Fic: You Can Imagine the Christmas Dinners
Title: You Can Imagine the Christmas Dinners
Word Count ~1,000
Rating: I dunno - about a 15?
Pairings: Sherlock/Mycroft
Verse: BBC
Warnings: Unresolved Holmescestual Tension. But funny.
A/N : Humbly dedicated to my sister in smut, my beloved filthgoblin.
Betaed by the 'botspouse - thank you for the chess tips, darling. And for getting it. I apologise for nothing. Except what I did to the opening of A Scandal in Bohemia. For that, I'm truly sorry.
To Sherlock Holmes he would always be the man, though he often refers to him by a variety of other names, among them: ‘officious busybody...’, ‘the British Government...’, ‘my brother...’.
It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Mycroft Holmes - or at least no more than the grudgingly fraternal type. No, the dubious and questionable feelings stemmed from one source only - Mycroft is, and always has been, the only person ever to get the better of him.
It started in their late childhood. Rough and tumble fights would always end the same way - the younger, slighter Sherlock pinned beneath the older, more developed Mycroft, his breath gone and his face flushed. He was ten years old when he realised what the tight feeling in his groin was. The thought thrilled him - here was yet another way of bringing about those incredible sensations he’d only just begun to discover... He’d pressed himself hard against Mycroft, panting into his chest.
Mycroft had recoiled like he’d been burnt and shouted “Sherlock! No!” Sherlock had been mortified to find himself on the verge of tears. He stared hard at the pattern of the exquisite Japanese rug as, in a quieter, gentler voice, Mycroft had added, “It wouldn’t be right. You’re my baby brother, you little idiot,” Sherlock felt his brother’s long, warm fingers ruffling his hair. “It’s up to me to protect you. Now go on, get out of here.”
Sherlock let Mycroft plant a kiss on the top of his head as he retreated to his room. They never fought physically again but it wasn’t to be the end of it.
Some passions will outlast the Sun.
They didn’t see each other for a number of years. Mycroft spent long university vacations overseas, where he perfected several languages and made many useful contacts. It only occurred to Sherlock afterwards exactly how these trips had been paid for when the same offer was put to him by one of the dons at his college. Indoctrination to the fields of buggery and espionage often go hand in hand at both Universities - he accepted one offer with alacrity, while dismissing the other. He’d never been keen on international politics anyway.
By the time Sherlock settled in London, Mycroft had become a powerful man. Sherlock found himself dogged wherever he went: a close shave with some dangerously adulterated cocaine avoided thanks to a last minute tip-off; a relationship with a vile and controlling man ended after one of Mycroft’s little late night kidnap-and-chats; an arrest for public indecency magically erased from the records.
He felt like a piece on a chessboard, nudged hither and yon by Mycroft’s unseen hand.
He loved it.
They have an understanding now. Sherlock likes to surrender control to Mycroft, and Mycroft, in his turn, likes having someone he can overtly control. There’s no subtlety required with this game, no diplomacy, no negotiation - he just has to tell Sherlock to do something and Sherlock will...
Well, he’ll disobey, of course, but that’s just part of the fun.
“I could order you...”
“I’d like to see you try.”
It’s the conventional form of words that opens a furious struggle between them - one that Sherlock knows he will always lose. The ways Mycroft finds to dominate him are thorough and unsubtle: stopping his credit cards, forbidding Scotland Yard from consulting him, once even sending his picture to the Public Carriage Office with a warning that the man in question was a regular fare-dodger. That manoeuvre resulted in him being tired and footsore, unable to flag down a black cab for weeks.
He knows Mycroft will hold the threat of a Knighthood over him for a while yet. They’re both savouring the anticipation too much to rush the moment when Mycroft finally brings him, so very publicly, to his knees.
But these are all substitutes for what they really want. They’ve discussed it, like the highly intelligent, rational human beings they are. And like the highly intelligent, rational human beings that they are, it’s not a discussion they’d care to have the rest of humanity know about. It’s unlikely the rest of humanity would understand. The details of the summit will ever remain secret, but a communiqué issued afterwards might have read:
Item: we are resolved that we two Holmeses know each other better than anyone else ever could.
Item: we are resolved that Mycroft Holmes topping the Hell out of Sherlock Holmes would be to both partners’ complete satisfaction.
Item: we are, however, constrained by certain moral (Sherlock would have argued against “moral” but Mycroft would have won. As always) and legal considerations. As a result this will never take place in practice.
Item: however, both parties are at liberty to conjour and enjoy any and all fantasies to this effect, and to provoke them in the other, as they see fit.
It was the only logical thing to do.
And so it comes to pass that, in these furious games of “try to piss off Big Brother,” when Sherlock finds himself stymied, frustrated, outmanoeuvred and outgunned, he also finds that his libido soars. His fantasies are vivid and varied, but frequently end with him bent over Mycroft’s desk, his erection pinned between his stomach and the coarse paper of the blotter, as Mycroft’s leather-gloved hand lands on his bare backside again and again.
(He’d run his hands over the French-polished finish of that desk at one of their meetings and Mycroft had said, in that laconic way of his, “Sometimes, I’m surprised to see that the are no nail marks on the edge of it.” Sherlock almost demanded an end to the pact of “verba non res” that very second. Only the slight but deliberate tilt of Mycroft’s chin held him back.)
So now they taunt each other, dance around each other, struggle for dominance (a struggle that only ever has one outcome) and make almost-innocent-but-not-quite remarks to each other in public. All for the sake of what it makes them feel in private.
