Eventide (Mycroft/Sherlock, BBC Sherlock, warnings, NC-17)
Title: Eventide (also at AO3)
By: daasgrrl
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Mycroft/Sherlock, Sherlock/John (incidental)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,400
Warnings/contents: Consensual sibling incest, self-indulgent angst, smut, emotional repression. The usual. Also note the implicit warning in the summary, although everyone makes it out alive.
Beta: Thank you as always to evila_elf for feedback and advice.
Notes: Post-Reichenbach fic, written because there can never be enough love for Mycroft in the world. Minor elements pay tribute to ACD canon, although Sherlock's time abroad has been shortened from three years to two. Notionally set in the same universe as Kindred Spirits (AO3), but essentially independent.
Summary: Sherlock finally returns from the dead, only to confront a different kind of mortality.
Eventide
Mycroft’s head jerked up from his papers as the little red light on the intercom flashed, his heart already pounding. He’d been jumpy and distracted all morning, finding it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on anything. Right now he could barely have said whether the documents under his pen concerned the current state of the world economy or the ongoing renovation of the building’s toilets. Although to be fair, the differences were minimal. When he reached out to tap the button, he noted absent-mindedly that his hand was trembling.
“He’s here, sir.” Anthea’s voice was calm as ever, but then she had already been fully briefed on the matter, and for her it really meant nothing but the return of yet another demand on her employer.
“Thank you…” Mycroft began, but the door was already opening, and he abruptly closed the connection.
If he’d been in the frame of mind to care about appearances, he’d have remained seated, cool and collected, but at this moment nothing mattered to him except the newly-risen figure in a black suit already closing the door behind him. Mycroft was on his feet instantly, one hand resting lightly on the desk as though it would lend him support. Too much time had passed for him to be able to successfully feign indifference; if anything, it was taking all his self-control just to stay where he was.
“Sherlock,” he said quietly, not bothering to prolong the silence between them, even though it was akin to laying down his entire hand immediately in this absurd game that they had always played.
Sherlock’s mouth quirked at the corners as he acknowledged Mycroft’s concession, and yet for once, he let it go.
“Brother,” he said.
Mycroft did move, then, coming around to stand in front of his desk, an arm’s length away from where Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, glancing calmly about him. For a minute Mycroft did nothing but examine him, absorbing the sight of Sherlock reborn, cataloguing the changes his absence had wrought. Sherlock was thinner than before, his cheekbones sharper under a new and unattractive short crop, his hair growing back out into its natural shade. While he had clearly neglected his health to some degree, his face lacked the particular cast and gauntness of addiction, which was good. His skin was less pale, and slightly chapped, positive signs of increased exposure to the sun. However, the aftermath of a chemical burn marked a patch on the back of his left hand, and the tips of his fingers bore further evidence of long days, or more likely nights, spent in lab work. Although Mycroft had demanded and received regular updates via texts and the occasional email during Sherlock’s absence, it was very different from confirming with his own eyes that Sherlock had, after all, survived intact.
“You look…well.” Mycroft was aware that Sherlock was studying him in turn.
“Pity I can’t say the same for you,” Sherlock responded acerbically, but his eyes were bright.
Mycroft knew all the correct protocols for greeting heads of state and royalty, but at that moment he wasn’t sure what to do. Apparently there was no protocol for the return of little brothers who asked for help after faking their own suicides and then absconded overseas. Leaving a huge mess and a whole new host of problems in their wake. Although everything on that front had now been dealt with satisfactorily, more or less, there was so much Mycroft yet wanted to know; all the things that could not be gleaned from the simplistic black-and-white of letters on a screen. The things he could not bring himself to ask. He half-raised a hand towards Sherlock, in something that was not quite an invitation.
It was enough for Sherlock to move towards him, closing the gap in a swift stride that left no further room for doubt. Sherlock gave Mycroft a quick, searching look as his hand caught hold of Mycroft’s, and their fingers intertwined a second before their mouths met. Sherlock’s lips were soft, his breath warm, and Mycroft sighed in response to a huge wave of relief that suddenly swept all before it. Relief not only that Sherlock was safely home at last, but for himself as well, for all that appeared unchanged between them despite their time apart. Oddly thankful, he released Sherlock’s hand in order to embrace him properly. Mycroft’s fingers slid inside Sherlock’s unbuttoned jacket and across his back, and automatically he traced the bones of Sherlock’s spine through his shirt, following the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, the curves of his ribcage. Some part of him ruthlessly evaluated the valuable sensory input even as Sherlock’s mouth opened sweetly, sincerely, to his.
“Stop that,” Sherlock murmured against him, sounding amused. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“As you like,” Mycroft said, and pushed him away, shaking his head slightly at Sherlock’s smug expression. Certainly Mycroft had been very glad indeed to see him, but it hadn’t turned him into a complete imbecile. Sherlock’s reciprocal embrace had been a shade too affectionate. He held out a hand, palm up, trying to look as stern as he could manage.
“But I’ll have my notebook back now, thank you. And the pen.”
Sherlock’s unapologetic scowl was vastly entertaining. Truly, it had been too long.
“You’ve not been back to Baker Street,” Mycroft said, re-pocketing his property. It came out as more statement than question, but Mycroft could not yet be entirely sure of Sherlock’s priorities.
“No,” Sherlock said, and his face softened infinitesimally as he processed what Mycroft was really asking. “I came here, first.”
The rare gentleness of his tone was reassurance enough to Mycroft that yes, he had been missed.
“And I take it you know where to find John?” Yet another test, disguised as a question.
“Yes.” Sherlock frowned. “I’m afraid he’s not going to be pleased.”
“I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed,” Mycroft said dryly. “Eventually.”
Mycroft was quite certain that once John were reunited with Sherlock he would have no choice but to forgive him, sooner or later. On the other hand, whether John would ever forgive Mycroft for not telling him that Sherlock had been alive and well and merely pining for the fjords all this time was an entirely different matter. One Mycroft fully intended to avoid for as long as possible.
Sherlock, however, already looked anxious to be off. Mycroft stayed him long enough for another kiss, and this time his intent was clear and unequivocal, the push of his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth a statement of claim. A reminder.
“I’ll expect you,” Mycroft said roughly. At a different time he knew Sherlock might well have laughed at his presumption, but at this moment there appeared no danger of that. “Assuming you survive the afternoon.”
“Tonight,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly out of breath, and it was promise enough.
***
Despite the soothing warmth of the central heating, Mycroft slept badly. It could really hardly have been described as sleep at all, except that he was in the generally accepted position with the lights off and his eyes shut. Sherlock was notoriously unreliable in every way, and if he’d managed to find something new and interesting to occupy himself in the hours since Mycroft had seen him last, it could well be a month before he turned up again. Yet tonight Mycroft had chosen to slip naked under the sheets all the same, and the unfamiliar glide of them over his body as he tossed and turned only added to his state of distraction. He knew he was being unjustifiably hopeful; his only consolation being that if Sherlock didn’t show up, he would never know of Mycroft’s weakness.
