Fic: The Truth (warning - here be taboos)
Umm - I done a Holmescest. I'm not apportioning blame, rather giving thanks to my muse, when I say that filthgoblin 's one sentence précis of her amazing new fic " Official Secrets" inspired me [1]. After I read hers I altered mine slightly - I think my Sherlock has the memories of her Sherlock now... I hope she won't mind my homage.
Unbetæd - but if anyone hates me after this I'm guessing it won't be for the SPAG.
Title: The Truth
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17 - oh yeah...
Pairing: Sherlock/(vividly imagined) Mycroft.
Warnings: Holmescest - definitely a sin in thought and word (and perhaps the faint memory of a sin in deed?)
It’s not that Sherlock has anything like a moral commitment to the truth. It’s just that nothing else sits easy with him. Nothing else fits. He looks back in horror at his days in the theatre. It had been easy - too easy - to set himself aside and become...anything. These days he’d rather have the unvarnished truth than the unexamined hypocrisies that other people allow themselves to be comforted by.
But he has always been so good at this - at slipping effortlessly into someone else’s shoes. Enough empathy to know how they’d act. Not enough empathy to care if it damn near kills them. These days, he tells himself, he only uses lies to get at the truth.
There’s only one other reason he lets himself play a role. There’s only one other person he lets himself become. And every time he promises it will be the last.
It always starts with the clothes. There is a suit that no one ever sees him wear. It hangs in the recesses of his wardrobe where he tries to forget its existence. It’s considerably more conservative than anything he usually wears - a tweed three-piece in a muted brown. With shaking hands, he pulls it on over a plain white shirt. Every time he does this he feels the same sick shudder. His skin crawls as he fumbles the button at his throat through its hole. But every time he carries on, slips the tie around his neck and fastens it in a neat Windsor knot. As he straightens and centres it, his fingers begin to move with an unwonted fastidiousness, and he is lost.
If his need is not particularly acute, he might do something with his hair, to tame the unruly curls as well as he can. He never quite manages the smooth, bland finish he’s trying to emulate. Tonight he doesn’t even bother to try - he can’t wait that long.
His walk changes next. There isn’t much space in his bedroom but he paces the little that as there is. It doesn’t take long for his gait to change from his usual vulpine slink to the more measured tread of a lion in command of its pride.
His gestures alter too. More considered and more deliberate they may be, but it’s a control bought with great effort. But isn’t that as true for Mycroft as it is for him?
Sherlock needs the truth, but Mycroft..? Mycroft has always decided what he wants the truth to be and arranged the world accordingly.
And now he has it - that air of total command. He imagines himself somewhere else entirely. Somewhere anonymous, secure, spartan. He is Mycroft - ultimate arbiter of true and false. Of right and wrong.
“Sherlock,” he says his own name aloud, in a version of Mycroft’s voice that is convincing enough to bring the world to the brink of war, “My brother. You know why I brought you here,” he pauses before he says the words he craves from his brother’s lips. The ones he knows are false and wrong. The ones wants, nevertheless.
“On you knees, my darling brother. You’re mine now.”
The spell complete, he falls to his knees, thrusts two fingers past his lips and sucks greedily until the throb in his groin becomes too much to bear. He raises his eyes to the man he imagines standing before him, imagines the slight nod he would receive in return. One-handed he tears at his fly. He doesn’t stop sucking as he takes his erection and begins a punishing rhythm, seeking catharsis.
Sherlock moans Mycroft’s name around his fingers. His climax threatens to break him in two if he doesn’t double over, but he stays on his knees, imagining fingers as long as his own in his hair, holding him upright. He won’t let himself sully the suit. He spreads his knees as wide apart as he can, arches his back and lets his semen spill over his hand and onto the carpet, shaking and groaning as he does.
Spent, he raises his sticky hand to his lips and sucks hungrily. He almost convinces himself that the smell and taste are subtly different to his own, but then he finds himself wondering if there’s something indefinably Mycroft, and how it would taste.
As usual, that’s the cue for the wave of shame to engulf him, to drag him down and suffocate him. He pulls the blanket down from his bed and covers himself where he lies, on the floor. He’s been too old to cry himself to sleep for over 20 years. It never stops him on nights like these.
In a few hours he’ll wake up, hide the shameful suit in the back of the wardrobe, stand too long under a too-hot shower and try to pretend this never happened. That it will never happen again.
But the truth can’t hide from Sherlock, and Sherlock can’t hide from the truth.
