Fic for aeowen: The promises one keeps - Part 1
Title: The promises one keeps
Recipient: aeowen
Author: dioscureantwins
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock, Mycroft/OMC, Mummy, OC’s
Rating: NC17
Warnings: angst, fluff, sibling incest
Word count: approx. 15.700
Beta: the masterful wellingtongoose. The wonderful stardust_made was so kind as to advise me on certain aspects of the fic. I can’t thank them both enough for their help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Summary: The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.
Notes: Hi there Aeowen
Getting your request for my holmestice assignment made me very happy as - amongst other possible pairings - you asked for my favourite. I do hope you’ll think I’ve done them justice and you will enjoy the fic I wrote for you. At your special request I’ve tried to give any blatant grammar mistakes a wide berth. J
The slight click of the lock slipping back in place rouses him from his light sleep. He waits, lying in the darkness of heavy curtains drawn against a moonless night. The house is old, his room is large, and his hearing is sharp so the intruder is bound to give himself away. Silently, Mycroft shifts to the side in his small childhood bed to create space for another body, his arm reaching out and up to lift the top sheet. Though he’s cocked his ears they can’t detect the soft padding of footfalls. For a moment he’s confused, deliberating whether he didn’t dream hearing the door close.
These dreams he’s made of.
He’s already lowering his arm again, biting back the sigh of disappointment when a faint stirring of the air next to the bed announces his brother has, indeed, surreptitiously invaded his room. Apparently Sherlock managed to cross the wide expanse of creaking floorboards without a sound, thanks to the guidance of the map created in his mind through years of secretive stealing across this same floor.
The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.
The chill from Sherlock’s body permeates the bedclothes, lowering the pleasant temperature that prevailed in the bed prior to his invasion. Quietly, Mycroft shivers, a quick furtive palpitation undulating along his spine.
They lie, breathing side by side in the black of the night, not touching. Not yet.
It’s almost a shock when Sherlock’s voice rumbles close to his ear: “Aren’t you going to hold me? I’m bloody cold, you know.”
***
The slice of sponge cake stares up at him from its Meissen plate, its crumbly moistness and sweet smell begging him to partake of the pleasure of eating it. Mycroft has just cut off a piece with his fork when Nanny hastens into the conservatory where he’s nestled himself with his treat among the palm plants.
“Mycroft, come! They’ve arrived. I saw the car rolling up the drive.”
She speeds away again, remarkably fast for a woman her age, and Mycroft quickly polishes off his bite of cake, pushes it against his palate, closes his eyes in brief enjoyment at the rich taste exploding in his mouth, and then he hurries after her.
Nanny has already thrown open the front door. Cook is still puffing from her journey up the servant stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. The three of them spill onto the terrace in time to see Daddy help Mummy step out of the car. In her arms she cradles a tight wadding of white blankets. Once she’s standing she lifts her head to smile at Mycroft from underneath the dark-blue beret that is wedged tightly on her blonde hair, clasping the bundle even closer against her bosom. Daddy throws a supporting arm around her waist and helps her to navigate the flight of broad steps that leads up to the terrace.
His father’s grin, when he looks up at them, rips through the dank bulk of clouds that have been swallowing the light of the windswept wintry day. A bright shard of sunlight glares through the gaps to set fire to the eddying mass of auburn curls on top of his head.
“Look what we’ve brought you,” he cries, his dark voice booming in triumph. “Your new baby brother, Mycroft. You must promise me you’ll love him, always.”
***
His brother’s head is the heaviest part of him. Well, it’s the heaviest part of any human being but most of all of Sherlock because of all the thoughts swanning there. In comparison the rest of Sherlock is so ethereally light. The bones and tendons of his hand for example, Mycroft scarcely feels the weight of them against his ribs as he presses the long fingers against his breastbone in a silent entreaty to commence flicking open the buttons of his pyjama jacket.
A strangled sound - partway between a sigh and a sob - shakes up from his throat as the first button is worked out of its hole.
Mycroft twists his head and buries his nose into the downy curls, which he loves for their silky smoothness as well as their colouring, black and inky as the night surrounding them. He can’t see them now; only luxuriate in their soft texture caressing his face. They muffle his quiet gasp as fingertips start charting a hesitant trail through the coarser whorls of hair covering his chest. He brings up his hand to tug at the strands, anchoring himself unto them briefly, hovering high on his shelf of self-complacency before stepping forward and spiralling down the heady slope of his brother’s body to the secret spot that’s theirs and theirs alone, to mingle and celebrate and lose and find each other in total abandon.
***
His baby brother is so tiny. Mycroft sits on the sofa in the yellow drawing room with his arms locked around the swaddle of woolly blankets, looking down on the small creature on his lap. Next to him Mummy is cooing to Sherlock and Daddy leans over the three of them, bracing himself with his hands on the sofa’s back. He nuzzles Mummy’s hair until she laughs and tells him to back off, swiping a delicate hand at him.
The child doesn’t react to any of this. It lies quiet in its fuzzy cage, gazing up at Mycroft with its sharp eyes, the colour of the stormy clouds outside. Then Mummy’s hand - the one with the big emerald ring Daddy presented her with for Sherlock’s birth - edges closer and the irises take on a glasz hue, the grey swirling with bright splotches of green and blue. The eyes lock themselves into Mycroft’s and it feels as if an all-knowing creature is observing him, even though he realises this isn’t possible. Babies can’t focus properly yet, all Sherlock’s eyes can detect is light and movement. Mycroft has read so in the book Mummy and he have been going through together when Sherlock was still inside her belly that had been as big and round as a giant ball.
“He just knows we’re here, doesn’t he?” Daddy asks and he sweeps Sherlock from Mycroft’s lap, high into the air.
“Oh Siger, be careful! You’ll hurt him,” Mummy and Nanny cry in unison but Daddy tells them not to make a fuss and he wiggles the small cocoon until two small fists break free and wave to and fro with awkward jerky movements. A gurgling sound rises from the small throat and Sherlock’s lips split wide into what Mycroft would swear to be a grin if Sherlock were not just two days old.
“Look Valerie, look my love, our youngest is already smiling at me,” his father calls out.
“Of course not, you silly man,” Mummy chides him but she is actually smiling herself and her arm snakes up to brush past the edge of Daddy’s jacket.
“May I hold him again, Mummy?” Mycroft can’t help asking. He wants to look into those changeling eyes some more, and brush his fingers over the incredibly soft dark hairs that cover his baby brother’s scalp.
“Later,” Mummy promises. “Sherlock is hungry now. I’m going up to feed him and then we’ll both rest. You may help Nanny bathe him when we’re awake again.”
***
Sharp teeth graze Mycroft’s nipple. They bite down on the erect little nub of flesh, hard. Mycroft whimpers, his hand clutching Sherlock’s bony waist. The lanky body is still horridly cold against his.
“You should have worn your dressing gown at least.”
Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders and huddles closer into Mycroft’s arms.
***
“Here he is, Mycroft. Remember the water will turn his skin slippery; make sure you hold onto him at all times so he won’t fall.”
Nanny eases Sherlock into the bath where Mycroft is already sitting, shivering a little because the water doesn’t reach any higher than halfway up to his hips. His brother’s skin is indeed slick in his hands as he tries to keep the small torso aloft. Sherlock thumps at Mycroft’s arms with his tiny fists. The crease on his face is one of extreme indignation at Mycroft’s efforts to keep him wedged safely on his bum. Two weeks ago Sherlock pushed himself into a seating position for the first time and Mummy complains he’s refused to lie down ever since. Sherlock’s struggling conveys quite clearly he’s of the opinion no help is needed for him to stay seated.
“Don’t let go of him, Mycroft,” warns Nanny.
She pushes a yellow bath duck into Sherlock’s fists and lowers herself onto her knees next to the tub to start sluicing the water over Sherlock with the aid of a light-blue plastic cup. Sherlock eyes the duck with distaste and raises his tiny arm to throw it at Mycroft.
“Don’t you want it?” Nanny asks and she hands Sherlock the duck once more to have it flung away again with more force.
Mycroft chortles. “It appears he doesn’t take to bath toys.”
“It does indeed,” sighs Nanny. “Well, that explains the array of cuddly animals around his cot every morning. Hold him, Mycroft, I’m going to wash his hair. You don’t like that, now do you, Sherlock?”
That Sherlock does, indeed, not like having his hair washed is proven quite convincingly during the next few moments. An eel in a tiny bucket would be hard pushed to imitate the convoluted writhing Sherlock subjects his body to, managing to open his mouth at the same time and use all the air in his lungs to produce an eardrum-shattering screeching that sounds as if a police car with its siren on at full blast has ended up in the bathroom.
“Oh Sherlock, you little exaggerator,” Nanny chuckles. “Stop making such a racket. You would think I was trying to murder you. Here, we’re already done, you silly.”
Sherlock is still screaming with his eyes scrunched shut and angry fists pounding the empty air. Keeping him close Mycroft slides down along the bottom of the tub until he’s lying flat on his back in the tepid water and settles Sherlock on the flat of his stomach. His brother quiets down, head lifted high and eyes blinking into Mycroft’s until he rests his head against Mycroft’s clavicle. The whole of his small compact body ripples with a sigh and he closes his eyes in sleep.
“There,” Nanny says, smiling down on them. She ruffles Mycroft’s hair and reaches for the tap. “Shall I give you a little extra water, Mycroft? A little warmer perhaps?”
“Yes please, Nanny.”