There. Mycroft jolted instantly into full wakefulness as the outline of Sherlock’s form shadowed the light from the now-open window. He watched as Sherlock jumped lightly into the room, exhibiting the same fluid grace as ever, at least for now. It briefly crossed his mind that in time even Sherlock might have to come to terms with his physical limitations. Mycroft pushed that thought away as their eyes met, the ambient light just enough to see by. There was the hint of a smile on Sherlock’s face that immediately dissolved into more familiar irritation.
“You could have warned me you’d upgraded security,” Sherlock said, as he divested himself quickly of his scarf and coat.
Mycroft reached over to switch on the beside light, then slid closer to the edge of the bed, nearer to Sherlock. He pulled himself up so that he was seated with his back against the headboard, positioning a pillow comfortably behind him for support.
“After Moriarty, it was necessary, you understand. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy the challenge.”
“Oh, I did.”
Sherlock gave him a single glance that took in Mycroft’s state of undress, and then moved to stand beside the bed, just out of his reach. There he began slowly unbuttoning his jacket, his actions now measured and deliberate. Mycroft paid close attention as the jacket came off, and Sherlock’s slender fingers moved onto the buttons of his shirt. It was an unusual gesture; Sherlock knew well how much Mycroft enjoyed watching him, but was rarely in the humour to indulge him unless he wanted something in particular. Which would more than likely prove to be the case tonight as well, but Mycroft took his pleasures where he could.
“How is Baker Street?” Mycroft inquired. It was a small but pointed reminder to Sherlock that it had been Mycroft who’d ensured his rooms had remained intact and relatively untouched during his absence.
“Excessively clean, but otherwise acceptable.”
Which was about as close to a thank you as Mycroft had expected to get. He sat with his knees drawn up, and his chin resting in the heel of one hand, watching appreciatively as Sherlock stripped off the shirt. While Sherlock acted as though he were wholly indifferent to Mycroft’s scrutiny, it was obvious from his breathing that this was not entirely the case, and Mycroft took pleasure in that as well.
“And Mrs Hudson?”
“I hadn’t realised she was so prone to hysteria.” Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly.
“Do try to remember you were dead, Sherlock. I imagine most people would find that a little difficult to come to terms with.”
Mycroft shifted a little under the sheets, already hard, although for the time being the covers concealed this from view. His desire to touch increased proportionately as Sherlock’s hands moved to unbuckle his belt, followed by the button and zip of his trousers. Finally Sherlock shed the last of his clothing and stood there naked before him, allowing Mycroft to contemplate him from head to foot. Much as Mycroft had always found Sherlock’s dark mop of hair ridiculously Byronic, he thought that with it cropped short Sherlock looked slightly less sure of himself, more vulnerable. The long, shapely lines of his body seemed relatively unchanged, although the hollow at the base of his throat was perhaps deeper, the angles of his hip bones more pronounced. Mycroft had an eye for beauty in all things, and while he would never admit it, Sherlock’s form brought him almost as much gratification to behold as to possess.
The guilt was there too, of course, as it always was. Never mind that it was Sherlock who had begun it, and who’d so destructively resisted all efforts to end it. Mycroft was still plagued with the thoughts that he was still responsible, that he should know better, that if only he’d been smarter or stronger, things would not have turned out this way. However, he seemed to be condemned to permanent stupidity where Sherlock was concerned. He had learned to live with the discomfort, even to welcome it as his due. The rarest pleasures always came with their price.
Mycroft stretched forth a hand as Sherlock took a step closer, and stroked it appreciatively down one side of his body from waist to hip. Sherlock’s cock was slim and soft in a tangle of dark hair, and Mycroft longed to take it into his mouth, to feel Sherlock’s pulse against his tongue. Instead he pulled Sherlock down towards him into a kiss, capturing his lips instead, running his hand over the muscled curve of Sherlock’s arse.
“No new bruises, at least,” he said, stroking his fingertips gently against the skin of Sherlock’s shoulders and chest. He brushed the ball of one thumb across a raised nipple, enjoying Sherlock’s gasp. “John took it well, then?”
Sherlock’s gaze refocused sharply as he looked at Mycroft. “He was remarkably calm, as a matter of fact. Well, after he regained consciousness.”
“Sherlock, what exactly did you do?” Mycroft tried his best to look disapproving, but spoiled it by pulling Sherlock towards him for another kiss.
“I disguised myself as a drug rep and paid him a brief but eventful visit.”
“That seems rather…unnecessarily cruel and dramatic.”
“Unlike kidnapping and interrogation, you mean.” Sherlock shrugged. “Anyway, I escaped undamaged.”
“I’m surprised he’s let you out of his sight since.”
“As I’m sure you’re well aware, he has a fiancée to go home to. For now, anyway.”
The covers were flipped back, and Mycroft guided Sherlock up onto the bed, pulling him close until Sherlock was straddling him. Sherlock’s cock was already semi-erect, and Mycroft gave it a few preparatory strokes before giving into temptation, and taking it carefully into his mouth. One hand moved to cup and fondle Sherlock, who groaned, panting, as Mycroft savoured the musk-salt-sweat of him. It was just as he remembered; heady, wonderful. He paused briefly to lick once along the shaft with practised ease, before taking Sherlock back into his mouth and curling his tongue firmly around the glans. Sherlock was moaning in earnest now, bucking hard against him before Mycroft released him in order to stroke further with his hand. He was beautiful in the yellow glow of lamplight, his skin slightly flushed, glistening.
The bottle of oil was already on the bedside table, and Mycroft broke off long enough to reach for it, forcing Sherlock to shift slightly, out of his way. He tipped some into his hand, coating his fingers as Sherlock watched him intently. As he moved back into position Sherlock took hold of his wrist, staying him, and Mycroft glanced up in surprise. Sherlock looked troubled now, his eyes dark and serious, not quite looking at Mycroft.
“Mycroft,” he said. “I think…there’s something you ought to know. After I visited the surgery, John came back to see Baker Street with me. We talked. A little. He made tea. And then after that…he seemed to want to kiss me.”
“How very interesting.” Mycroft leaned back against the headboard, holding one hand under the other to capture any errant drips.
“I wanted him to.”
Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement.
“Then he wanted to touch me. More than before. Something about needing to check if I were real, although by then it really should have been perfectly obvious. I didn’t do anything with him. Not like this. But he wanted…I brought him off with my hand. Then he became overly emotional for a time, and after that I made him leave. He didn’t want to.” The words came out in a rush, as though Sherlock were trying to conclude as quickly as possible. He glanced at Mycroft briefly, then looked away again.
“All right. So it only takes your apparent death and resurrection to overcome all of John’s very reasonable qualms. I suppose that’s useful to know. And exactly why are you telling me this now?”
“It seems appropriate.” Sherlock’s fingers traced a nervous spiral on Mycroft’s thigh. “Considering.”
“Did you want me to stop?”
“No. But I thought you might. That is the usual way of things, isn’t it?”