[1] I believe you had me at "shame-fuelled onanism," my darling.
[Final A/N - edited to swap out my default "Christmas Mycroft" icon because, srsly... NO!]
Unbetæd - but if anyone hates me after this I'm guessing it won't be for the SPAG.
Title: The Truth
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17 - oh yeah...
Pairing: Sherlock/(vividly imagined) Mycroft.
Warnings: Holmescest - definitely a sin in thought and word (and perhaps the faint memory of a sin in deed?)
It’s not that Sherlock has anything like a moral commitment to the truth. It’s just that nothing else sits easy with him. Nothing else fits. He looks back in horror at his days in the theatre. It had been easy - too easy - to set himself aside and become...anything. These days he’d rather have the unvarnished truth than the unexamined hypocrisies that other people allow themselves to be comforted by.
But he has always been so good at this - at slipping effortlessly into someone else’s shoes. Enough empathy to know how they’d act. Not enough empathy to care if it damn near kills them. These days, he tells himself, he only uses lies to get at the truth.
There’s only one other reason he lets himself play a role. There’s only one other person he lets himself become. And every time he promises it will be the last.
It always starts with the clothes. There is a suit that no one ever sees him wear. It hangs in the recesses of his wardrobe where he tries to forget its existence. It’s considerably more conservative than anything he usually wears - a tweed three-piece in a muted brown. With shaking hands, he pulls it on over a plain white shirt. Every time he does this he feels the same sick shudder. His skin crawls as he fumbles the button at his throat through its hole. But every time he carries on, slips the tie around his neck and fastens it in a neat Windsor knot. As he straightens and centres it, his fingers begin to move with an unwonted fastidiousness, and he is lost.
If his need is not particularly acute, he might do something with his hair, to tame the unruly curls as well as he can. He never quite manages the smooth, bland finish he’s trying to emulate. Tonight he doesn’t even bother to try - he can’t wait that long.
His walk changes next. There isn’t much space in his bedroom but he paces the little that as there is. It doesn’t take long for his gait to change from his usual vulpine slink to the more measured tread of a lion in command of its pride.
His gestures alter too. More considered and more deliberate they may be, but it’s a control bought with great effort. But isn’t that as true for Mycroft as it is for him?
Sherlock needs the truth, but Mycroft..? Mycroft has always decided what he wants the truth to be and arranged the world accordingly.
And now he has it - that air of total command. He imagines himself somewhere else entirely. Somewhere anonymous, secure, spartan. He is Mycroft - ultimate arbiter of true and false. Of right and wrong.
“Sherlock,” he says his own name aloud, in a version of Mycroft’s voice that is convincing enough to bring the world to the brink of war, “My brother. You know why I brought you here,” he pauses before he says the words he craves from his brother’s lips. The ones he knows are false and wrong. The ones wants, nevertheless.
“On you knees, my darling brother. You’re mine now.”
The spell complete, he falls to his knees, thrusts two fingers past his lips and sucks greedily until the throb in his groin becomes too much to bear. He raises his eyes to the man he imagines standing before him, imagines the slight nod he would receive in return. One-handed he tears at his fly. He doesn’t stop sucking as he takes his erection and begins a punishing rhythm, seeking catharsis.
Sherlock moans Mycroft’s name around his fingers. His climax threatens to break him in two if he doesn’t double over, but he stays on his knees, imagining fingers as long as his own in his hair, holding him upright. He won’t let himself sully the suit. He spreads his knees as wide apart as he can, arches his back and lets his semen spill over his hand and onto the carpet, shaking and groaning as he does.
Spent, he raises his sticky hand to his lips and sucks hungrily. He almost convinces himself that the smell and taste are subtly different to his own, but then he finds himself wondering if there’s something indefinably Mycroft, and how it would taste.
As usual, that’s the cue for the wave of shame to engulf him, to drag him down and suffocate him. He pulls the blanket down from his bed and covers himself where he lies, on the floor. He’s been too old to cry himself to sleep for over 20 years. It never stops him on nights like these.
In a few hours he’ll wake up, hide the shameful suit in the back of the wardrobe, stand too long under a too-hot shower and try to pretend this never happened. That it will never happen again.
But the truth can’t hide from Sherlock, and Sherlock can’t hide from the truth.
[1] I believe you had me at "shame-fuelled onanism," my darling.
[Final A/N - edited to swap out my default "Christmas Mycroft" icon because, srsly... NO!]