So, gentle reader, you can imagine the Christmas dinners.
Word Count ~1,000
Rating: I dunno - about a 15?
Pairings: Sherlock/Mycroft
Verse: BBC
Warnings: Unresolved Holmescestual Tension. But funny.
A/N : Humbly dedicated to my sister in smut, my beloved filthgoblin.
Betaed by the 'botspouse - thank you for the chess tips, darling. And for getting it. I apologise for nothing. Except what I did to the opening of A Scandal in Bohemia. For that, I'm truly sorry.
To Sherlock Holmes he would always be the man, though he often refers to him by a variety of other names, among them: ‘officious busybody...’, ‘the British Government...’, ‘my brother...’.
It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Mycroft Holmes - or at least no more than the grudgingly fraternal type. No, the dubious and questionable feelings stemmed from one source only - Mycroft is, and always has been, the only person ever to get the better of him.
It started in their late childhood. Rough and tumble fights would always end the same way - the younger, slighter Sherlock pinned beneath the older, more developed Mycroft, his breath gone and his face flushed. He was ten years old when he realised what the tight feeling in his groin was. The thought thrilled him - here was yet another way of bringing about those incredible sensations he’d only just begun to discover... He’d pressed himself hard against Mycroft, panting into his chest.
Mycroft had recoiled like he’d been burnt and shouted “Sherlock! No!” Sherlock had been mortified to find himself on the verge of tears. He stared hard at the pattern of the exquisite Japanese rug as, in a quieter, gentler voice, Mycroft had added, “It wouldn’t be right. You’re my baby brother, you little idiot,” Sherlock felt his brother’s long, warm fingers ruffling his hair. “It’s up to me to protect you. Now go on, get out of here.”
Sherlock let Mycroft plant a kiss on the top of his head as he retreated to his room. They never fought physically again but it wasn’t to be the end of it.
Some passions will outlast the Sun.
They didn’t see each other for a number of years. Mycroft spent long university vacations overseas, where he perfected several languages and made many useful contacts. It only occurred to Sherlock afterwards exactly how these trips had been paid for when the same offer was put to him by one of the dons at his college. Indoctrination to the fields of buggery and espionage often go hand in hand at both Universities - he accepted one offer with alacrity, while dismissing the other. He’d never been keen on international politics anyway.
By the time Sherlock settled in London, Mycroft had become a powerful man. Sherlock found himself dogged wherever he went: a close shave with some dangerously adulterated cocaine avoided thanks to a last minute tip-off; a relationship with a vile and controlling man ended after one of Mycroft’s little late night kidnap-and-chats; an arrest for public indecency magically erased from the records.
He felt like a piece on a chessboard, nudged hither and yon by Mycroft’s unseen hand.
He loved it.
They have an understanding now. Sherlock likes to surrender control to Mycroft, and Mycroft, in his turn, likes having someone he can overtly control. There’s no subtlety required with this game, no diplomacy, no negotiation - he just has to tell Sherlock to do something and Sherlock will...
Well, he’ll disobey, of course, but that’s just part of the fun.
“I could order you...”
“I’d like to see you try.”
It’s the conventional form of words that opens a furious struggle between them - one that Sherlock knows he will always lose. The ways Mycroft finds to dominate him are thorough and unsubtle: stopping his credit cards, forbidding Scotland Yard from consulting him, once even sending his picture to the Public Carriage Office with a warning that the man in question was a regular fare-dodger. That manoeuvre resulted in him being tired and footsore, unable to flag down a black cab for weeks.
He knows Mycroft will hold the threat of a Knighthood over him for a while yet. They’re both savouring the anticipation too much to rush the moment when Mycroft finally brings him, so very publicly, to his knees.
But these are all substitutes for what they really want. They’ve discussed it, like the highly intelligent, rational human beings they are. And like the highly intelligent, rational human beings that they are, it’s not a discussion they’d care to have the rest of humanity know about. It’s unlikely the rest of humanity would understand. The details of the summit will ever remain secret, but a communiqué issued afterwards might have read:
Item: we are resolved that we two Holmeses know each other better than anyone else ever could.
Item: we are resolved that Mycroft Holmes topping the Hell out of Sherlock Holmes would be to both partners’ complete satisfaction.
Item: we are, however, constrained by certain moral (Sherlock would have argued against “moral” but Mycroft would have won. As always) and legal considerations. As a result this will never take place in practice.
Item: however, both parties are at liberty to conjour and enjoy any and all fantasies to this effect, and to provoke them in the other, as they see fit.
It was the only logical thing to do.
And so it comes to pass that, in these furious games of “try to piss off Big Brother,” when Sherlock finds himself stymied, frustrated, outmanoeuvred and outgunned, he also finds that his libido soars. His fantasies are vivid and varied, but frequently end with him bent over Mycroft’s desk, his erection pinned between his stomach and the coarse paper of the blotter, as Mycroft’s leather-gloved hand lands on his bare backside again and again.
(He’d run his hands over the French-polished finish of that desk at one of their meetings and Mycroft had said, in that laconic way of his, “Sometimes, I’m surprised to see that the are no nail marks on the edge of it.” Sherlock almost demanded an end to the pact of “verba non res” that very second. Only the slight but deliberate tilt of Mycroft’s chin held him back.)
So now they taunt each other, dance around each other, struggle for dominance (a struggle that only ever has one outcome) and make almost-innocent-but-not-quite remarks to each other in public. All for the sake of what it makes them feel in private.
So, gentle reader, you can imagine the Christmas dinners.