“Sherlock, none of this has ever resembled the usual way of anything.”
There was silence for a long moment as Sherlock appeared to draw into himself, processing.
“John doesn’t know,” he said at last, finally meeting Mycroft’s gaze again. “About you. This.”
“And is that a problem?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then I’m not sure what you expect me to say. Whatever you want, Sherlock. It’s fine. If there should come a time when I’m not…well, John’s a good man to have on your side.”
“What do you mean? When you’re not what?” Sherlock frowned at him.
“Nothing,” Mycroft said quickly. “Just a stray thought.”
Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. “You don’t have stray thoughts, Mycroft. Are you planning on going somewhere?”
“No, of course not. Now unless you’ve changed your mind, come here.”
Mycroft drew Sherlock down beside him until they were lying facing each other, propped up slightly on opposing forearms. Then he began to kiss Sherlock again, slow and deep, while his slick right hand trailed down the shaft of Sherlock’s cock, nudging his thighs apart to run further down over his sac and along the seam of his perineum. He stayed there for a while, rubbing in gentle circular movements as he plundered Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock responded encouragingly enough, but at the same time he seemed slightly distant, distracted, and Mycroft could tell a part of his attention was still focused elsewhere. When he finally breached Sherlock with the tip of a finger, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he sighed in pleasure, opening his legs wider, but as Mycroft pressed in deeper, the distracted look quickly returned.
“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, with a hint of irritation. He withdrew his hand completely, and waited until Sherlock opened his eyes. “I thought you wanted this.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“Then…”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Yes, your violin’s in storage and Mrs Hudson dropped the ashtray,” Mycroft informed him. “On purpose. Any other little details you might require? It’s only been two years, and we have all night.”
Sherlock wrinkled his face in exasperation. “Stop trying to distract me.”
“You seem to be doing quite nicely all by yourself. Despite my best efforts.”
“It’s just…strange. You don’t seem at all concerned by what happened with John.”
“Would it make you feel better if I was? In that case, I am deeply jealous and demand you stop seeing him at once. Which could prove difficult if you become flatmates again.”
“And you’re evading. Furiously.”
Mycroft knew when he was beaten. He lay back on the pillow with a deep sigh, stared up at the woodwork, and folded his arms. “Fine. Wake me if you decide you want to continue.”
“You seemed almost pleased. Why would you be pleased about John? I know you, Mycroft. You don’t like to share.”
“He cares about you, Sherlock. You trust him. You need someone like that.”
“I thought I already had someone like that.” He looked at Mycroft pointedly.
“Things change, Sherlock. People change. You can’t expect things to go on forever…the way they are.”
“Meaning what? This?” Sherlock looked at him sharply. “That’s the second time you’ve started speculating pointlessly about the future.”
“Well, it’s something people usually consider.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s going to happen whether you’re prepared for it or not.”
“Now you just sound like a fortune cookie. One of the duller ones, too. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ It’s never something useful, like, ‘Look out for that bus!’.”
“You’re right. Maybe you should just go. John would appreciate that, I’m sure.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” Sherlock’s tone was sharp with annoyance, but his eyes were restless, determined, studying Mycroft intently. “And I realise I’ve been away, but it doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly been struck blind or stupid, although you seem to want to believe that I have. There’s something important you’re not telling me. Something that worries you. Even at your office I could see you’d lost weight, but the pallor of your skin and the roughness in your voice suggest that it hasn’t been in a healthy way; I’d say it was from excessive smoking, except that there’s no trace of it on your breath. You look tired, and from the lines around your eyes you’ve been sleeping even less than I do. You’re avoiding questions, being excessively morbid, and I know you don’t really want me to leave. So what is this about? It’s not me, for a change, and it’s not your work, or you wouldn’t have left it. It’s personal. It can’t possibly be someone trying to kill you again; you should be used to that by now.”
“Be careful, Sherlock, or someone might actually think you cared.”
“You know if you don’t tell me, I’ll just make it my business to find out. Although it might mean I have to follow you around for a while, ask a few questions. Could get a little embarrassing, what with your office’s lack of really decent security. It’s a good thing you don’t ever have any important meetings that might suffer from disruptions, or visiting dignitaries you might need to impress.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why did I ever think it would be a good idea for you to return to London?”
Sherlock didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. He only leaned forward to press his lips to Mycroft’s lightly, before pulling away. Then he sat there and simply waited, one hand stroking the lightly freckled skin of Mycroft’s shoulder. You’re going to tell me. Now. Mycroft could feel the impatience radiating from him through the touch, like the hum of high-voltage current. Still, he hesitated, trying to think of the right way to proceed. Although normally never at a loss for words, he hadn’t expected to discuss this particular subject at this particular time. Least of all in such a state of undress.
“It was nothing, Sherlock,” he said, finally, avoiding his brother’s gaze. He dragged himself back up to a sitting position, his knees drawn up protectively, studying the shadows on the far wall. It was easier that way. “Just an inconvenience, really.”
“What happened? When?”
“About nine months after your…suicide. At first it wasn’t any wonder that I was always tired. We were still trying to unravel what remained of Moriarty’s network, and then there was the Barclays scandal, and the Olympics to prepare for. I even lost my appetite for a while, incredible as that might sound.” Mycroft smiled slightly, and looked at Sherlock, but his brother’s capacity for mockery had apparently deserted him. “Too many meetings; I was making myself hoarse from speaking.”
He glanced away, and his hand unconsciously rose to the base of his throat, stroking it. “At least, I thought that was all it was.” He took a deep breath, then turned back to Sherlock. “It was early; I was very fortunate. I had some minor endoscopic surgery, radiotherapy. Only for six weeks, and then it was sufficiently dealt with. All clear, at least for now. At the time you were in Norway, if I recall. I even thought about calling you once, instead of texting, but it was difficult to talk, you understand.”
“Mycroft.”
He felt a hand close on his forearm, but shrugged it off furiously, appalled by the look in Sherlock’s eyes.
“I’m fine. As I’m sure you’ll discover for yourself when you inevitably hack my medical records. And no, John doesn’t know a thing about it, so there’s no point in interrogating him. We’re still not…exactly on the best of terms.”
“I could have found a way to come back. Discreetly. If you’d said.”
“And do what, exactly? Annoy the doctors? Hold my hand? Hardly your forté.” Mycroft ignored the way Sherlock glowered at him. “But it should be obvious now even to you that I’m not being morbid, I’m being practical. You’ve always needed so much, Sherlock. Not just money. Time. Attention. And much as we’d both like to believe that I’m immortal, it’s simply not true. I’m very pleased to hear that John has apparently not only forgiven you but come to his senses at last. He’ll be…very good for you.” Mycroft ducked his head briefly, looking away.
“It’s not your decision,” Sherlock said harshly. “You can’t just pass me off onto John like some burden to bear. Just because you think one day you might not… just because you’re tired of me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. You know that’s not it. You possess infinite variety. But very little sense.”