“Remember to flush some water over him every now and then so he won’t get cold, darling. I’ll go and fetch us our tea.”
Mycroft remains in the bath with his little brother resting on his chest. He brings his nose close to the slick wet strands draped across Sherlock’s scalp and sniffs attentively. Beneath the clinging aroma of the shampoo he detects the sweet scent of Sherlock himself.
Together they lie perfectly still.
The next minute the air above them is filled with a faintly acrid smell and Mycroft feels a sudden gush of warm liquid blooming around his navel. Sherlock has wet himself.
Mycroft wrinkles his nose in amused disgust. That moment Sherlock opens his eyes to look up at Mycroft. The grin on his face is positively impish.
***
He must see. Letting go of Sherlock for a moment Mycroft reaches for the switch of the lamp on his bedside table. The sudden shock of the light blinds him, temporarily. Sherlock raises his head, his lips slack and wet, white teeth blinking up at Mycroft.
A hot flash of need jolts Mycroft in the stomach, pools at the base of his spine.
“Come here,” he growls and grasps Sherlock to kiss him, to bruise and ravish his mouth. That marvellous mouth. Mycroft’s mouth.
***
“Mycroft?”
Mycroft pretends to continue reading, actually flicking a page of his book. He’s drowsy and lazy in his wicker chair, enjoying the droning of the bees in the hot still air of the summer afternoon. Wafts of perfume coaxed by the sun from the rose bushes behind his back tickle his nose pleasantly. In his mouth the refined taste of Cook’s excellent strawberry tartlets lingers, together with a faint feeling of regret he gobbled them up so quickly. He should have made them last longer. He will next time.
“Mycroft?”
The noise becomes more insistent and louder. Clearly his strategy of appearing to be absorbed in his book has lost its usefulness as a defence mechanism against his brother’s continuous demands for entertainment from his elder sibling. The tactic worked beautifully until last week, Sherlock watching in awe for a few moments before deciding to amble off and start doing… whatever it is a three-year-old does when left to his own resources.
“Mycroft!” The question has morphed into an ultimatum for attention. Carefully administering his most disgruntled frown to his face Mycroft lowers the book.
“Yes!” he snaps and is confronted by one of Sherlock’s blinding smiles, the ones he produces so easily to charm any of them into resignation with his sometimes frankly outrageous acts of behaviour.
“Look what I found, Mycroft,” and the next second a fat glistening earthworm is dangling in front of Mycroft’s nose, wriggling in its useless attempts to free itself from the sharp guttersnipe grasp on its body.
“How interesting,” Mycroft manages to drawl, resolutely forcing the strawberry tartlets back into his stomach.
“Not really,” Sherlock answers, discarding the worm and wiping his hands on the knee of Mycroft’s light camel trousers. He uses the knee to clamber onto Mycroft’s lap next, soiling his favourite pair of slacks even further.
“Now read to me,” he commands.
“I don’t know whether you’ll find this entertaining, Sherlock. Why don’t you run up to the nursery and fetch yourself one of your Winnie the Pooh-books if you want me to read to you.”
“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s mouth curls in disdain. “Nanny and Mummy insisting on reading me that drivel is bad enough. I hate Winnie the Pooh. I want to hear what you are reading. Tell me.”
“I don’t think you’ll like the story, Sherlock. It’s the Odyssey. A very old Greek poem about an extremely clever man who was lost at sea for ten years because the gods didn’t want him to return to his home. I’m at the part where the hero has to steer his ship between the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis. It’s not very appropriate…”
“Sounds like fun,” interrupts Sherlock with a wave of his small hand. “Go on with it then.”
***
Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed as Mycroft’s lips dip at the dimple between his clavicles, souring above them in the suspended stillness of a falcon stalking its prey, contemplating their best assault on the long smooth column of Sherlock’s throat. Their bodies shift between the sheets, gliding past each other in the harmony that suits them without effort; it’s a part of them, as it has been - always.
Mycroft lowers his hand to palm his brother’s arousal, grateful to find its heavy insistence waiting for him, drawing it close against his thigh.
***
A spiky stiff object pokes him in the side. Groggily, Mycroft opens his eyes to darkness absolute, blinking rapidly several times. He decides he must have been dreaming and lets his eyelids fall closed to resume sleeping when he’s jabbed again, a little higher. Out of the blackness comes his brother’s voice: “Move over, Mycroft, you’re taking up the whole bed.”
Mycroft bolts upright.
“Sherlock,” he cries. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in your bed?”
“I can’t sleep in my own bed. I went over to Mummy and Daddy but they said I’m a big boy now and they won’t have me sleeping in between them anymore.”
Mycroft sits processing the information. Sherlock’s reply does explain the bleary looks his parents exchange at the breakfast table most mornings, over the head of an enthusiastic Sherlock in his chair between them, squirming in anticipation of a new day full off excitement.
“So you’re coming to me now?” he says.
“Yes, move over, Mycroft. My feet are getting cold.”
“Then you should have worn your slippers.”
“I didn’t dare get them. Nanny always puts them under the bed but there’s a monster living there. He wakes up at night and I can hear it. It growls and scratches with its nails on the floor.”
“Monsters don’t exist, Sherlock.”
“That’s what Nanny tells me, but she can’t know because he only comes out when she isn’t there. She also said you shouldn’t have read me all these inappr… inappropriate stories about gods and monsters. She says you’ve put all kinds of nonsense in my head and I should delete it. So basically it’s your fault I can’t sleep. Move over, Mycroft.
With a sigh Mycroft complies, lying down and lifting the sheet to grant Sherlock access. His brother snuggles up against him immediately, wriggling a pair of stony-cold feet beneath his thigh and pushing his head against Mycroft’s neck, into his face, causing Mycroft to end up with a mouth full of hair.
“Do you have to, Sherlock?” he splutters, but he gets no answer.
“Sherlock?”
All he hears is the even breathing of the smaller body against his, Sherlock has already fallen asleep.
Carefully Mycroft shifts on the mattress to find a comfortable position without waking up his brother. He closes his eyes, giving in to the delicious pull of sleep itself. A sharp jolt in his stomach makes him whoop in surprise, the kick in his thigh that follows soon after catches him unawares as well.
Mycroft is a quick learner however. After receiving a dapper blow in the small of his back he realises he made a big mistake in granting his four-year-old sibling access to his bed.
***
It’s too much - surely - too much.
Wordlessly, Sherlock has opened his mouth, offering it to Mycroft to do with as he desires - all of it. Mycroft can’t decide, torn by the delicious conflicting agony between the choice to pay worship or plunder and rampage. Either he can taste the dewy fullness of the rosy bottom lip with languidly lingering contentment or he can kneel high on Sherlock’s chest - pinning his shoulders down to the mattress with his shins to force himself inside the obedient orifice. To conquer it and ravage it and use it until he leaves the mark of his ownership deep inside his brother’s throat with a final massive shove of his hips.
***
The car starts rolling away along the drive. Scooting up the seat, Mycroft turns to cast a last look through the back window at the house and the terrace where Sherlock is standing between Nanny and their - now just Sherlock’s - tutor, Mr Talbot. Mycroft raises his hand in greeting. Both Nanny and Mr Talbot wave back but Sherlock doesn’t let go of their hands, holding onto them with his head bowed, refusing to see his brother depart.
“He’ll come round,” says Daddy, his eyes searching Mycroft’s in the driving mirror. Mummy reaches behind her to pat Mycroft’s hand.
“You concentrate on enjoying school, Mycroft,” Daddy continues. “I know you will. You need boys your own age around you. Most of them won’t even come close to your level of intellect but that will teach you how to behave around people less fortunate than you are.”
“Oh Siger,” Mummy sighs.
“What,” Daddy asks in mock indignation, lifting his eyebrows and wriggling them at her. “I’m only telling him what to expect in his career. You know I have to endure working with insufferably dull people every day and if I remember correctly you moaned about the fatuousness of Mrs Taunton-Fitzroy in quite explicit terms last week.”
“Yes, well…”
“Please, dear, don’t defend yourself. I love you when you moan…” now Mummy looks scandalised and Daddy goes on: “… especially about the general inadequateness of others.”
In the mirror he winks at Mycroft.
“You’re going to have a marvellous time, Mycroft,” he promises.
As ever, his father is right. The school is a breath of much-needed fresh air after the confinement the homestead has slowly turned into over the past year, even though he quickly realises none of the teachers are a match for the massive intellect of both his father and his tutor. Mycroft loves participating in school life. He joins the drama club and the debating club and he gets selected for the swimming team. His teachers can’t praise him highly enough and he strikes up an amiable acquaintance with two other boys who are only a little less bright than he is.
Another good thing about the school is that the bed he is allotted in the dorm is his and his alone. Mycroft hasn’t enjoyed such restful sleep in years.
Each new day brims with fresh discoveries and he can hardly spare the hours to write to his parents, Nanny, Mr Talbot and Sherlock. They keep up the correspondence to him on a far more regular basis, informing him about their mundane daily activities, which he suddenly finds hardly interest him anymore. The only one who doesn’t write back is Sherlock, even though Mycroft knows he can write perfectly well, albeit in a rather erratic scrawl.
Before he knows it the term is over and he is sitting in the car next to Daddy on his way home for the Christmas holiday.
“So,” Daddy says, “you’re not looking forward to the three weeks of intense boredom awaiting you, I suppose. Mr Talbot suggested he’d introduce you to the intricacies of Chinese chess to help you pass the time. We played a game this week; it should keep you amused for some time.”
He claps Mycroft on the knee. “It’s good to see you again, my boy. I missed you.”
