss seeing this place tidy.”
His voice is a cadenced whisper. Sherlock turns languidly, as though his brother standing there were something on television he wished he could turn off.
“You could send someone to clean it.”
Mycroft licked his lips. “I doubt you would let them in.”
“I wouldn’t let you in but here you are.”
“Yes.” Careful. “I will always be here for you.”
Sherlock ignores his comments, staring at the case. Mycroft can almost see his mind flashing back, to sweat-soaked delirium in their shared bedroom, Mummy downstairs and unaware. “I’ve been clean, Mycroft.”
“Someone has to sully you, then.”
Sherlock crawls toward him, like a cat smelling tuna. Mycroft sets the case on the floor and waits. Soon, his brother is wrapping the tourniquet around his arm. Soon, the needle slides into flesh and soon, Sherlock’s lips are inches away from Mycroft’s, warm breath condensing on the side of his neck.
“I’ve missed this,” His brother admits, flat gone dark with curtains closed. “I’ve missed you.”
“Shh.” Mycroft tilts Sherlock’s chin. Teethes Sherlock’s ear.
“Please.”
Mycrof can’t tell if it’s a moan to stop or to continue. At this point, he’s past caring. It’s all getting a bit too obscene for his taste, Sherlock’s cock hard and pulsing in his hand, Sherlock’s eyes growing wider and wider the closer he gets. The fact of the matter is his brother needs him now and, sticky wetness burning his palms, he’ll need him more in the days to come.
Yes, this really had been the most logical option.
Now Sherlock would understand who got to play with whom.
Re: Play with Me [1/1]
anonymous
September 12 2010, 22:42:56 UTC
I have never read incest before, always been pretty creeped out by it tbh...dunno why I read this, but... This. Was. Amazing. I think you just converted me to Sherlock/Mycroft! That was something I thought would be impossible so...well done! Lol
Re: Play with Me [1/1]
anonymous
September 14 2010, 01:50:48 UTC
This is so dark, and so hot, and DAMN YOU because I never read incest, it squicks me out HARD, but you've just converted me to Sherlock/Mycroft. Fuck, I don't even know.
Re: Play with Me [1/1]andellSeptember 17 2010, 08:20:12 UTC
OMG! This is so hot and wonderful and right. Dear authoranon, may I translate it into Russian, so my friends can read it too? Of course with all the credits to you. Contact me if you see this comment, please.
Play Me Gently [1/1]
anonymous
September 23 2010, 04:24:09 UTC
Sherlock hates his new job.
It’s too much paperwork, too much doublespeak. Repetitive like a solo he's played more than once. He never needed to do more than glance at sheet music before he learned everything.
He sweats during the day and goes home to his brother’s bright flat at night. Mycroft never turns off the lights. The needle brings an overwhelming clarity to his actions. He doesn’t care about the moral implications, doesn’t care about the lightening-quick movements or the awkward mornings after.
Mycroft brings him food and he eats it. Mycroft measures the dosage and he never gets what he wants. He reads the newspaper and a thousand cases scream out to him; more than they ever did when he was a consulting detective with John by his side. Mrs. Hudson complains about him breaking his lease but he suspects she knows more than she lets on. He left his violin there.
Lestrade tries to contact him one day. Mycroft intercepts the text and deletes it.
He watches his brother like an experiment. Mycroft has too many variables. The first month, he delights in figuring out what triggers him; what makes his brother emerge from long black cars with his gleaming case and umbrella. Then he realizes this is another feud about control and he’s so bored again.
John visits after his honeymoon, shocked to discover their new arrangement. His expressions twist tighter than violin strings.
“So, you’re living with your brother?”
Sherlock gestures to his brother's--his own--large kitchen. “That would appear to be the case.”
John blushes. The next phrase is hard for him to spit out. “And you’re...”
“What? Working for him?” John shifts in his seat. Sherlock understands. “Oh, you mean, sleeping with him? Of course.”
“What about us?”
Sherlock glares at his former friend with cloudy eyes. “Yes, John, what about it?”
John mangles his glinting ring and Mycroft arrives just in time. A car pulls away. John stares as Mycroft throws his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. He tries to shrug his brother off but he holds tight. Possessive. Interesting. The hiss in his ear makes him stiffen,
“You’re mine, Sherlock.”
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Just jealousy then.
How very dull.
Another night; another high; another orgasm; another day.
He goes to the office and takes his place at the desk behind Mycroft’s assistant. She hands him another batch of files without looking up from her phone. He would try to provoke a reaction out of her, maybe use her real name for once. He wants to play; he wants to feel interested in something again. But she would smile the smile everyone at his new job did.
His brother insists on playing him like his violin but Mycroft wasn’t born to be played. He was born to introduce order into chaos, security into disorganization. He was born to pull the strings and all others were just his puppets. Had he been given to belief in fate, he might have called their destiny.
Sherlock is a quiet storm, all frenzy and quicksilver movements, blowing from one case to the next. Utterly uncontrollable. Until the day John Watson leaves to marry his first wife. Mycroft doesn’t have to use pretense to get into his brother’s lonely flat. He carries a small case with his umbrella.
Ready for the storm.