Sherlock reached out for him, then, and Mycroft put up only a token resistance before giving in. He was pulled in until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s, and he felt a hand loop around the back of his neck, holding him close.
“Despite what you clearly still think of me, Mycroft, I’m not a child. And I stopped needing a caretaker some time ago, in case you hadn’t noticed. I have been fine. I will be fine. So you can stop trying to protect me from…things.” Sherlock’s eyes were shut, but Mycroft heard his breath hitch, just once, and felt the slight tightening of his grip. When Sherlock opened his eyes again they glimmered a little in the light, but were hard and clear. “I’m not about to give up…either of you.”
Mycroft sighed, doing his best not to envision John’s reaction, and failing. “Making things unutterably complicated, as usual. Sometimes I wonder what life must be like for normal people.”
“Boring, I hear. Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Always so suspicious.” Mycroft’s tone was fond, resigned.
“With good reason.”
“Nothing that won’t keep.”
“In that case, maybe you should shut up and get on with it before I die of old age.”
That’s exactly what I was trying to do, Mycroft thought, exasperated, but the plea in Sherlock’s eyes was very much at odds with his barbed words, and it persuaded Mycroft to silence. He was also distinctly aware that Sherlock hadn’t demanded to know the details of his long-term prognosis, nor raised the unavoidable possibility of a recurrence. Obvious questions, with quite reassuring answers, but all the same ones that Mycroft had no wish to discuss with him; especially not now, of all times. Coming from Sherlock, such restraint felt almost like compassion, and it left Mycroft feeling strangely, deeply grateful.
He did his best to dismiss the matter entirely as he began tugging Sherlock over to straddle him again, only to find himself being pushed gently but firmly against the headboard. This time Sherlock began to kiss him in full earnest, his tongue invading Mycroft’s mouth, the rest of his body pressed up against Mycroft’s as though making up for lost time. Mycroft knew Sherlock had a passionate streak somewhere, but one he usually reserved for more important things, such as dismembered corpses and unconventional crime scenes. He thought with a brief flicker of amusement that perhaps this meant he really should be worried. However, despite everything Sherlock’s mouth was impossibly soft against his, and Mycroft was quickly reduced to groaning wordlessly into it, letting the sound convey all the things he would never be able to say.
He forgot himself for a long moment as Sherlock’s resurgent erection rubbed against his belly, while his own fingers clutched at the skin of Sherlock’s back. His own cock was already heavy and full as Sherlock took it between his own legs, rutting the cleft of himself against it slowly, sweat and pre-come easing the way. It all felt too much, too soon, and before long he pushed Sherlock away, breathing hard, trying to hold himself together. It was Sherlock who moved then, fingers scrabbling for the bottle on the side table, which he passed to Mycroft with the minimum of disruption.
For a time he forced himself to concentrate on finishing the job of preparing Sherlock, finding it increasingly difficult to focus as Sherlock pushed back and down onto his fingers, moaning deep in his throat. Sherlock alternated between kissing him and leaning forward to allow him deeper penetration, burying his face in the crook of Mycroft’s neck, breath hot and damp against his skin. It was Sherlock who pushed his hand away before Mycroft thought him sufficiently ready, rolling them over together so that Mycroft was on top, kneeling on all fours over the length of Sherlock’s body. Then Sherlock’s hand was reaching between his legs, stroking him, and he closed his eyes as he bit his lip and thrust into Sherlock’s fist, wanting more, wanting all of him.
He gasped out Sherlock’s name, just once, unable to stop himself.
Sherlock brought his legs up, then, pushing Mycroft further along his body, and Mycroft felt Sherlock’s hand reach for him, guiding him into place. Sherlock’s body was tight and hot, welcoming, but he took his time, pushing in slowly even as Sherlock did his best to force him deeper. To Mycroft it felt intimately, luxuriously familiar; he knew exactly how quickly Sherlock’s body would accept him, how best to angle his thrusts to make Sherlock writhe and beg. He loved having Sherlock under him, always took pleasure in watching the flutter of Sherlock’s closed eyelids above the full curve of his mouth; but tonight was different. For once Sherlock’s eyes were open, left deliberately unguarded, letting Mycroft bear witness to the full force of his desire. His pupils were wide and desperate, emptied of their usual fierce intelligence, and the arrogant curl of his lips had been replaced by panting, open-mouthed need. The sight was overwhelming, and Mycroft found himself swept along on a wave of hopeless, useless, sentiment. He began to babble softly, able to hold back nothing, inflicting nonsense upon Sherlock without mercy.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said at last, curving his neck up as far as he could in order to kiss him. “Need you…please.”
It was rare, too, that Sherlock ceded control to him in this way, and at this point Mycroft could deny him nothing. He pulled back, then, still deep inside Sherlock’s body, and took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, bringing him off rapidly with firm, even strokes. Sherlock’s head twisted on the pillow as he came, and his whimpering reached its crescendo as his back arched off the bed. He slumped back down, and immediately reached out to pull Mycroft towards him, urging him on. Soon Mycroft was thrusting frantically into Sherlock, and a rush of pent-up lust and longing overtook him at last, leaving him trembling helplessly on the edge, lost in the blurring haze of his desire. The force of his orgasm left him shattered and spent, sprawled breathlessly on top of Sherlock’s unprotesting form. His hands clutched weakly at Sherlock’s shoulders while Sherlock’s fingers stroked his back, caressing, calming.
Eventually he knew he needed to move, but nothing seemed inclined to obey him. It was Sherlock who took charge, levering him off and onto his back. Mycroft was still floating, so dizzy with the endorphin rush that he could only run a hand down the side of Sherlock’s face in wonder. Sherlock kissed him softly, almost tentatively, and for a moment it was as though he had never been away. Mycroft lay there, dozing lightly, as Sherlock padded off to the bathroom. He came back in short order, handing Mycroft a damp flannel without a word before slipping back into bed. When Mycroft was done, he set it aside and finally settled himself against Sherlock, curling around him from behind.
“Stay,” he suggested, knowing the rooms at Baker Street stood cold and empty. For now.
Sherlock said nothing, but wriggled himself more firmly into Mycroft’s embrace. Mycroft let him go long enough to reach over and switch off the light. They lay there quietly for a time, drifting, wrapped in the warmth and stillness of the room.
“You know none of it really matters,” Sherlock mumbled suddenly. “A hundred years from now we’ll all be dead. So whether you unravel some terrorist plot in the morning or I track down a serial killer next week makes no difference at all, not on a historical time scale. We just like to pretend it does, don’t we? Because it’s fun. Because it passes the time. Because we couldn’t bear it otherwise. Not even you, Mycroft.”
“Now who’s being morbid?”
“Practical, I think. So there’s no point in worrying about things that might or might not happen. One just has to get on with it. Living.”
Mycroft nuzzled against the edges of Sherlock’s too-short hair. “I always said you could have been a philosopher. Or failing that, a writer of fortune cookies.”
Sherlock made a small sound of disgust and twisted in his grasp, but Mycroft only held him closer in the darkness and breathed deeply, content.