Mycroft laughs. “I would have missed you, Daddy. If only I would have had the time to spare.”
“I know, my boy. We all realise that. Except for Sherlock, I’m afraid. He’s been sulking ever since you left.”
Everyone is standing on the terrace to welcome him back. Mummy rushes down the steps to hug him. His eyes are at the same height as hers, when he comes home for the next holiday he will probably be taller than she is. The thought is slightly disconcerting.
Once inside he makes the round from one pair of arms to another in front of the huge Christmas tree that’s already towering above them in all its finery, saturating the air with a waft of the forest.
“Where’s Sherlock?” he asks, shaking his fingers surreptitiously behind his back after the manly grip Mr Talbot has subjected them to.
“Ah,” his former tutor drawls. “Your father hasn’t informed you, apparently. Understandable but perhaps not… wise?”
Daddy guffaws. “Sherlock announced this morning he never wants to see you again,” he informs Mycroft. “We didn’t take him seriously, obviously. I suppose he’s taken off to the attics, or his tree house. Let him simmer and stew. He’ll come round eventually.” He rubs his hands. “Now tea is awaiting us, isn’t it, Cook?”
“In the yellow drawing room of course, Mr Holmes. I made you sponge cake, Mycroft, seeing as how it’s your favourite.”
Mycroft kisses her on her plump cheek to thank her.
It is good to be back again, even without his little brother there to welcome him.
Sherlock doesn’t show himself until the gong for supper clangs through the house. He pops up beside his chair in the family dining room, waiting for Mummy’s permission to seat himself. His swirling eyes observe Mycroft from underneath the curly fringe.
“Hello, Mycroft,” he offers, cautiously.
“Sherlock!” However, Mycroft’s warm reaction deflates and crumbles under his little brother’s sharp cold gaze. “It’s good to see you,” he ends lamely.
Mummy and Daddy maintain a pleasant prattle throughout the meal. Sherlock sits attacking his vegetables as if they’ve done him a personal injury. Mummy admonishes him in soft tones. He doesn’t spare Mycroft a glance during the whole fifty minutes they spend seated together at the table.
Once in bed Mycroft lies in the darkness, waiting. At long last he hears the click of the door handle. Relieved he shuffles over the mattress until he ends up with his back against the wall behind the bed.
He lifts the blankets and the next thing he feels is Sherlock’s cold feet trying to wedge themselves between his thighs. He parts his legs and shudders at the iciness seeping through his pyjama trousers.
“Sherlock?” he asks tentatively.
“You left,” comes his brother’s muffled voice. Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat at the strangled wet sound. Sherlock is crying.
“Sherlock… I…” his mind searches for the right phrases in the confused whirlpool Sherlock’s accusation has whipped up inside him. “Surely you understand…”
“I know,” Sherlock sobs. “Mr Talbot explained to me, and Daddy, and Mummy. Everyone explained to me. They told me I would have to get used to it, that we wouldn’t be together forever.”
“No.” What else can Mycroft say? It is, after all, the truth. They’re brothers; they will go and make their separate way in the world. That’s what siblings do.
“You left,” alleges Sherlock again. Suddenly he scurries up on his knees and starts pummelling Mycroft’s shoulders with angry balled fists. “You left me and I hate you.”
Scrabbling wildly at the bedclothes Sherlock jumps out of the bed. Mycroft grabs for him, but his brother is already across the room, quicker than quicksilver, his hand reaching up for the doorknob and the next second he’s yanked the door open and turns around to scream the words into Mycroft’s face before slamming the door shut behind him.
“I hate you!”
***
“I love you.”
The syllables tumble out of his mouth of their own volition, laying him open, vulnerable and bare. As vulnerable and bare as Sherlock’s lanky thighs, which have fallen open under Mycroft’s touch, the gesture one of surrender, expressing more than mere words ever will.
Mycroft’s hand drifts over the lean muscle trembling beneath the skin. Down to Sherlock’s knee and back up again, the slow caress coaxing a hitched breathing out of his brother’s throat. His fingertips falter for the briefest of moments as he hears Sherlock’s dark voice murmuring his name.
“Mycroft.”
Then they continue their upward journey along the lithe leg.
***
The spires of Oxford rise high above them as Daddy shows Mycroft around his old - now Mycroft’s - college. Sherlock tags along behind them but even the scowl that lives on his face can’t divulge Mycroft’s pride and joy at his new surroundings. To their exhilaration it turns out Mycroft has actually ended up with a set of rooms in the same staircase where Daddy lived all those years ago. Mycroft smiles at his father and gets clapped on the shoulder.
“Just a few more years and then it will be your turn, Sherlock,” Daddy beams. He’s the only one who manages to endure Sherlock’s permanent war on good manners, simply acting as if the conflict doesn’t exist.
One evening during his second year Mycroft sits nursing his tea in the café he and some of his acquaintances frequent. Their discussion undulates around the likelihood of Margaret Thatcher surviving yet another attack in the House of Commons. One of Mycroft’s friends is just about to raise his hand to stress his statement when the door to the café opens and in he walks.
His name is David, as Mycroft will learn in another hour.
To his dismay Mycroft feels a blush blooming on his chest, creeping up his throat. The next second he’s delighted to discover the flush that has sprung up on David’s cheeks as his glance travels over Mycroft’s form. Their eyes slant sideways simultaneously to swivel back and lock into each other straight after.
The boy seats himself at a nearby table. He orders himself a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun, and reaches into his satchel to produce a volume of what Mycroft discerns to be Winston Churchill’s Their finest hour, a well-thumbed copy of which is currently gracing Mycroft’s bedside table as well.
His friends’ heated discussion rises and falls around him but he’s scarcely aware of their presence as he sits feasting his eyes on the boy’s gracious nape emerging from the folds of the soft blue scarf around his neck, beneath the gentle curve of downy blonde curls.
At long last his friends take their leave and Mycroft is free to lift himself on legs that feel like they will buckle beneath him any minute as they transport him to the boy who will teach him in another five years that caring can be a disadvantage, most distinctly so.
“Just ignore my little brother. He’s the most insufferable boor,” he warns his lover as he invites him for Christmas at the Holmes manor. After one and a half year he’s certain he’s fonder of David than Mummy and Daddy have ever been of each other so he guesses the time is right to introduce his lover to his family.
“Isn’t that the nature of all one’s siblings?” laughs David.
“Perhaps,” Mycroft answers. “We were very close once. Sometimes I do long for those times to return. He’s been so resentful ever since I left for school.”
“Now you’ve insulted me, telling me you wish for the times you didn’t know me yet.”
“You know I haven’t.” Mycroft responds. “Please don’t speak lightly of my feelings for you. I wish for nothing better than to have you at my side, constantly.”
“Mycroft. I… forgive me. Christ, you must know I want you. I need you, always. Come here; let me make it up to you.”
And he does, expertly reducing Mycroft to a quivering tangle of limbs, transitioning him to that repelling state of voluntary surrender to primitive sensuousness Mycroft abhors and chases after both.
In another three weeks David stands shaking Mummy’s hand first and Daddy’s next. They welcome him into their family circle with graceful smiles, Daddy fondling the bottle of Laphroaig with appreciation and Mummy declaring herself enchanted with David’s present of a silk paisley shawl in a colour that compliments her violet eyes perfectly (Mycroft advised David on both gifts). Sherlock hangs in the background; the beautifully illustrated edition of the Gilgamesh epos David has presented him with lying on the floor next to his feet. His face as petulant as it is long, he stands measuring David with smouldering eyes.
“He really is beyond the pale,” David says as Mycroft joins him in the second best guestroom that night. Sherlock’s behaviour towards David has indeed been bordering on plain rude the whole evening.
“Yes,” Mycroft admits. “I suppose steadfast unconcern will be the most viable mode of approach.”
David nods, reaching out to cup the base of Mycroft’s skull and draw him close.
“However, you didn’t come here to discuss the antics of your brother, did you?” he whispers.
“No.” The syllable wrings itself from Mycroft’s throat. The touch of David’s fingertips on his nape sets a ribbon of molten hot chocolate spooling down his spine, gathering and hardening deep down in his belly, forcing him to roll his hips up against David’s meeting his with the same desperate urgency.
***
Sherlock’s lips seek his, blindly, his eyes lost in a dark lake of abandon under heavy-lashed lids. Mycroft drinks, deeply, thirstily, until he can feel himself swelling with the filling taste of his brother’s pliable mouth beneath his.
***
One Saturday afternoon Mycroft sits ensconced with his copy of The Times in his favourite chair in his bachelor Belgravia flat. A scrumptious feast is spread out on the table beside him, the tea brewing in the art deco silver pot he loves because it is a gift from David, and the remains of the date and walnut cake Cook has sent him earlier that week waiting next to the stack of cucumber sandwiches he has prepared himself.
Mycroft has the weekend to himself as David has chosen to accept the invitation to a jaunt with the Percy-Smith’s, an insufferable bunch of people Mycroft attempts to avoid at all costs - sadly he has to deal with both the elder and the younger Percy-Smith on a frequent basis in Whitehall - but David is quite taken with them.
David’s desire to spend his free time with men and women who Mycroft considers not quite up to their standards rubs Mycroft the wrong way. However, if questioned closely David would doubtlessly admit to some traits of his lover he considered drawbacks - Mycroft himself could think of quite a few; his obsessive jealousy for starters - and yet David accepts them.