Injectable cocaine. Rare even in London. His brother stares out the window on the street below, as though refusing to acknowledge his empty home. The weight of all of the British government rests on Mycroft’s shoulders but, for just one moment, he pauses. He thinks of how much freer it will be when his brother decides to help him. Because, before John Watson, Sherlock needed no one. After, he needed whoever got there first.
“I am going to miss seeing this place tidy.”
His voice is a cadenced whisper. Sherlock turns languidly, as though his brother standing there were something on television he wished he could turn off.
“You could send someone to clean it.”
Mycroft licked his lips. “I doubt you would let them in.”
“I wouldn’t let you in but here you are.”
“Yes.” Careful. “I will always be here for you.”
Sherlock ignores his comments, staring at the case. Mycroft can almost see his mind flashing back, to sweat-soaked delirium in their shared bedroom, Mummy downstairs and unaware. “I’ve been clean, Mycroft.”
“Someone has to sully you, then.”
Sherlock crawls toward him, like a cat smelling tuna. Mycroft sets the case on the floor and waits. Soon, his brother is wrapping the tourniquet around his arm. Soon, the needle slides into flesh and soon, Sherlock’s lips are inches away from Mycroft’s, warm breath condensing on the side of his neck.
“I’ve missed this,” His brother admits, flat gone dark with curtains closed. “I’ve missed you.”
“Shh.” Mycroft tilts Sherlock’s chin. Teethes Sherlock’s ear.
“Please.”
Mycrof can’t tell if it’s a moan to stop or to continue. At this point, he’s past caring. It’s all getting a bit too obscene for his taste, Sherlock’s cock hard and pulsing in his hand, Sherlock’s eyes growing wider and wider the closer he gets. The fact of the matter is his brother needs him now and, sticky wetness burning his palms, he’ll need him more in the days to come.
Yes, this really had been the most logical option.
Now Sherlock would understand who got to play with whom.
Reply
Reply
This. Was. Amazing. I think you just converted me to Sherlock/Mycroft! That was something I thought would be impossible so...well done! Lol
Reply
Oh dear god that is hot. And creepy as hell.
Hng. guh. etc.
Thank you so much.
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Reply
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this piece is brilliant, and I adore your mycroft!!!
ogosh, name me your price for a sequel, or more chapters from this verse!!!
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If you're really lucky, I'll just add more anyhow.
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http://community.livejournal.com/bbcsherlock/53023.html#cutid1
(no frosty beverage, but I could flaunt my paypal account to buy you some virtual coke ?? XD)
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On it.
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This is so hot and wonderful and right.
Dear authoranon, may I translate it into Russian, so my friends can read it too? Of course with all the credits to you.
Contact me if you see this comment, please.
Reply
Reply
Reply
It’s too much paperwork, too much doublespeak. Repetitive like a solo he's played more than once. He never needed to do more than glance at sheet music before he learned everything.
He sweats during the day and goes home to his brother’s bright flat at night. Mycroft never turns off the lights. The needle brings an overwhelming clarity to his actions. He doesn’t care about the moral implications, doesn’t care about the lightening-quick movements or the awkward mornings after.
Mycroft brings him food and he eats it. Mycroft measures the dosage and he never gets what he wants. He reads the newspaper and a thousand cases scream out to him; more than they ever did when he was a consulting detective with John by his side. Mrs. Hudson complains about him breaking his lease but he suspects she knows more than she lets on. He left his violin there.
Lestrade tries to contact him one day. Mycroft intercepts the text and deletes it.
He watches his brother like an experiment. Mycroft has too many variables. The first month, he delights in figuring out what triggers him; what makes his brother emerge from long black cars with his gleaming case and umbrella. Then he realizes this is another feud about control and he’s so bored again.
John visits after his honeymoon, shocked to discover their new arrangement. His expressions twist tighter than violin strings.
“So, you’re living with your brother?”
Sherlock gestures to his brother's--his own--large kitchen. “That would appear to be the case.”
John blushes. The next phrase is hard for him to spit out. “And you’re...”
“What? Working for him?” John shifts in his seat. Sherlock understands. “Oh, you mean, sleeping with him? Of course.”
“What about us?”
Sherlock glares at his former friend with cloudy eyes. “Yes, John, what about it?”
John mangles his glinting ring and Mycroft arrives just in time. A car pulls away. John stares as Mycroft throws his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. He tries to shrug his brother off but he holds tight. Possessive. Interesting. The hiss in his ear makes him stiffen,
“You’re mine, Sherlock.”
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Just jealousy then.
How very dull.
Another night; another high; another orgasm; another day.
He goes to the office and takes his place at the desk behind Mycroft’s assistant. She hands him another batch of files without looking up from her phone. He would try to provoke a reaction out of her, maybe use her real name for once. He wants to play; he wants to feel interested in something again. But she would smile the smile everyone at his new job did.
Yes, he hates his new job.
And his new life.
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have all my second born babies XD
this is by far one of the most sadest and hottest thing with mycroft and sherlock , gosh, john just needs to go away.......hahah
but omg, never thought, feeling sad for sherlock would feel SOOOOO GOOD!!!
possessive mycroft is just........OHMOHMMMMM
Reply
Obviously you already have the speech centre in my brain.
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