***
Where is death's sting?
Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still,
If thou abide with me.
By: daasgrrl
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Mycroft/Sherlock, Sherlock/John (incidental)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,400
Warnings/contents: Consensual sibling incest, self-indulgent angst, smut, emotional repression. The usual. Also note the implicit warning in the summary, although everyone makes it out alive.
Beta: Thank you as always to evila_elf for feedback and advice.
Notes: Post-Reichenbach fic, written because there can never be enough love for Mycroft in the world. Minor elements pay tribute to ACD canon, although Sherlock's time abroad has been shortened from three years to two. Notionally set in the same universe as Kindred Spirits (AO3), but essentially independent.
Summary: Sherlock finally returns from the dead, only to confront a different kind of mortality.
Eventide
Mycroft’s head jerked up from his papers as the little red light on the intercom flashed, his heart already pounding. He’d been jumpy and distracted all morning, finding it exceedingly difficult to concentrate on anything. Right now he could barely have said whether the documents under his pen concerned the current state of the world economy or the ongoing renovation of the building’s toilets. Although to be fair, the differences were minimal. When he reached out to tap the button, he noted absent-mindedly that his hand was trembling.
“He’s here, sir.” Anthea’s voice was calm as ever, but then she had already been fully briefed on the matter, and for her it really meant nothing but the return of yet another demand on her employer.
“Thank you…” Mycroft began, but the door was already opening, and he abruptly closed the connection.
If he’d been in the frame of mind to care about appearances, he’d have remained seated, cool and collected, but at this moment nothing mattered to him except the newly-risen figure in a black suit already closing the door behind him. Mycroft was on his feet instantly, one hand resting lightly on the desk as though it would lend him support. Too much time had passed for him to be able to successfully feign indifference; if anything, it was taking all his self-control just to stay where he was.
“Sherlock,” he said quietly, not bothering to prolong the silence between them, even though it was akin to laying down his entire hand immediately in this absurd game that they had always played.
Sherlock’s mouth quirked at the corners as he acknowledged Mycroft’s concession, and yet for once, he let it go.
“Brother,” he said.
Mycroft did move, then, coming around to stand in front of his desk, an arm’s length away from where Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, glancing calmly about him. For a minute Mycroft did nothing but examine him, absorbing the sight of Sherlock reborn, cataloguing the changes his absence had wrought. Sherlock was thinner than before, his cheekbones sharper under a new and unattractive short crop, his hair growing back out into its natural shade. While he had clearly neglected his health to some degree, his face lacked the particular cast and gauntness of addiction, which was good. His skin was less pale, and slightly chapped, positive signs of increased exposure to the sun. However, the aftermath of a chemical burn marked a patch on the back of his left hand, and the tips of his fingers bore further evidence of long days, or more likely nights, spent in lab work. Although Mycroft had demanded and received regular updates via texts and the occasional email during Sherlock’s absence, it was very different from confirming with his own eyes that Sherlock had, after all, survived intact.
“You look…well.” Mycroft was aware that Sherlock was studying him in turn.
“Pity I can’t say the same for you,” Sherlock responded acerbically, but his eyes were bright.
Mycroft knew all the correct protocols for greeting heads of state and royalty, but at that moment he wasn’t sure what to do. Apparently there was no protocol for the return of little brothers who asked for help after faking their own suicides and then absconded overseas. Leaving a huge mess and a whole new host of problems in their wake. Although everything on that front had now been dealt with satisfactorily, more or less, there was so much Mycroft yet wanted to know; all the things that could not be gleaned from the simplistic black-and-white of letters on a screen. The things he could not bring himself to ask. He half-raised a hand towards Sherlock, in something that was not quite an invitation.
It was enough for Sherlock to move towards him, closing the gap in a swift stride that left no further room for doubt. Sherlock gave Mycroft a quick, searching look as his hand caught hold of Mycroft’s, and their fingers intertwined a second before their mouths met. Sherlock’s lips were soft, his breath warm, and Mycroft sighed in response to a huge wave of relief that suddenly swept all before it. Relief not only that Sherlock was safely home at last, but for himself as well, for all that appeared unchanged between them despite their time apart. Oddly thankful, he released Sherlock’s hand in order to embrace him properly. Mycroft’s fingers slid inside Sherlock’s unbuttoned jacket and across his back, and automatically he traced the bones of Sherlock’s spine through his shirt, following the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, the curves of his ribcage. Some part of him ruthlessly evaluated the valuable sensory input even as Sherlock’s mouth opened sweetly, sincerely, to his.
“Stop that,” Sherlock murmured against him, sounding amused. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“As you like,” Mycroft said, and pushed him away, shaking his head slightly at Sherlock’s smug expression. Certainly Mycroft had been very glad indeed to see him, but it hadn’t turned him into a complete imbecile. Sherlock’s reciprocal embrace had been a shade too affectionate. He held out a hand, palm up, trying to look as stern as he could manage.
“But I’ll have my notebook back now, thank you. And the pen.”
Sherlock’s unapologetic scowl was vastly entertaining. Truly, it had been too long.
“You’ve not been back to Baker Street,” Mycroft said, re-pocketing his property. It came out as more statement than question, but Mycroft could not yet be entirely sure of Sherlock’s priorities.
“No,” Sherlock said, and his face softened infinitesimally as he processed what Mycroft was really asking. “I came here, first.”
The rare gentleness of his tone was reassurance enough to Mycroft that yes, he had been missed.
“And I take it you know where to find John?” Yet another test, disguised as a question.
“Yes.” Sherlock frowned. “I’m afraid he’s not going to be pleased.”
“I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed,” Mycroft said dryly. “Eventually.”
Mycroft was quite certain that once John were reunited with Sherlock he would have no choice but to forgive him, sooner or later. On the other hand, whether John would ever forgive Mycroft for not telling him that Sherlock had been alive and well and merely pining for the fjords all this time was an entirely different matter. One Mycroft fully intended to avoid for as long as possible.
Sherlock, however, already looked anxious to be off. Mycroft stayed him long enough for another kiss, and this time his intent was clear and unequivocal, the push of his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth a statement of claim. A reminder.
“I’ll expect you,” Mycroft said roughly. At a different time he knew Sherlock might well have laughed at his presumption, but at this moment there appeared no danger of that. “Assuming you survive the afternoon.”
“Tonight,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly out of breath, and it was promise enough.
***
Despite the soothing warmth of the central heating, Mycroft slept badly. It could really hardly have been described as sleep at all, except that he was in the generally accepted position with the lights off and his eyes shut. Sherlock was notoriously unreliable in every way, and if he’d managed to find something new and interesting to occupy himself in the hours since Mycroft had seen him last, it could well be a month before he turned up again. Yet tonight Mycroft had chosen to slip naked under the sheets all the same, and the unfamiliar glide of them over his body as he tossed and turned only added to his state of distraction. He knew he was being unjustifiably hopeful; his only consolation being that if Sherlock didn’t show up, he would never know of Mycroft’s weakness.