Thus yesterday evening saw Mycroft gritting his teeth and wishing David a very pleasant journey, stressing his acquiescence to David’s choice with a parting kiss that left them both panting for breath and the murmured entreaty to return early Sunday evening so they could at least end the weekend in a satisfactory manner.
The cake is delicious, as he knew it would be. Mycroft smiles while flipping through the paper absentmindedly, savouring the sensations of the moist sweetness making love to his taste buds. He will deny himself and save the last slice for David.
In the paper he’s reached the Celebration pages. He glances over the print and is about to turn the page when his eye is struck by a particular announcement.
The engagement is announced between David Frederick, eldest son of The Hon S.H. and Mrs P.T.M. Warburton, of Westminster, London, and Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Mr J.H.W. and Mrs L.V. Percy-Smith, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.
If anyone would have questioned him on the tendency of his feelings in that particular moment Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to give a truthful reply. Anger, denial, horror, incredulity, pain, regret, shock; a farrago of emotions washes over him and for one bitter moment his sole desire is to weep.
He flings the paper into a corner, as far away as possible, as if it has turned into a venomous snake that might turn to bite him. Next he finds himself in the bathroom, throwing cold water into his face, instructing himself to calm down.
It can’t be a misprint so it must be true. Naturally Mycroft doesn’t give credence to ninety per cent of the information that hits the airwaves but he makes an exception for the Celebration announcements, seeing as they serve no ulterior motive but to inform an indifferent world of the unimportant goings-on of dull and self-important people. Rubbing his face forcefully with a towel Mycroft walks over to his desk in the sunny bay window to inspect the stack of letters he deposited there to deal with after finishing his tea ritual.
The thick plain white envelope with the address in typewriter lettering must be the one. He tears it open and does indeed find four closely-written sheets. The sentences are a mad incoherent rush of anguished sentiments; David declaring himself deeply in love with Mycroft, David asking Mycroft for his forgiveness, David begging Mycroft for his understanding, his acceptance. David hasn’t taken his step lightly, has turned the decision over and over in his mind while his lover lay slumbering next to him in blessed oblivion. They’ve never breached the subject but surely Mycroft must have pondered upon the problem as well? How general knowledge of their relationship would hinder them in their career, so far they’ve managed to keep it a secret but it’s bound to come out some day. Even if it didn’t, the fact that they wouldn’t get married would look suspicious; hamper them in their prospects as well. And what glorious scenarios lay awaiting them, only look how fast Mycroft has risen, how many aces he’s already tucked up his sleeve. God forbid David should be the reason Mycroft wouldn’t reach the highest position viable. So he’s made his decision. And he begs Mycroft’s forgiveness. He realises what he’s giving up, or no, he can’t yet…
By now Mycroft is halfway through the letter but he knows enough.
The coward. The sheer despicable low snivelling coward.
Mycroft starts ripping up the paper, tearing it into the smallest possible shreds. He dashes to the kitchen and disposes of them in the bin, then he decides that’s too good an end for them and he scoops them out with his bare hands, dirtying his fingers as he stands grabbing into the discarded rubbish. Finally he’s got hold of all the pieces and he walks over to the bathroom again to flush them down the toilet, watching as they get sucked down to float among the human dirt. His knees buckle beneath him and he seeks hold against the cold tiles of the wall, sliding down until he ends seated on the floor.
His breathing, he notices, has become frantic and irregular, rasping in his lungs, his heart is pounding so fast he’s afraid for a moment his ribs might crack at the insistent beating they’re receiving. Beneath his shirt his vest sticks to his sweaty torso.
He remains sprawled on the tiles for what feels like a very long time.
The clammy coldness of the vest clinging against his back rouses him at last. He pushes himself upwards and undresses, not caring about the smears his murky hands leave on the clothes as he will throw them away, he never wants to wear them again. He steps into the shower booth and turns the taps, closing his eyes as the scalding hot water starts slushing over him.
After his shower Mycroft dons his dressing gown, fetches the roll of bin bags from the kitchen and starts tidying the flat of the evidence of David’s existence. On top of the discarded clothes ends every present from David, be it a book or a precious silk tie (two of his favourite ties are gifts from his - now former - lover), the teapot, a spare suit of David with some shirts and socks and ties. Mycroft searches his cupboards and bookcases with meticulous care until he’s certain not a memento of David remains to chance upon inadvertently. From the drawer of the night table he retrieves the lubricant and condoms. Every silver photo frame is checked, the photos with David - either in a group or alone - taken out and torn to shreds. Next come the photo albums, page after page filled holiday snapshots, their life in Oxford, Christmas at the Holmes’s - it pains him to tear up the photos in which his family is also on display but it must be done - Christmas at the Warburton’s. Mycroft rips out the pages in an orgy of wild hate; his hands are bleeding with small paper cuts, the drops of blood welling from the cuts adding to his murderous frenzy.
Dusk is descending by the time he’s eliminated all proof David ever was a part of his life. Two bags of waste, that’s all it was.
Mycroft refuses to look at them. The work has made him feel sweaty again so he takes another shower. He dresses in a comfortable shirt, a pair of casual slacks and loafers and starts throwing clothes and toiletries into a leather duffle bag. After he’s finished he takes his keys from the rack, hitches the handle of the duffle bag onto his shoulder, locks up the flat and takes the lift down to the cellar of the building to dispose of the bin bags.
The bags settle themselves among the discarded waste as if they belong there. Mycroft throws the door to the cellar shut after him and starts the fifteen-minute walk to the garage for his car. The London Saturday evening life flows past him, people laughing, on their way to bars and nightclubs. Blindly Mycroft saunters on amidst the ebb and flow of humanity. He’s a wounded tiger and a wounded tiger slinks back to its lair to burrow itself and lick at its cuts and bruises until they’re healed and he can roam and fight the world once more.
Two hours later he finds Mummy, Daddy, Sherlock and Nanny assembled in the yellow drawing room.
“Mycroft,” Mummy cries as he enters the room, jumping up from the sofa and rushing forwards to throw her arms around his neck. She slows down after making it halfway.
“Oh… what… oh Mycroft,” she stammers. “What happened? Why? Is David hurt or… what is it, darling?”
Suddenly he’s tired, so very, very tired. He lets her lead him to the sofa and sinks into it with limbs that have suddenly turned to rubber.
“Haven’t you read The Times yet?” he asks. “Soon there are such great times to be had.”
Oh god, and now he’s crying, he can feel the tears clinging to his lashes and pushes them back with great determination. He’s not going to weep in front of his family, even though he’d like to, would like to wail with the anger and the shame and the hurt and the betrayal. He wants to howl, howl like a wolf to the moon, the great oblivious moon that doesn’t care one whit about Mycroft Holmes and the bloody shards that are all what remains of his poor broken heart.
Mummy and Nanny are by now giving vent to their feelings of outrage in explicit terms.
Daddy is the one to pat Mycroft on the hand.
“I’m so sorry, my boy. What a lowly action. Cry now - we don’t mind if you do - have a whiskey and then it’s off to bed with you. Tomorrow we’ll talk, if you’d care to.”
Sherlock hasn’t uttered one word during the whole melee Mycroft’s sudden entrance has caused to erupt in the room. Suddenly, he lifts himself from the sofa, casts a sharp glance at Mycroft and stalks out. Daddy looks after him and shakes his head.
“He’s upset as well,” he says.
Both Mummy and Nanny accompany Mycroft up to his room. Mummy hangs his clothes in the dresser while Nanny lays out the toiletries in his bathroom. Then they kiss him goodnight and leave him to lie awake and stare into the darkness.
No matter how many times he tosses and turns from one side onto the other the longed-for sleep doesn’t come. His body can’t find the comfortable position that will allow him to relax and dwell in nirvana for a few blessed hours. He’s about to roll over again when a faint stirring of the air alerts him to the presence of someone else in the room.
The long-fingered hand that suddenly drops on his shoulder almost makes him shout out in surprise. The fingers squeeze briefly.
“Move over, Mycroft,” Sherlock rumbles close to his ear. Silently Mycroft complies with his brother’s request, turning his back on him. The blankets are lifted and Sherlock slides behind Mycroft, intimately near but not touching before letting the bedclothes drop and dip around them.
A thin arm snakes itself around Mycroft’s waist, on his nape he can feel Sherlock’s moist, warm breath. Their bodies haven’t been this close in years. Still, the contact of their limbs is instantly familiar and Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s hand to twine their fingers and push their locked hands against his chest.
“I knew he was no good,” Sherlock says. Mycroft can feel his effort to shape the words dispassionately inside his mouth. “I’ve always known it. You ought to be glad he got rid of himself for you.”
Mycroft sighs and shakes his head on the pillow.
“I mean it,” Sherlock protests in a heated tone.
“I understand,” Mycroft murmurs. He clinches his sibling’s fingers briefly to convey his gratitude. “No doubt I will arrive to the same conclusion in due time, if only to comfort my bruised ego and save my self-esteem. But I did love him, Sherlock. I still do even though I’d like nothing better than to strangle him with my bare hands right now. So please, grant me some time. He rooted himself deep in my system; I will need to dig hard to get him out.”
Into the back of Mycroft’s neck Sherlock emits a pained noise, clamping down on it the moment it erupts from his throat.
“You’d better sleep now,” he says after a while.
“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. He closes his eyes. Sherlock’s knee pokes into the back of his thigh. Mycroft whimpers in vague objection, his mind smiling at the recurring memory of nights spent evading Sherlock’s kicks and thumps. The comfortable warmth he remembers so well seeps into the pores of his skin.
Mycroft sleeps.
