[ONE-SHOT] Decadent - Mycroft/John/Sherlock (ENG)
Title: Decadent
Beta & Britpick: many, many thanks to kamexkame and lotherington, I wouldn't have managed without your help and your mad beta skillz, thank you both so much. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom/Pairing: BBC's Sherlock, Mycroft/John/Sherlock, also contains my personal OTP concerning Mycroft (but it's a secret)
Warnings: incest, threesome, mindfuck, dub con
Summary: More or less inspired from this old prompt on the kinkmeme.
Comments: Initially I wanted to write a short PWP, and... well, look where it got me. Also, since I started writing it before January, it's all very season 1, I'm afraid.
Word count: 8 554 w., which is ridiculous, what the fuck, really
Before sitting down, Mycroft places a rectangle-shaped Japanese lacquered box at the centre of the coffee table. It is an object of exquisite taste, glossy black wood with a bright red rim and a delicate painted pattern of golden leaves on one corner of its lid. The blatant simplicity and restraint of its design attest without a doubt of its invaluable price.
To John, it's as if Mycroft has just laid down a block of wired C4 in front of them. Which, given the nature of the heart-to-heart that is about to follow, would be as good a way as any to escape from a tedious situation.
John raises his eyebrows inquisitively at him but Mycroft keeps silent. It's only then that John notices he's chosen to sit at a respectable distance from Sherlock, who is perched on the other end of the sofa. At first John thinks that maybe they are trying not to put him ill at ease, then thinks better of it. Really? Knowing what he knows? Surely they are past preserving his sense of propriety by now.
When he visits, John ponders, Mycroft usually sits in an armchair (in fact, the one John has come to think of as his), to be in perfect control of the space he occupies, of his posture, to dominate his surroundings; it is a not-so-symbolic throne to the megalomaniac sod that he is.
On the sofa, though, even with his calm air and his legs crossed, he looks a bit out of place, not as much in control. That is, until you take into account Sherlock's position. Then you realise that the image created is rather harmonious, balanced, and representing a particular dynamic: the Holmeses against the rest of the world. Against John.
*****
It was late. John had been fighting sleep for the better part of the night, for no particular reason, just nerves; too much coffee, or maybe he wanted to delay the moment where he would have to face his subconscious, or a combination of both. He didn't remember the reason he went downstairs. For a glass of water, or a stop at the loo, it didn't matter, what he really wanted was to bump into Sherlock on the way, Sherlock who would most definitely be awake at that ungodly hour of the night, Sherlock who could bring him peace of mind simply by being his usual overwhelming self, so that John forgot about his limp, his nightmares, his flawed being.
Sherlock was awake all right, with light and noises coming out of the half-open door to his bedroom. Faint light, and faint noises, a duo of hushed voices, which drew John closer to peek unashamedly; a late-night visitor surely meant a new case, something mysterious and exciting. He just wanted to see what the client looked like, maybe catch a hint of what the case would be about.
It didn't even occur to him that he was being indiscreet. He couldn't keep a secret from Sherlock, not even his computer password, the man knew everything about him, and Sherlock didn't keep secrets at all; he just left people in the dark when it suited him, but never avoided direct questions. Indiscretion simply had no currency at 221B Baker Street.
He could have enumerated a number of scenarios as to why Sherlock would have someone in his room in the middle of the night, the client one being the most plausible.
But he would have never, ever imagined that what he would actually see would be Sherlock sprawled out naked on his bed being fucked vigorously by a man.
He stood transfixed near the threshold of Sherlock's bedroom, watching as his world crumbled to pieces and desperately tried to reassemble itself to the image of what was happening in front of him.
His irrational, stupid first thought when he regained a semblance of wits was, Whatever happened to 'married to my work'?
Then, almost a non sequitur, What a bloody narcissist.
The first thing noticeable about the man towering over Sherlock's reclined form, with Sherlock's legs hooked around his waist, was that he was very tall. And very pale. That he had a svelte, elegant silhouette, long graceful limbs, the lot. It strangely made sense, that Sherlock would be married to his work and would only be unfaithful to be shagged senseless by someone who looked like him, John thought as he found himself in an unexpected state of irritation and yet utterly unable to detach his eyes from the scene.