There. Mycroft jolted instantly into full wakefulness as the outline of Sherlock’s form shadowed the light from the now-open window. He watched as Sherlock jumped lightly into the room, exhibiting the same fluid grace as ever, at least for now. It briefly crossed his mind that in time even Sherlock might have to come to terms with his physical limitations. Mycroft pushed that thought away as their eyes met, the ambient light just enough to see by. There was the hint of a smile on Sherlock’s face that immediately dissolved into more familiar irritation.
“You could have warned me you’d upgraded security,” Sherlock said, as he divested himself quickly of his scarf and coat.
Mycroft reached over to switch on the beside light, then slid closer to the edge of the bed, nearer to Sherlock. He pulled himself up so that he was seated with his back against the headboard, positioning a pillow comfortably behind him for support.
“After Moriarty, it was necessary, you understand. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy the challenge.”
“Oh, I did.”
Sherlock gave him a single glance that took in Mycroft’s state of undress, and then moved to stand beside the bed, just out of his reach. There he began slowly unbuttoning his jacket, his actions now measured and deliberate. Mycroft paid close attention as the jacket came off, and Sherlock’s slender fingers moved onto the buttons of his shirt. It was an unusual gesture; Sherlock knew well how much Mycroft enjoyed watching him, but was rarely in the humour to indulge him unless he wanted something in particular. Which would more than likely prove to be the case tonight as well, but Mycroft took his pleasures where he could.
“How is Baker Street?” Mycroft inquired. It was a small but pointed reminder to Sherlock that it had been Mycroft who’d ensured his rooms had remained intact and relatively untouched during his absence.
“Excessively clean, but otherwise acceptable.”
Which was about as close to a thank you as Mycroft had expected to get. He sat with his knees drawn up, and his chin resting in the heel of one hand, watching appreciatively as Sherlock stripped off the shirt. While Sherlock acted as though he were wholly indifferent to Mycroft’s scrutiny, it was obvious from his breathing that this was not entirely the case, and Mycroft took pleasure in that as well.
“And Mrs Hudson?”
“I hadn’t realised she was so prone to hysteria.” Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly.
“Do try to remember you were dead, Sherlock. I imagine most people would find that a little difficult to come to terms with.”
Mycroft shifted a little under the sheets, already hard, although for the time being the covers concealed this from view. His desire to touch increased proportionately as Sherlock’s hands moved to unbuckle his belt, followed by the button and zip of his trousers. Finally Sherlock shed the last of his clothing and stood there naked before him, allowing Mycroft to contemplate him from head to foot. Much as Mycroft had always found Sherlock’s dark mop of hair ridiculously Byronic, he thought that with it cropped short Sherlock looked slightly less sure of himself, more vulnerable. The long, shapely lines of his body seemed relatively unchanged, although the hollow at the base of his throat was perhaps deeper, the angles of his hip bones more pronounced. Mycroft had an eye for beauty in all things, and while he would never admit it, Sherlock’s form brought him almost as much gratification to behold as to possess.
The guilt was there too, of course, as it always was. Never mind that it was Sherlock who had begun it, and who’d so destructively resisted all efforts to end it. Mycroft was still plagued with the thoughts that he was still responsible, that he should know better, that if only he’d been smarter or stronger, things would not have turned out this way. However, he seemed to be condemned to permanent stupidity where Sherlock was concerned. He had learned to live with the discomfort, even to welcome it as his due. The rarest pleasures always came with their price.
Mycroft stretched forth a hand as Sherlock took a step closer, and stroked it appreciatively down one side of his body from waist to hip. Sherlock’s cock was slim and soft in a tangle of dark hair, and Mycroft longed to take it into his mouth, to feel Sherlock’s pulse against his tongue. Instead he pulled Sherlock down towards him into a kiss, capturing his lips instead, running his hand over the muscled curve of Sherlock’s arse.
“No new bruises, at least,” he said, stroking his fingertips gently against the skin of Sherlock’s shoulders and chest. He brushed the ball of one thumb across a raised nipple, enjoying Sherlock’s gasp. “John took it well, then?”
Sherlock’s gaze refocused sharply as he looked at Mycroft. “He was remarkably calm, as a matter of fact. Well, after he regained consciousness.”
“Sherlock, what exactly did you do?” Mycroft tried his best to look disapproving, but spoiled it by pulling Sherlock towards him for another kiss.
“I disguised myself as a drug rep and paid him a brief but eventful visit.”
“That seems rather…unnecessarily cruel and dramatic.”
“Unlike kidnapping and interrogation, you mean.” Sherlock shrugged. “Anyway, I escaped undamaged.”
“I’m surprised he’s let you out of his sight since.”
“As I’m sure you’re well aware, he has a fiancée to go home to. For now, anyway.”
The covers were flipped back, and Mycroft guided Sherlock up onto the bed, pulling him close until Sherlock was straddling him. Sherlock’s cock was already semi-erect, and Mycroft gave it a few preparatory strokes before giving into temptation, and taking it carefully into his mouth. One hand moved to cup and fondle Sherlock, who groaned, panting, as Mycroft savoured the musk-salt-sweat of him. It was just as he remembered; heady, wonderful. He paused briefly to lick once along the shaft with practised ease, before taking Sherlock back into his mouth and curling his tongue firmly around the glans. Sherlock was moaning in earnest now, bucking hard against him before Mycroft released him in order to stroke further with his hand. He was beautiful in the yellow glow of lamplight, his skin slightly flushed, glistening.
The bottle of oil was already on the bedside table, and Mycroft broke off long enough to reach for it, forcing Sherlock to shift slightly, out of his way. He tipped some into his hand, coating his fingers as Sherlock watched him intently. As he moved back into position Sherlock took hold of his wrist, staying him, and Mycroft glanced up in surprise. Sherlock looked troubled now, his eyes dark and serious, not quite looking at Mycroft.
“Mycroft,” he said. “I think…there’s something you ought to know. After I visited the surgery, John came back to see Baker Street with me. We talked. A little. He made tea. And then after that…he seemed to want to kiss me.”
“How very interesting.” Mycroft leaned back against the headboard, holding one hand under the other to capture any errant drips.
“I wanted him to.”
Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement.
“Then he wanted to touch me. More than before. Something about needing to check if I were real, although by then it really should have been perfectly obvious. I didn’t do anything with him. Not like this. But he wanted…I brought him off with my hand. Then he became overly emotional for a time, and after that I made him leave. He didn’t want to.” The words came out in a rush, as though Sherlock were trying to conclude as quickly as possible. He glanced at Mycroft briefly, then looked away again.
“All right. So it only takes your apparent death and resurrection to overcome all of John’s very reasonable qualms. I suppose that’s useful to know. And exactly why are you telling me this now?”
“It seems appropriate.” Sherlock’s fingers traced a nervous spiral on Mycroft’s thigh. “Considering.”
“Did you want me to stop?”
“No. But I thought you might. That is the usual way of things, isn’t it?”
“Sherlock, none of this has ever resembled the usual way of anything.”