***
Find part two of the fic here
Recipient: aeowen
Author: dioscureantwins
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Sherlock, Mycroft/OMC, Mummy, OC’s
Rating: NC17
Warnings: angst, fluff, sibling incest
Word count: approx. 15.700
Beta: the masterful wellingtongoose. The wonderful stardust_made was so kind as to advise me on certain aspects of the fic. I can’t thank them both enough for their help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading
Summary: The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.
Notes: Hi there Aeowen
Getting your request for my holmestice assignment made me very happy as - amongst other possible pairings - you asked for my favourite. I do hope you’ll think I’ve done them justice and you will enjoy the fic I wrote for you. At your special request I’ve tried to give any blatant grammar mistakes a wide berth. J
The slight click of the lock slipping back in place rouses him from his light sleep. He waits, lying in the darkness of heavy curtains drawn against a moonless night. The house is old, his room is large, and his hearing is sharp so the intruder is bound to give himself away. Silently, Mycroft shifts to the side in his small childhood bed to create space for another body, his arm reaching out and up to lift the top sheet. Though he’s cocked his ears they can’t detect the soft padding of footfalls. For a moment he’s confused, deliberating whether he didn’t dream hearing the door close.
These dreams he’s made of.
He’s already lowering his arm again, biting back the sigh of disappointment when a faint stirring of the air next to the bed announces his brother has, indeed, surreptitiously invaded his room. Apparently Sherlock managed to cross the wide expanse of creaking floorboards without a sound, thanks to the guidance of the map created in his mind through years of secretive stealing across this same floor.
The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.
The chill from Sherlock’s body permeates the bedclothes, lowering the pleasant temperature that prevailed in the bed prior to his invasion. Quietly, Mycroft shivers, a quick furtive palpitation undulating along his spine.
They lie, breathing side by side in the black of the night, not touching. Not yet.
It’s almost a shock when Sherlock’s voice rumbles close to his ear: “Aren’t you going to hold me? I’m bloody cold, you know.”
***
The slice of sponge cake stares up at him from its Meissen plate, its crumbly moistness and sweet smell begging him to partake of the pleasure of eating it. Mycroft has just cut off a piece with his fork when Nanny hastens into the conservatory where he’s nestled himself with his treat among the palm plants.
“Mycroft, come! They’ve arrived. I saw the car rolling up the drive.”
She speeds away again, remarkably fast for a woman her age, and Mycroft quickly polishes off his bite of cake, pushes it against his palate, closes his eyes in brief enjoyment at the rich taste exploding in his mouth, and then he hurries after her.
Nanny has already thrown open the front door. Cook is still puffing from her journey up the servant stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. The three of them spill onto the terrace in time to see Daddy help Mummy step out of the car. In her arms she cradles a tight wadding of white blankets. Once she’s standing she lifts her head to smile at Mycroft from underneath the dark-blue beret that is wedged tightly on her blonde hair, clasping the bundle even closer against her bosom. Daddy throws a supporting arm around her waist and helps her to navigate the flight of broad steps that leads up to the terrace.
His father’s grin, when he looks up at them, rips through the dank bulk of clouds that have been swallowing the light of the windswept wintry day. A bright shard of sunlight glares through the gaps to set fire to the eddying mass of auburn curls on top of his head.
“Look what we’ve brought you,” he cries, his dark voice booming in triumph. “Your new baby brother, Mycroft. You must promise me you’ll love him, always.”
***
His brother’s head is the heaviest part of him. Well, it’s the heaviest part of any human being but most of all of Sherlock because of all the thoughts swanning there. In comparison the rest of Sherlock is so ethereally light. The bones and tendons of his hand for example, Mycroft scarcely feels the weight of them against his ribs as he presses the long fingers against his breastbone in a silent entreaty to commence flicking open the buttons of his pyjama jacket.
A strangled sound - partway between a sigh and a sob - shakes up from his throat as the first button is worked out of its hole.
Mycroft twists his head and buries his nose into the downy curls, which he loves for their silky smoothness as well as their colouring, black and inky as the night surrounding them. He can’t see them now; only luxuriate in their soft texture caressing his face. They muffle his quiet gasp as fingertips start charting a hesitant trail through the coarser whorls of hair covering his chest. He brings up his hand to tug at the strands, anchoring himself unto them briefly, hovering high on his shelf of self-complacency before stepping forward and spiralling down the heady slope of his brother’s body to the secret spot that’s theirs and theirs alone, to mingle and celebrate and lose and find each other in total abandon.
***
His baby brother is so tiny. Mycroft sits on the sofa in the yellow drawing room with his arms locked around the swaddle of woolly blankets, looking down on the small creature on his lap. Next to him Mummy is cooing to Sherlock and Daddy leans over the three of them, bracing himself with his hands on the sofa’s back. He nuzzles Mummy’s hair until she laughs and tells him to back off, swiping a delicate hand at him.
The child doesn’t react to any of this. It lies quiet in its fuzzy cage, gazing up at Mycroft with its sharp eyes, the colour of the stormy clouds outside. Then Mummy’s hand - the one with the big emerald ring Daddy presented her with for Sherlock’s birth - edges closer and the irises take on a glasz hue, the grey swirling with bright splotches of green and blue. The eyes lock themselves into Mycroft’s and it feels as if an all-knowing creature is observing him, even though he realises this isn’t possible. Babies can’t focus properly yet, all Sherlock’s eyes can detect is light and movement. Mycroft has read so in the book Mummy and he have been going through together when Sherlock was still inside her belly that had been as big and round as a giant ball.
“He just knows we’re here, doesn’t he?” Daddy asks and he sweeps Sherlock from Mycroft’s lap, high into the air.
“Oh Siger, be careful! You’ll hurt him,” Mummy and Nanny cry in unison but Daddy tells them not to make a fuss and he wiggles the small cocoon until two small fists break free and wave to and fro with awkward jerky movements. A gurgling sound rises from the small throat and Sherlock’s lips split wide into what Mycroft would swear to be a grin if Sherlock were not just two days old.
“Look Valerie, look my love, our youngest is already smiling at me,” his father calls out.
“Of course not, you silly man,” Mummy chides him but she is actually smiling herself and her arm snakes up to brush past the edge of Daddy’s jacket.
“May I hold him again, Mummy?” Mycroft can’t help asking. He wants to look into those changeling eyes some more, and brush his fingers over the incredibly soft dark hairs that cover his baby brother’s scalp.
“Later,” Mummy promises. “Sherlock is hungry now. I’m going up to feed him and then we’ll both rest. You may help Nanny bathe him when we’re awake again.”
***
Sharp teeth graze Mycroft’s nipple. They bite down on the erect little nub of flesh, hard. Mycroft whimpers, his hand clutching Sherlock’s bony waist. The lanky body is still horridly cold against his.
“You should have worn your dressing gown at least.”
Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders and huddles closer into Mycroft’s arms.
***
“Here he is, Mycroft. Remember the water will turn his skin slippery; make sure you hold onto him at all times so he won’t fall.”
Nanny eases Sherlock into the bath where Mycroft is already sitting, shivering a little because the water doesn’t reach any higher than halfway up to his hips. His brother’s skin is indeed slick in his hands as he tries to keep the small torso aloft. Sherlock thumps at Mycroft’s arms with his tiny fists. The crease on his face is one of extreme indignation at Mycroft’s efforts to keep him wedged safely on his bum. Two weeks ago Sherlock pushed himself into a seating position for the first time and Mummy complains he’s refused to lie down ever since. Sherlock’s struggling conveys quite clearly he’s of the opinion no help is needed for him to stay seated.
“Don’t let go of him, Mycroft,” warns Nanny.
She pushes a yellow bath duck into Sherlock’s fists and lowers herself onto her knees next to the tub to start sluicing the water over Sherlock with the aid of a light-blue plastic cup. Sherlock eyes the duck with distaste and raises his tiny arm to throw it at Mycroft.
“Don’t you want it?” Nanny asks and she hands Sherlock the duck once more to have it flung away again with more force.
Mycroft chortles. “It appears he doesn’t take to bath toys.”
“It does indeed,” sighs Nanny. “Well, that explains the array of cuddly animals around his cot every morning. Hold him, Mycroft, I’m going to wash his hair. You don’t like that, now do you, Sherlock?”
That Sherlock does, indeed, not like having his hair washed is proven quite convincingly during the next few moments. An eel in a tiny bucket would be hard pushed to imitate the convoluted writhing Sherlock subjects his body to, managing to open his mouth at the same time and use all the air in his lungs to produce an eardrum-shattering screeching that sounds as if a police car with its siren on at full blast has ended up in the bathroom.
“Oh Sherlock, you little exaggerator,” Nanny chuckles. “Stop making such a racket. You would think I was trying to murder you. Here, we’re already done, you silly.”
Sherlock is still screaming with his eyes scrunched shut and angry fists pounding the empty air. Keeping him close Mycroft slides down along the bottom of the tub until he’s lying flat on his back in the tepid water and settles Sherlock on the flat of his stomach. His brother quiets down, head lifted high and eyes blinking into Mycroft’s until he rests his head against Mycroft’s clavicle. The whole of his small compact body ripples with a sigh and he closes his eyes in sleep.
“There,” Nanny says, smiling down on them. She ruffles Mycroft’s hair and reaches for the tap. “Shall I give you a little extra water, Mycroft? A little warmer perhaps?”
“Yes please, Nanny.”
“Remember to flush some water over him every now and then so he won’t get cold, darling. I’ll go and fetch us our tea.”