The dirty yellow light coming from the lamp on Sherlock's nightstand played on the stranger's moving back and revealed a constellation of freckles all across his shoulders, a surprisingly fragile image, considering the beastly roughness with which the man drove into Sherlock's body. The snapping movement of his hips was accelerating, so were his low grunts, and the helpless noises coming from Sherlock; both of them were in all evidence close to orgasm, when Sherlock broke the building rhythm and pleaded, "My face, Mycroft, on my face."
John jerked so violently in surprise that he had to take a step back to regain his balance, which provoked a small creak in the floorboard.
Surely he had misheard the name.
He prayed he had misheard the name.
And that the creaking noise he'd provoked hadn't betrayed his presence.
He looked again at Sherlock and his lover to see if he had been found out, but they had been too busy to notice: they had rearranged themselves so that the man was straddling Sherlock's chest, his right hand moving rapidly in front of him judging from the movement of his forearm, and Sherlock's hands were clutching greedily at the back of the man's thighs. It didn't take long for the man to orgasm, as his body stiffened and both he and Sherlock emitted a loud, simultaneous sigh. After a small pause, the man turned the upper part of his body to reach back and stroke Sherlock's cock, which stood hard and neglected. John had the presence of mind to retreat further back into the unlit corridor so he wouldn't be seen; nevertheless he managed to catch a glimpse of the man's unmistakable profile, and heard his familiar voice, "That look has always suited you, brother mine. Now, tell me. Do you want to come?"
At that, silent as a ghost, John went back to his room.
He understood. No, really, it was fine, it was all fine, he understood. It went without saying that Sherlock had the right to do whatever he wanted with his love life, John had nothing to do with it, wasn't entitled to judge... had no place in it.
So, consciously and deliberately, John proceeded to let go of his hopes of ever having Sherlock Holmes love him back.
John could have lived with that. He was good at denying himself and burying feelings (that came back to bite him in the arse when he finally went to bed, but that was his problem, wasn't it?). He could have made it work, for the sake of... everyone.
Until Sherlock went and did what he does best: fuck everything up.
*****
"Right," says John, breaking the silence. "I guess I just... First, I need to understand. How...?"
"Under different circumstances," Mycroft starts with his ever reasonable tone, "I would have told you that it didn't concern you in any way, John, and that you would do well to leave the matter alone. But considering the situation," he casts a sideways glance at Sherlock who huffs and lets his torso drop on the seat cushions while his legs are dangling off the armrest, "I suppose you've earned the right to know. Let us say for a start that Sherlock has... certain needs, and I cater to them."
"Oh, yes, how selfless of you, Mycroft. You should be given an award," Sherlock murmurs languidly, eyes closed. He is lying still on the sofa with his hands resting on his chest, looking every bit like a recumbent statue, until he suddenly turns his head and opens his eyes on John.
"Do continue," he says. "Pretend I'm not here. I'm bored with this conversation already."
Then he closes his eyes again, obliterating Mycroft's and John's presence at once.
"Okay... so what do you get out of this?" John asks Mycroft, decided not to be thrown off.
"Well, you could say that I enjoy dominating Sherlock sexually. You, of all people, know how infuriating he can be sometimes. I think it rather helps... levelling things up. Now Sherlock, on the other hand, is utterly unable to maintain what you would call a normal relationship with anybody, but still has urges that he cannot fulfill on his own. We came to an arrangement of sorts."
Mycroft's right hand moves slowly towards Sherlock's head and his fingers trace the edge of Sherlock's ear, round and round; a caress that could be affectionate or just distracted, compulsive, like tracing the rim of a wine glass. Sherlock hasn't moved a muscle; his face is a mask.
Fine, John shouldn't have asked that question. But there is at least one very important thing he needs to know. He steels himself, finding in him the calm which precedes the squeeze of the trigger and asks, in his most quiet voice, "When did this all start? At what age? You two are seven years apart, is that correct?"
"Goodness me, John, are you implying that I would..."
"Answer the question."
There is a pause, and an exchange of stares; John's doesn't falter. In one fleeting moment, he thinks he recognizes in Mycroft's eyes the same look he sees in Sherlock's when the detective is reminded, from time to time, that John isn't just a silly little doctor with a limp: he is also a trained killer.
Sharp interest.
Challenge.
Hunger.
A slow grin stretches Mycroft's lips as he finally gives John his answer, "I was thirty."
"He's not lying," Sherlock confirms, eyes still closed and keeping the same position. "Mycroft is many things, John, but he's not a child molester. Although the circumstances in which the first time it happened were more than questionable, so there certainly was some sort of blur around the issue of consent..."