There was silence for a long moment as Sherlock appeared to draw into himself, processing.
“John doesn’t know,” he said at last, finally meeting Mycroft’s gaze again. “About you. This.”
“And is that a problem?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then I’m not sure what you expect me to say. Whatever you want, Sherlock. It’s fine. If there should come a time when I’m not…well, John’s a good man to have on your side.”
“What do you mean? When you’re not what?” Sherlock frowned at him.
“Nothing,” Mycroft said quickly. “Just a stray thought.”
Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. “You don’t have stray thoughts, Mycroft. Are you planning on going somewhere?”
“No, of course not. Now unless you’ve changed your mind, come here.”
Mycroft drew Sherlock down beside him until they were lying facing each other, propped up slightly on opposing forearms. Then he began to kiss Sherlock again, slow and deep, while his slick right hand trailed down the shaft of Sherlock’s cock, nudging his thighs apart to run further down over his sac and along the seam of his perineum. He stayed there for a while, rubbing in gentle circular movements as he plundered Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock responded encouragingly enough, but at the same time he seemed slightly distant, distracted, and Mycroft could tell a part of his attention was still focused elsewhere. When he finally breached Sherlock with the tip of a finger, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he sighed in pleasure, opening his legs wider, but as Mycroft pressed in deeper, the distracted look quickly returned.
“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, with a hint of irritation. He withdrew his hand completely, and waited until Sherlock opened his eyes. “I thought you wanted this.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“Then…”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Yes, your violin’s in storage and Mrs Hudson dropped the ashtray,” Mycroft informed him. “On purpose. Any other little details you might require? It’s only been two years, and we have all night.”
Sherlock wrinkled his face in exasperation. “Stop trying to distract me.”
“You seem to be doing quite nicely all by yourself. Despite my best efforts.”
“It’s just…strange. You don’t seem at all concerned by what happened with John.”
“Would it make you feel better if I was? In that case, I am deeply jealous and demand you stop seeing him at once. Which could prove difficult if you become flatmates again.”
“And you’re evading. Furiously.”
Mycroft knew when he was beaten. He lay back on the pillow with a deep sigh, stared up at the woodwork, and folded his arms. “Fine. Wake me if you decide you want to continue.”
“You seemed almost pleased. Why would you be pleased about John? I know you, Mycroft. You don’t like to share.”
“He cares about you, Sherlock. You trust him. You need someone like that.”
“I thought I already had someone like that.” He looked at Mycroft pointedly.
“Things change, Sherlock. People change. You can’t expect things to go on forever…the way they are.”
“Meaning what? This?” Sherlock looked at him sharply. “That’s the second time you’ve started speculating pointlessly about the future.”
“Well, it’s something people usually consider.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s going to happen whether you’re prepared for it or not.”
“Now you just sound like a fortune cookie. One of the duller ones, too. ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ It’s never something useful, like, ‘Look out for that bus!’.”
“You’re right. Maybe you should just go. John would appreciate that, I’m sure.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.” Sherlock’s tone was sharp with annoyance, but his eyes were restless, determined, studying Mycroft intently. “And I realise I’ve been away, but it doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly been struck blind or stupid, although you seem to want to believe that I have. There’s something important you’re not telling me. Something that worries you. Even at your office I could see you’d lost weight, but the pallor of your skin and the roughness in your voice suggest that it hasn’t been in a healthy way; I’d say it was from excessive smoking, except that there’s no trace of it on your breath. You look tired, and from the lines around your eyes you’ve been sleeping even less than I do. You’re avoiding questions, being excessively morbid, and I know you don’t really want me to leave. So what is this about? It’s not me, for a change, and it’s not your work, or you wouldn’t have left it. It’s personal. It can’t possibly be someone trying to kill you again; you should be used to that by now.”
“Be careful, Sherlock, or someone might actually think you cared.”
“You know if you don’t tell me, I’ll just make it my business to find out. Although it might mean I have to follow you around for a while, ask a few questions. Could get a little embarrassing, what with your office’s lack of really decent security. It’s a good thing you don’t ever have any important meetings that might suffer from disruptions, or visiting dignitaries you might need to impress.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why did I ever think it would be a good idea for you to return to London?”
Sherlock didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. He only leaned forward to press his lips to Mycroft’s lightly, before pulling away. Then he sat there and simply waited, one hand stroking the lightly freckled skin of Mycroft’s shoulder. You’re going to tell me. Now. Mycroft could feel the impatience radiating from him through the touch, like the hum of high-voltage current. Still, he hesitated, trying to think of the right way to proceed. Although normally never at a loss for words, he hadn’t expected to discuss this particular subject at this particular time. Least of all in such a state of undress.
“It was nothing, Sherlock,” he said, finally, avoiding his brother’s gaze. He dragged himself back up to a sitting position, his knees drawn up protectively, studying the shadows on the far wall. It was easier that way. “Just an inconvenience, really.”
“What happened? When?”
“About nine months after your…suicide. At first it wasn’t any wonder that I was always tired. We were still trying to unravel what remained of Moriarty’s network, and then there was the Barclays scandal, and the Olympics to prepare for. I even lost my appetite for a while, incredible as that might sound.” Mycroft smiled slightly, and looked at Sherlock, but his brother’s capacity for mockery had apparently deserted him. “Too many meetings; I was making myself hoarse from speaking.”
He glanced away, and his hand unconsciously rose to the base of his throat, stroking it. “At least, I thought that was all it was.” He took a deep breath, then turned back to Sherlock. “It was early; I was very fortunate. I had some minor endoscopic surgery, radiotherapy. Only for six weeks, and then it was sufficiently dealt with. All clear, at least for now. At the time you were in Norway, if I recall. I even thought about calling you once, instead of texting, but it was difficult to talk, you understand.”
“Mycroft.”
He felt a hand close on his forearm, but shrugged it off furiously, appalled by the look in Sherlock’s eyes.
“I’m fine. As I’m sure you’ll discover for yourself when you inevitably hack my medical records. And no, John doesn’t know a thing about it, so there’s no point in interrogating him. We’re still not…exactly on the best of terms.”
“I could have found a way to come back. Discreetly. If you’d said.”
“And do what, exactly? Annoy the doctors? Hold my hand? Hardly your forté.” Mycroft ignored the way Sherlock glowered at him. “But it should be obvious now even to you that I’m not being morbid, I’m being practical. You’ve always needed so much, Sherlock. Not just money. Time. Attention. And much as we’d both like to believe that I’m immortal, it’s simply not true. I’m very pleased to hear that John has apparently not only forgiven you but come to his senses at last. He’ll be…very good for you.” Mycroft ducked his head briefly, looking away.
“It’s not your decision,” Sherlock said harshly. “You can’t just pass me off onto John like some burden to bear. Just because you think one day you might not… just because you’re tired of me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. You know that’s not it. You possess infinite variety. But very little sense.”
Sherlock reached out for him, then, and Mycroft put up only a token resistance before giving in. He was pulled in until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s, and he felt a hand loop around the back of his neck, holding him close.