Mycroft remains in the bath with his little brother resting on his chest. He brings his nose close to the slick wet strands draped across Sherlock’s scalp and sniffs attentively. Beneath the clinging aroma of the shampoo he detects the sweet scent of Sherlock himself.
Together they lie perfectly still.
The next minute the air above them is filled with a faintly acrid smell and Mycroft feels a sudden gush of warm liquid blooming around his navel. Sherlock has wet himself.
Mycroft wrinkles his nose in amused disgust. That moment Sherlock opens his eyes to look up at Mycroft. The grin on his face is positively impish.
***
He must see. Letting go of Sherlock for a moment Mycroft reaches for the switch of the lamp on his bedside table. The sudden shock of the light blinds him, temporarily. Sherlock raises his head, his lips slack and wet, white teeth blinking up at Mycroft.
A hot flash of need jolts Mycroft in the stomach, pools at the base of his spine.
“Come here,” he growls and grasps Sherlock to kiss him, to bruise and ravish his mouth. That marvellous mouth. Mycroft’s mouth.
***
“Mycroft?”
Mycroft pretends to continue reading, actually flicking a page of his book. He’s drowsy and lazy in his wicker chair, enjoying the droning of the bees in the hot still air of the summer afternoon. Wafts of perfume coaxed by the sun from the rose bushes behind his back tickle his nose pleasantly. In his mouth the refined taste of Cook’s excellent strawberry tartlets lingers, together with a faint feeling of regret he gobbled them up so quickly. He should have made them last longer. He will next time.
“Mycroft?”
The noise becomes more insistent and louder. Clearly his strategy of appearing to be absorbed in his book has lost its usefulness as a defence mechanism against his brother’s continuous demands for entertainment from his elder sibling. The tactic worked beautifully until last week, Sherlock watching in awe for a few moments before deciding to amble off and start doing… whatever it is a three-year-old does when left to his own resources.
“Mycroft!” The question has morphed into an ultimatum for attention. Carefully administering his most disgruntled frown to his face Mycroft lowers the book.
“Yes!” he snaps and is confronted by one of Sherlock’s blinding smiles, the ones he produces so easily to charm any of them into resignation with his sometimes frankly outrageous acts of behaviour.
“Look what I found, Mycroft,” and the next second a fat glistening earthworm is dangling in front of Mycroft’s nose, wriggling in its useless attempts to free itself from the sharp guttersnipe grasp on its body.
“How interesting,” Mycroft manages to drawl, resolutely forcing the strawberry tartlets back into his stomach.
“Not really,” Sherlock answers, discarding the worm and wiping his hands on the knee of Mycroft’s light camel trousers. He uses the knee to clamber onto Mycroft’s lap next, soiling his favourite pair of slacks even further.
“Now read to me,” he commands.
“I don’t know whether you’ll find this entertaining, Sherlock. Why don’t you run up to the nursery and fetch yourself one of your Winnie the Pooh-books if you want me to read to you.”
“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s mouth curls in disdain. “Nanny and Mummy insisting on reading me that drivel is bad enough. I hate Winnie the Pooh. I want to hear what you are reading. Tell me.”
“I don’t think you’ll like the story, Sherlock. It’s the Odyssey. A very old Greek poem about an extremely clever man who was lost at sea for ten years because the gods didn’t want him to return to his home. I’m at the part where the hero has to steer his ship between the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis. It’s not very appropriate…”
“Sounds like fun,” interrupts Sherlock with a wave of his small hand. “Go on with it then.”
***
Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed as Mycroft’s lips dip at the dimple between his clavicles, souring above them in the suspended stillness of a falcon stalking its prey, contemplating their best assault on the long smooth column of Sherlock’s throat. Their bodies shift between the sheets, gliding past each other in the harmony that suits them without effort; it’s a part of them, as it has been - always.
Mycroft lowers his hand to palm his brother’s arousal, grateful to find its heavy insistence waiting for him, drawing it close against his thigh.
***
A spiky stiff object pokes him in the side. Groggily, Mycroft opens his eyes to darkness absolute, blinking rapidly several times. He decides he must have been dreaming and lets his eyelids fall closed to resume sleeping when he’s jabbed again, a little higher. Out of the blackness comes his brother’s voice: “Move over, Mycroft, you’re taking up the whole bed.”
Mycroft bolts upright.
“Sherlock,” he cries. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in your bed?”
“I can’t sleep in my own bed. I went over to Mummy and Daddy but they said I’m a big boy now and they won’t have me sleeping in between them anymore.”
Mycroft sits processing the information. Sherlock’s reply does explain the bleary looks his parents exchange at the breakfast table most mornings, over the head of an enthusiastic Sherlock in his chair between them, squirming in anticipation of a new day full off excitement.
“So you’re coming to me now?” he says.
“Yes, move over, Mycroft. My feet are getting cold.”
“Then you should have worn your slippers.”
“I didn’t dare get them. Nanny always puts them under the bed but there’s a monster living there. He wakes up at night and I can hear it. It growls and scratches with its nails on the floor.”
“Monsters don’t exist, Sherlock.”
“That’s what Nanny tells me, but she can’t know because he only comes out when she isn’t there. She also said you shouldn’t have read me all these inappr… inappropriate stories about gods and monsters. She says you’ve put all kinds of nonsense in my head and I should delete it. So basically it’s your fault I can’t sleep. Move over, Mycroft.
With a sigh Mycroft complies, lying down and lifting the sheet to grant Sherlock access. His brother snuggles up against him immediately, wriggling a pair of stony-cold feet beneath his thigh and pushing his head against Mycroft’s neck, into his face, causing Mycroft to end up with a mouth full of hair.
“Do you have to, Sherlock?” he splutters, but he gets no answer.
“Sherlock?”
All he hears is the even breathing of the smaller body against his, Sherlock has already fallen asleep.
Carefully Mycroft shifts on the mattress to find a comfortable position without waking up his brother. He closes his eyes, giving in to the delicious pull of sleep itself. A sharp jolt in his stomach makes him whoop in surprise, the kick in his thigh that follows soon after catches him unawares as well.
Mycroft is a quick learner however. After receiving a dapper blow in the small of his back he realises he made a big mistake in granting his four-year-old sibling access to his bed.
***
It’s too much - surely - too much.
Wordlessly, Sherlock has opened his mouth, offering it to Mycroft to do with as he desires - all of it. Mycroft can’t decide, torn by the delicious conflicting agony between the choice to pay worship or plunder and rampage. Either he can taste the dewy fullness of the rosy bottom lip with languidly lingering contentment or he can kneel high on Sherlock’s chest - pinning his shoulders down to the mattress with his shins to force himself inside the obedient orifice. To conquer it and ravage it and use it until he leaves the mark of his ownership deep inside his brother’s throat with a final massive shove of his hips.
***
The car starts rolling away along the drive. Scooting up the seat, Mycroft turns to cast a last look through the back window at the house and the terrace where Sherlock is standing between Nanny and their - now just Sherlock’s - tutor, Mr Talbot. Mycroft raises his hand in greeting. Both Nanny and Mr Talbot wave back but Sherlock doesn’t let go of their hands, holding onto them with his head bowed, refusing to see his brother depart.
“He’ll come round,” says Daddy, his eyes searching Mycroft’s in the driving mirror. Mummy reaches behind her to pat Mycroft’s hand.
“You concentrate on enjoying school, Mycroft,” Daddy continues. “I know you will. You need boys your own age around you. Most of them won’t even come close to your level of intellect but that will teach you how to behave around people less fortunate than you are.”
“Oh Siger,” Mummy sighs.
“What,” Daddy asks in mock indignation, lifting his eyebrows and wriggling them at her. “I’m only telling him what to expect in his career. You know I have to endure working with insufferably dull people every day and if I remember correctly you moaned about the fatuousness of Mrs Taunton-Fitzroy in quite explicit terms last week.”
“Yes, well…”
“Please, dear, don’t defend yourself. I love you when you moan…” now Mummy looks scandalised and Daddy goes on: “… especially about the general inadequateness of others.”
In the mirror he winks at Mycroft.
“You’re going to have a marvellous time, Mycroft,” he promises.
As ever, his father is right. The school is a breath of much-needed fresh air after the confinement the homestead has slowly turned into over the past year, even though he quickly realises none of the teachers are a match for the massive intellect of both his father and his tutor. Mycroft loves participating in school life. He joins the drama club and the debating club and he gets selected for the swimming team. His teachers can’t praise him highly enough and he strikes up an amiable acquaintance with two other boys who are only a little less bright than he is.
Another good thing about the school is that the bed he is allotted in the dorm is his and his alone. Mycroft hasn’t enjoyed such restful sleep in years.
Each new day brims with fresh discoveries and he can hardly spare the hours to write to his parents, Nanny, Mr Talbot and Sherlock. They keep up the correspondence to him on a far more regular basis, informing him about their mundane daily activities, which he suddenly finds hardly interest him anymore. The only one who doesn’t write back is Sherlock, even though Mycroft knows he can write perfectly well, albeit in a rather erratic scrawl.
Before he knows it the term is over and he is sitting in the car next to Daddy on his way home for the Christmas holiday.
“So,” Daddy says, “you’re not looking forward to the three weeks of intense boredom awaiting you, I suppose. Mr Talbot suggested he’d introduce you to the intricacies of Chinese chess to help you pass the time. We played a game this week; it should keep you amused for some time.”
He claps Mycroft on the knee. “It’s good to see you again, my boy. I missed you.”