"I thought you refused to take part in the conversation, Sherlock," Mycroft retorts dryly. His hand has stopped caressing Sherlock's ear.
It's Sherlock's turn to grin.
"What's that supposed to mean?" John asks.
A sigh from Mycroft. He may be faking it, but it seems that this part is genuinely painful to get out of his chest.
"When Sherlock was twenty-three, I took it upon me to rid him of his nasty little habit with drugs. I made him accompany me to one of our family houses in the South of France and there I kept him locked in for the summer. It goes without saying that he did not take it well."
"It was hell, pure hell," Sherlock says in a monotonous voice. "The temperature was so hot, there was no escaping it, my blood was boiling. Of all the places that you could have taken me, Mycroft! The crickets were the worst. All that noise... it was constant, too. How could you even stand it? To this day, I still think that you were trying to make me go mad."
"At some point during the first week," Mycroft continues without taking Sherlock's intervention into account, "I had to physically stop him from hurting himself. We fought."
"And then the brotherly tussle turned into fucking," Sherlock cuts in. His eyes suddenly fly open to look into John's, and there is no languor there: they are as sharp as razors. "There you go, John, you see? My brother didn't rape me when I was a child, but he still took advantage of me when I was at my weakest; I was barely coherent at all. Oh, I enjoyed it, he's very good, you know. But would I have said no, had I been able to? I guess we'll never have the answer to that question."
Mycroft's expression is closed. He is not trying to make excuses, isn't even looking at John as he continues his confession, "After that, it was Sherlock who came to me for sex, many times during the summer."
"It helped drown out the sound of the crickets. One need replacing another. Successful behaviour conditioning, wasn't it?"
"I never refused him. I regretted what I did, but it was too late."
"He owed me," Sherlocks finishes. "Still does."
John is equal parts fascinated and horrified. He has no words. It's worse, so much worse than he could have ever imagined. They are much more warped than he would have ever thought, he sees it clearly now, completely fucked in the head; Mycroft with his guilt, Sherlock exploiting it, both of them aware of it all, and still playing each other's weaknesses in their crazy power games.
"I..." John starts. He takes a few deep breaths, tries to gather his thoughts. "This... this is so incredibly wrong. I don't... Where do I fit in this? You could have gone on like this without me. I didn't want anything to do with it, but you've made it my problem too, now, haven't you?"
It's almost insulting how unapologetic Sherlock looks.
*****
It started like something out of John's most cliché fantasies: end of case, a chase, victory over evil, going home laughing breathlessly, adrenaline still swimming in their veins, a kiss... The fact that in reality it was Sherlock who initiated it made it all the more astounding.
Except that the timing was wrong, and John couldn't get the image from a few nights ago out of his head, of Mycroft looming over Sherlock; he could still hear...
Sherlock's nails scratched at John's nape as he deepened the kiss and pulled John closer, as if he were literally trying to get under John's skin. Which he just might succeed in achieving. John felt he was being eaten alive.
Suddenly he couldn't remember why it was wrong, why he should put a stop this.
They broke the kiss on the verge of asphyxiation, and even then Sherlock's lips were not leaving John's body, kissing every bit of exposed skin they could find. And when there weren't any more, Sherlock's trembling fingers took over and provided: digging, pulling, scratching with febrility, tearing at John's clothes. It was as if Sherlock couldn't get enough of him, which was driving the object of his attentions mad with lust. Then he dropped to his knees and John was a goner: at the first lick of Sherlock's tongue on his stiff prick, he whimpered, loudly, couldn't stop himself. His whole body shook violently when his shaft was engulfed to the root in Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock grabbed John's hands and directed them to the top of his head, but John didn't do anything more than rest them lightly on his curls, barely touching at all, more like shyly hovering. Realising he couldn't break John's resolve to be polite even in the middle of sex, Sherlock pulled his head back and let John's cock slip out of his mouth, falling past his bottom lip, landing on his chin. He stroked it with his face, making it slide across one cheek, then the other. John hissed when the head bumped against a sharp, sharp cheekbone, which made Sherlock smile.
"Come on, John," Sherlock murmured, wheedling, staring up at John with hooded eyes. His tongue darted to lick at John's cock again. "Fuck my mouth."
My face, Mycroft, on my face.