“Despite what you clearly still think of me, Mycroft, I’m not a child. And I stopped needing a caretaker some time ago, in case you hadn’t noticed. I have been fine. I will be fine. So you can stop trying to protect me from…things.” Sherlock’s eyes were shut, but Mycroft heard his breath hitch, just once, and felt the slight tightening of his grip. When Sherlock opened his eyes again they glimmered a little in the light, but were hard and clear. “I’m not about to give up…either of you.”
Mycroft sighed, doing his best not to envision John’s reaction, and failing. “Making things unutterably complicated, as usual. Sometimes I wonder what life must be like for normal people.”
“Boring, I hear. Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Always so suspicious.” Mycroft’s tone was fond, resigned.
“With good reason.”
“Nothing that won’t keep.”
“In that case, maybe you should shut up and get on with it before I die of old age.”
That’s exactly what I was trying to do, Mycroft thought, exasperated, but the plea in Sherlock’s eyes was very much at odds with his barbed words, and it persuaded Mycroft to silence. He was also distinctly aware that Sherlock hadn’t demanded to know the details of his long-term prognosis, nor raised the unavoidable possibility of a recurrence. Obvious questions, with quite reassuring answers, but all the same ones that Mycroft had no wish to discuss with him; especially not now, of all times. Coming from Sherlock, such restraint felt almost like compassion, and it left Mycroft feeling strangely, deeply grateful.
He did his best to dismiss the matter entirely as he began tugging Sherlock over to straddle him again, only to find himself being pushed gently but firmly against the headboard. This time Sherlock began to kiss him in full earnest, his tongue invading Mycroft’s mouth, the rest of his body pressed up against Mycroft’s as though making up for lost time. Mycroft knew Sherlock had a passionate streak somewhere, but one he usually reserved for more important things, such as dismembered corpses and unconventional crime scenes. He thought with a brief flicker of amusement that perhaps this meant he really should be worried. However, despite everything Sherlock’s mouth was impossibly soft against his, and Mycroft was quickly reduced to groaning wordlessly into it, letting the sound convey all the things he would never be able to say.
He forgot himself for a long moment as Sherlock’s resurgent erection rubbed against his belly, while his own fingers clutched at the skin of Sherlock’s back. His own cock was already heavy and full as Sherlock took it between his own legs, rutting the cleft of himself against it slowly, sweat and pre-come easing the way. It all felt too much, too soon, and before long he pushed Sherlock away, breathing hard, trying to hold himself together. It was Sherlock who moved then, fingers scrabbling for the bottle on the side table, which he passed to Mycroft with the minimum of disruption.
For a time he forced himself to concentrate on finishing the job of preparing Sherlock, finding it increasingly difficult to focus as Sherlock pushed back and down onto his fingers, moaning deep in his throat. Sherlock alternated between kissing him and leaning forward to allow him deeper penetration, burying his face in the crook of Mycroft’s neck, breath hot and damp against his skin. It was Sherlock who pushed his hand away before Mycroft thought him sufficiently ready, rolling them over together so that Mycroft was on top, kneeling on all fours over the length of Sherlock’s body. Then Sherlock’s hand was reaching between his legs, stroking him, and he closed his eyes as he bit his lip and thrust into Sherlock’s fist, wanting more, wanting all of him.
He gasped out Sherlock’s name, just once, unable to stop himself.
Sherlock brought his legs up, then, pushing Mycroft further along his body, and Mycroft felt Sherlock’s hand reach for him, guiding him into place. Sherlock’s body was tight and hot, welcoming, but he took his time, pushing in slowly even as Sherlock did his best to force him deeper. To Mycroft it felt intimately, luxuriously familiar; he knew exactly how quickly Sherlock’s body would accept him, how best to angle his thrusts to make Sherlock writhe and beg. He loved having Sherlock under him, always took pleasure in watching the flutter of Sherlock’s closed eyelids above the full curve of his mouth; but tonight was different. For once Sherlock’s eyes were open, left deliberately unguarded, letting Mycroft bear witness to the full force of his desire. His pupils were wide and desperate, emptied of their usual fierce intelligence, and the arrogant curl of his lips had been replaced by panting, open-mouthed need. The sight was overwhelming, and Mycroft found himself swept along on a wave of hopeless, useless, sentiment. He began to babble softly, able to hold back nothing, inflicting nonsense upon Sherlock without mercy.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said at last, curving his neck up as far as he could in order to kiss him. “Need you…please.”
It was rare, too, that Sherlock ceded control to him in this way, and at this point Mycroft could deny him nothing. He pulled back, then, still deep inside Sherlock’s body, and took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, bringing him off rapidly with firm, even strokes. Sherlock’s head twisted on the pillow as he came, and his whimpering reached its crescendo as his back arched off the bed. He slumped back down, and immediately reached out to pull Mycroft towards him, urging him on. Soon Mycroft was thrusting frantically into Sherlock, and a rush of pent-up lust and longing overtook him at last, leaving him trembling helplessly on the edge, lost in the blurring haze of his desire. The force of his orgasm left him shattered and spent, sprawled breathlessly on top of Sherlock’s unprotesting form. His hands clutched weakly at Sherlock’s shoulders while Sherlock’s fingers stroked his back, caressing, calming.
Eventually he knew he needed to move, but nothing seemed inclined to obey him. It was Sherlock who took charge, levering him off and onto his back. Mycroft was still floating, so dizzy with the endorphin rush that he could only run a hand down the side of Sherlock’s face in wonder. Sherlock kissed him softly, almost tentatively, and for a moment it was as though he had never been away. Mycroft lay there, dozing lightly, as Sherlock padded off to the bathroom. He came back in short order, handing Mycroft a damp flannel without a word before slipping back into bed. When Mycroft was done, he set it aside and finally settled himself against Sherlock, curling around him from behind.
“Stay,” he suggested, knowing the rooms at Baker Street stood cold and empty. For now.
Sherlock said nothing, but wriggled himself more firmly into Mycroft’s embrace. Mycroft let him go long enough to reach over and switch off the light. They lay there quietly for a time, drifting, wrapped in the warmth and stillness of the room.
“You know none of it really matters,” Sherlock mumbled suddenly. “A hundred years from now we’ll all be dead. So whether you unravel some terrorist plot in the morning or I track down a serial killer next week makes no difference at all, not on a historical time scale. We just like to pretend it does, don’t we? Because it’s fun. Because it passes the time. Because we couldn’t bear it otherwise. Not even you, Mycroft.”
“Now who’s being morbid?”
“Practical, I think. So there’s no point in worrying about things that might or might not happen. One just has to get on with it. Living.”
Mycroft nuzzled against the edges of Sherlock’s too-short hair. “I always said you could have been a philosopher. Or failing that, a writer of fortune cookies.”
Sherlock made a small sound of disgust and twisted in his grasp, but Mycroft only held him closer in the darkness and breathed deeply, content.
***
Where is death's sting?
Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still,
If thou abide with me.