Mycroft laughs. “I would have missed you, Daddy. If only I would have had the time to spare.”
“I know, my boy. We all realise that. Except for Sherlock, I’m afraid. He’s been sulking ever since you left.”
Everyone is standing on the terrace to welcome him back. Mummy rushes down the steps to hug him. His eyes are at the same height as hers, when he comes home for the next holiday he will probably be taller than she is. The thought is slightly disconcerting.
Once inside he makes the round from one pair of arms to another in front of the huge Christmas tree that’s already towering above them in all its finery, saturating the air with a waft of the forest.
“Where’s Sherlock?” he asks, shaking his fingers surreptitiously behind his back after the manly grip Mr Talbot has subjected them to.
“Ah,” his former tutor drawls. “Your father hasn’t informed you, apparently. Understandable but perhaps not… wise?”
Daddy guffaws. “Sherlock announced this morning he never wants to see you again,” he informs Mycroft. “We didn’t take him seriously, obviously. I suppose he’s taken off to the attics, or his tree house. Let him simmer and stew. He’ll come round eventually.” He rubs his hands. “Now tea is awaiting us, isn’t it, Cook?”
“In the yellow drawing room of course, Mr Holmes. I made you sponge cake, Mycroft, seeing as how it’s your favourite.”
Mycroft kisses her on her plump cheek to thank her.
It is good to be back again, even without his little brother there to welcome him.
Sherlock doesn’t show himself until the gong for supper clangs through the house. He pops up beside his chair in the family dining room, waiting for Mummy’s permission to seat himself. His swirling eyes observe Mycroft from underneath the curly fringe.
“Hello, Mycroft,” he offers, cautiously.
“Sherlock!” However, Mycroft’s warm reaction deflates and crumbles under his little brother’s sharp cold gaze. “It’s good to see you,” he ends lamely.
Mummy and Daddy maintain a pleasant prattle throughout the meal. Sherlock sits attacking his vegetables as if they’ve done him a personal injury. Mummy admonishes him in soft tones. He doesn’t spare Mycroft a glance during the whole fifty minutes they spend seated together at the table.
Once in bed Mycroft lies in the darkness, waiting. At long last he hears the click of the door handle. Relieved he shuffles over the mattress until he ends up with his back against the wall behind the bed.
He lifts the blankets and the next thing he feels is Sherlock’s cold feet trying to wedge themselves between his thighs. He parts his legs and shudders at the iciness seeping through his pyjama trousers.
“Sherlock?” he asks tentatively.
“You left,” comes his brother’s muffled voice. Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat at the strangled wet sound. Sherlock is crying.
“Sherlock… I…” his mind searches for the right phrases in the confused whirlpool Sherlock’s accusation has whipped up inside him. “Surely you understand…”
“I know,” Sherlock sobs. “Mr Talbot explained to me, and Daddy, and Mummy. Everyone explained to me. They told me I would have to get used to it, that we wouldn’t be together forever.”
“No.” What else can Mycroft say? It is, after all, the truth. They’re brothers; they will go and make their separate way in the world. That’s what siblings do.
“You left,” alleges Sherlock again. Suddenly he scurries up on his knees and starts pummelling Mycroft’s shoulders with angry balled fists. “You left me and I hate you.”
Scrabbling wildly at the bedclothes Sherlock jumps out of the bed. Mycroft grabs for him, but his brother is already across the room, quicker than quicksilver, his hand reaching up for the doorknob and the next second he’s yanked the door open and turns around to scream the words into Mycroft’s face before slamming the door shut behind him.
“I hate you!”
***
“I love you.”
The syllables tumble out of his mouth of their own volition, laying him open, vulnerable and bare. As vulnerable and bare as Sherlock’s lanky thighs, which have fallen open under Mycroft’s touch, the gesture one of surrender, expressing more than mere words ever will.
Mycroft’s hand drifts over the lean muscle trembling beneath the skin. Down to Sherlock’s knee and back up again, the slow caress coaxing a hitched breathing out of his brother’s throat. His fingertips falter for the briefest of moments as he hears Sherlock’s dark voice murmuring his name.
“Mycroft.”
Then they continue their upward journey along the lithe leg.
***
The spires of Oxford rise high above them as Daddy shows Mycroft around his old - now Mycroft’s - college. Sherlock tags along behind them but even the scowl that lives on his face can’t divulge Mycroft’s pride and joy at his new surroundings. To their exhilaration it turns out Mycroft has actually ended up with a set of rooms in the same staircase where Daddy lived all those years ago. Mycroft smiles at his father and gets clapped on the shoulder.
“Just a few more years and then it will be your turn, Sherlock,” Daddy beams. He’s the only one who manages to endure Sherlock’s permanent war on good manners, simply acting as if the conflict doesn’t exist.
One evening during his second year Mycroft sits nursing his tea in the café he and some of his acquaintances frequent. Their discussion undulates around the likelihood of Margaret Thatcher surviving yet another attack in the House of Commons. One of Mycroft’s friends is just about to raise his hand to stress his statement when the door to the café opens and in he walks.
His name is David, as Mycroft will learn in another hour.
To his dismay Mycroft feels a blush blooming on his chest, creeping up his throat. The next second he’s delighted to discover the flush that has sprung up on David’s cheeks as his glance travels over Mycroft’s form. Their eyes slant sideways simultaneously to swivel back and lock into each other straight after.
The boy seats himself at a nearby table. He orders himself a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun, and reaches into his satchel to produce a volume of what Mycroft discerns to be Winston Churchill’s Their finest hour, a well-thumbed copy of which is currently gracing Mycroft’s bedside table as well.
His friends’ heated discussion rises and falls around him but he’s scarcely aware of their presence as he sits feasting his eyes on the boy’s gracious nape emerging from the folds of the soft blue scarf around his neck, beneath the gentle curve of downy blonde curls.
At long last his friends take their leave and Mycroft is free to lift himself on legs that feel like they will buckle beneath him any minute as they transport him to the boy who will teach him in another five years that caring can be a disadvantage, most distinctly so.
“Just ignore my little brother. He’s the most insufferable boor,” he warns his lover as he invites him for Christmas at the Holmes manor. After one and a half year he’s certain he’s fonder of David than Mummy and Daddy have ever been of each other so he guesses the time is right to introduce his lover to his family.
“Isn’t that the nature of all one’s siblings?” laughs David.
“Perhaps,” Mycroft answers. “We were very close once. Sometimes I do long for those times to return. He’s been so resentful ever since I left for school.”
“Now you’ve insulted me, telling me you wish for the times you didn’t know me yet.”
“You know I haven’t.” Mycroft responds. “Please don’t speak lightly of my feelings for you. I wish for nothing better than to have you at my side, constantly.”
“Mycroft. I… forgive me. Christ, you must know I want you. I need you, always. Come here; let me make it up to you.”
And he does, expertly reducing Mycroft to a quivering tangle of limbs, transitioning him to that repelling state of voluntary surrender to primitive sensuousness Mycroft abhors and chases after both.
In another three weeks David stands shaking Mummy’s hand first and Daddy’s next. They welcome him into their family circle with graceful smiles, Daddy fondling the bottle of Laphroaig with appreciation and Mummy declaring herself enchanted with David’s present of a silk paisley shawl in a colour that compliments her violet eyes perfectly (Mycroft advised David on both gifts). Sherlock hangs in the background; the beautifully illustrated edition of the Gilgamesh epos David has presented him with lying on the floor next to his feet. His face as petulant as it is long, he stands measuring David with smouldering eyes.
“He really is beyond the pale,” David says as Mycroft joins him in the second best guestroom that night. Sherlock’s behaviour towards David has indeed been bordering on plain rude the whole evening.
“Yes,” Mycroft admits. “I suppose steadfast unconcern will be the most viable mode of approach.”
David nods, reaching out to cup the base of Mycroft’s skull and draw him close.
“However, you didn’t come here to discuss the antics of your brother, did you?” he whispers.
“No.” The syllable wrings itself from Mycroft’s throat. The touch of David’s fingertips on his nape sets a ribbon of molten hot chocolate spooling down his spine, gathering and hardening deep down in his belly, forcing him to roll his hips up against David’s meeting his with the same desperate urgency.
***
Sherlock’s lips seek his, blindly, his eyes lost in a dark lake of abandon under heavy-lashed lids. Mycroft drinks, deeply, thirstily, until he can feel himself swelling with the filling taste of his brother’s pliable mouth beneath his.
***
One Saturday afternoon Mycroft sits ensconced with his copy of The Times in his favourite chair in his bachelor Belgravia flat. A scrumptious feast is spread out on the table beside him, the tea brewing in the art deco silver pot he loves because it is a gift from David, and the remains of the date and walnut cake Cook has sent him earlier that week waiting next to the stack of cucumber sandwiches he has prepared himself.
Mycroft has the weekend to himself as David has chosen to accept the invitation to a jaunt with the Percy-Smith’s, an insufferable bunch of people Mycroft attempts to avoid at all costs - sadly he has to deal with both the elder and the younger Percy-Smith on a frequent basis in Whitehall - but David is quite taken with them.
David’s desire to spend his free time with men and women who Mycroft considers not quite up to their standards rubs Mycroft the wrong way. However, if questioned closely David would doubtlessly admit to some traits of his lover he considered drawbacks - Mycroft himself could think of quite a few; his obsessive jealousy for starters - and yet David accepts them.
Thus yesterday evening saw Mycroft gritting his teeth and wishing David a very pleasant journey, stressing his acquiescence to David’s choice with a parting kiss that left them both panting for breath and the murmured entreaty to return early Sunday evening so they could at least end the weekend in a satisfactory manner.
The cake is delicious, as he knew it would be. Mycroft smiles while flipping through the paper absentmindedly, savouring the sensations of the moist sweetness making love to his taste buds. He will deny himself and save the last slice for David.
In the paper he’s reached the Celebration pages. He glances over the print and is about to turn the page when his eye is struck by a particular announcement.
The engagement is announced between David Frederick, eldest son of The Hon S.H. and Mrs P.T.M. Warburton, of Westminster, London, and Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Mr J.H.W. and Mrs L.V. Percy-Smith, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.
If anyone would have questioned him on the tendency of his feelings in that particular moment Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to give a truthful reply. Anger, denial, horror, incredulity, pain, regret, shock; a farrago of emotions washes over him and for one bitter moment his sole desire is to weep.
He flings the paper into a corner, as far away as possible, as if it has turned into a venomous snake that might turn to bite him. Next he finds himself in the bathroom, throwing cold water into his face, instructing himself to calm down.
It can’t be a misprint so it must be true. Naturally Mycroft doesn’t give credence to ninety per cent of the information that hits the airwaves but he makes an exception for the Celebration announcements, seeing as they serve no ulterior motive but to inform an indifferent world of the unimportant goings-on of dull and self-important people. Rubbing his face forcefully with a towel Mycroft walks over to his desk in the sunny bay window to inspect the stack of letters he deposited there to deal with after finishing his tea ritual.
The thick plain white envelope with the address in typewriter lettering must be the one. He tears it open and does indeed find four closely-written sheets. The sentences are a mad incoherent rush of anguished sentiments; David declaring himself deeply in love with Mycroft, David asking Mycroft for his forgiveness, David begging Mycroft for his understanding, his acceptance. David hasn’t taken his step lightly, has turned the decision over and over in his mind while his lover lay slumbering next to him in blessed oblivion. They’ve never breached the subject but surely Mycroft must have pondered upon the problem as well? How general knowledge of their relationship would hinder them in their career, so far they’ve managed to keep it a secret but it’s bound to come out some day. Even if it didn’t, the fact that they wouldn’t get married would look suspicious; hamper them in their prospects as well. And what glorious scenarios lay awaiting them, only look how fast Mycroft has risen, how many aces he’s already tucked up his sleeve. God forbid David should be the reason Mycroft wouldn’t reach the highest position viable. So he’s made his decision. And he begs Mycroft’s forgiveness. He realises what he’s giving up, or no, he can’t yet…
By now Mycroft is halfway through the letter but he knows enough.
The coward. The sheer despicable low snivelling coward.
Mycroft starts ripping up the paper, tearing it into the smallest possible shreds. He dashes to the kitchen and disposes of them in the bin, then he decides that’s too good an end for them and he scoops them out with his bare hands, dirtying his fingers as he stands grabbing into the discarded rubbish. Finally he’s got hold of all the pieces and he walks over to the bathroom again to flush them down the toilet, watching as they get sucked down to float among the human dirt. His knees buckle beneath him and he seeks hold against the cold tiles of the wall, sliding down until he ends seated on the floor.
His breathing, he notices, has become frantic and irregular, rasping in his lungs, his heart is pounding so fast he’s afraid for a moment his ribs might crack at the insistent beating they’re receiving. Beneath his shirt his vest sticks to his sweaty torso.
He remains sprawled on the tiles for what feels like a very long time.
The clammy coldness of the vest clinging against his back rouses him at last. He pushes himself upwards and undresses, not caring about the smears his murky hands leave on the clothes as he will throw them away, he never wants to wear them again. He steps into the shower booth and turns the taps, closing his eyes as the scalding hot water starts slushing over him.
After his shower Mycroft dons his dressing gown, fetches the roll of bin bags from the kitchen and starts tidying the flat of the evidence of David’s existence. On top of the discarded clothes ends every present from David, be it a book or a precious silk tie (two of his favourite ties are gifts from his - now former - lover), the teapot, a spare suit of David with some shirts and socks and ties. Mycroft searches his cupboards and bookcases with meticulous care until he’s certain not a memento of David remains to chance upon inadvertently. From the drawer of the night table he retrieves the lubricant and condoms. Every silver photo frame is checked, the photos with David - either in a group or alone - taken out and torn to shreds. Next come the photo albums, page after page filled holiday snapshots, their life in Oxford, Christmas at the Holmes’s - it pains him to tear up the photos in which his family is also on display but it must be done - Christmas at the Warburton’s. Mycroft rips out the pages in an orgy of wild hate; his hands are bleeding with small paper cuts, the drops of blood welling from the cuts adding to his murderous frenzy.
Dusk is descending by the time he’s eliminated all proof David ever was a part of his life. Two bags of waste, that’s all it was.
Mycroft refuses to look at them. The work has made him feel sweaty again so he takes another shower. He dresses in a comfortable shirt, a pair of casual slacks and loafers and starts throwing clothes and toiletries into a leather duffle bag. After he’s finished he takes his keys from the rack, hitches the handle of the duffle bag onto his shoulder, locks up the flat and takes the lift down to the cellar of the building to dispose of the bin bags.
The bags settle themselves among the discarded waste as if they belong there. Mycroft throws the door to the cellar shut after him and starts the fifteen-minute walk to the garage for his car. The London Saturday evening life flows past him, people laughing, on their way to bars and nightclubs. Blindly Mycroft saunters on amidst the ebb and flow of humanity. He’s a wounded tiger and a wounded tiger slinks back to its lair to burrow itself and lick at its cuts and bruises until they’re healed and he can roam and fight the world once more.
Two hours later he finds Mummy, Daddy, Sherlock and Nanny assembled in the yellow drawing room.
“Mycroft,” Mummy cries as he enters the room, jumping up from the sofa and rushing forwards to throw her arms around his neck. She slows down after making it halfway.
“Oh… what… oh Mycroft,” she stammers. “What happened? Why? Is David hurt or… what is it, darling?”
Suddenly he’s tired, so very, very tired. He lets her lead him to the sofa and sinks into it with limbs that have suddenly turned to rubber.
“Haven’t you read The Times yet?” he asks. “Soon there are such great times to be had.”
Oh god, and now he’s crying, he can feel the tears clinging to his lashes and pushes them back with great determination. He’s not going to weep in front of his family, even though he’d like to, would like to wail with the anger and the shame and the hurt and the betrayal. He wants to howl, howl like a wolf to the moon, the great oblivious moon that doesn’t care one whit about Mycroft Holmes and the bloody shards that are all what remains of his poor broken heart.
Mummy and Nanny are by now giving vent to their feelings of outrage in explicit terms.
Daddy is the one to pat Mycroft on the hand.
“I’m so sorry, my boy. What a lowly action. Cry now - we don’t mind if you do - have a whiskey and then it’s off to bed with you. Tomorrow we’ll talk, if you’d care to.”
Sherlock hasn’t uttered one word during the whole melee Mycroft’s sudden entrance has caused to erupt in the room. Suddenly, he lifts himself from the sofa, casts a sharp glance at Mycroft and stalks out. Daddy looks after him and shakes his head.
“He’s upset as well,” he says.
Both Mummy and Nanny accompany Mycroft up to his room. Mummy hangs his clothes in the dresser while Nanny lays out the toiletries in his bathroom. Then they kiss him goodnight and leave him to lie awake and stare into the darkness.
No matter how many times he tosses and turns from one side onto the other the longed-for sleep doesn’t come. His body can’t find the comfortable position that will allow him to relax and dwell in nirvana for a few blessed hours. He’s about to roll over again when a faint stirring of the air alerts him to the presence of someone else in the room.
The long-fingered hand that suddenly drops on his shoulder almost makes him shout out in surprise. The fingers squeeze briefly.
“Move over, Mycroft,” Sherlock rumbles close to his ear. Silently Mycroft complies with his brother’s request, turning his back on him. The blankets are lifted and Sherlock slides behind Mycroft, intimately near but not touching before letting the bedclothes drop and dip around them.
A thin arm snakes itself around Mycroft’s waist, on his nape he can feel Sherlock’s moist, warm breath. Their bodies haven’t been this close in years. Still, the contact of their limbs is instantly familiar and Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s hand to twine their fingers and push their locked hands against his chest.
“I knew he was no good,” Sherlock says. Mycroft can feel his effort to shape the words dispassionately inside his mouth. “I’ve always known it. You ought to be glad he got rid of himself for you.”
Mycroft sighs and shakes his head on the pillow.
“I mean it,” Sherlock protests in a heated tone.
“I understand,” Mycroft murmurs. He clinches his sibling’s fingers briefly to convey his gratitude. “No doubt I will arrive to the same conclusion in due time, if only to comfort my bruised ego and save my self-esteem. But I did love him, Sherlock. I still do even though I’d like nothing better than to strangle him with my bare hands right now. So please, grant me some time. He rooted himself deep in my system; I will need to dig hard to get him out.”
Into the back of Mycroft’s neck Sherlock emits a pained noise, clamping down on it the moment it erupts from his throat.
“You’d better sleep now,” he says after a while.
“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. He closes his eyes. Sherlock’s knee pokes into the back of his thigh. Mycroft whimpers in vague objection, his mind smiling at the recurring memory of nights spent evading Sherlock’s kicks and thumps. The comfortable warmth he remembers so well seeps into the pores of his skin.
Mycroft sleeps.
***
Find part two of the fic here