The memory of a few nights ago came back to John, full force, and nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. His mind went blank from shock, to the point that he almost didn't catch what Sherlock, visibly growing frustrated with his reluctance, added next.
"It's fine, I can take it. I let Mycroft do it all the time."
John couldn't help his reaction: he recoiled in horror.
"John...?"
His heart sank at the sight of Sherlock's confused expression. Not good. Not good at all.
He took a deep breath, and a resolution. No ignoring it, no backing away now. He couldn't pretend it wasn't his business anymore.
"I'll call your brother. We need to talk."
****
And here they are. The two Holmeses on the sofa, John in his chair, a mysterious Japanese box between them, and a horrible, horrible mess that John doesn't even know how to begin to set straight. At any rate, he believes there are now decisions to be made.
"So I'll ask again, how does it work? How do we separate this? Do we put in place a, uh... time share? Does somebody have to back down, and if so..."
Mycroft starts chuckling, cutting John mid-sentence. It's so rude and out of character that John can't do anything but stare. No reaction from Sherlock, who's chosen to ignore them again.
"Pardon me, John", Mycroft says when he's controlled his mirth, "but it seems you've misread the situation entirely."
"Have I?" John retorts coldly.
"You shouldn't have let the lyrical flights about the 'sound of the crickets' distract you, the important part was not our terribly touching tale of incest. Have you not paid attention to what I said at the beginning of our conversation? Sherlock is incapable of having a normal relationship, of any kind. That was true before the two of us got involved sexually, and it is still true now. It did not stop him from wanting you, though; which was why he had to, as you yourself said, 'make it your problem'. He had to implicate you in this."
John blinks. Looks at Sherlock, who is absorbed with gazing at a precise point of the carpet, probably at a subatomic level, considering the intensity he's putting into it. However, John can tell he's been attentive. John's eyes dart back to Mycroft, who lightly tilts his head to the side as he stares back, as if waiting for him to get the joke. Well, no, John doesn't get it, quick dismissal of their traumatising story aside, Mycroft has done nothing but state the obvious. How could a Holmes ever state the obvious?
"Yes, I know," John says slowly, not sure that they're having the same conversation. "And he succeeded pretty well with that, but I don't really see what you're getting at..."
"Sherlock?" Mycroft prompts, but Sherlock suddenly curls up on himself and turns his back to the room. A clear "fuck off". Mycroft rolls his eyes at the attitude, but he's still left with the tedious explaining to do. He sighs and brushes imaginary dust from the top of his knee before he speaks.
"Allow me to be more direct, then, since my brother can't be bothered to do it himself: he wants us both, not in separate relationships, not on a time share, but at the same time. To that effect, he's been manipulating us, from what you saw that night in his bedroom to his presumably ill-timed, ah, forgive me the expression, 'slip of the tongue' when he seduced you. All of which brings us here, to this room."
John's first reflex is to snicker. Only expectant silence, complete with raised eyebrows, meets his reaction of dismay.
"That's... How can you manipulate someone with a plan based on coincidences and sheer dumb luck? I'm pretty sure my catching you in the middle of it couldn't possibly be predict-..." John trails off. He's not so certain anymore. Mycroft looks as confident and calm as ever, and Sherlock is still facing the back of the sofa, not confirming nor denying anything.
"A good manipulator is merely someone who knows how to increase the odds," Mycroft states. "It was a spectacular coincidence indeed, that you happened to have caught us in the middle of the act; it has certainly served to leave you a... lasting impression, and made the whole process go a lot quicker.
"But let's consider the other possible scenarios, where the timing wouldn't be as good... A night of insomnia is a predictable phenomenon for an observer such as my brother, John, especially when the subject is someone like you. I'm a predictable factor too, since I'm unable to say no to him.
"As long as you were awake and I was in his room, it was highly probable you would catch up on something in the end: me coming in or out of the room, strange noises, a dishevelled appearance... Especially when the bedroom door is left ajar and the light is on each and every time.
"It's not that subtle, really. Sherlock would have recreated his little mise-en-scene as many times as required for you to put two and two together and realise the true nature of our relationship. And as soon as he'd had you baited, the rest was a mere matter of good acting skills... surely I don't need to remind you how good an actor he is."
John's insides have turned to ice. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Mycroft's explanation is sounding more and more like the truth. Part of him still won't believe it, but he knows it can't win against logic, especially if it's a Holmes who's serving it to him. He knows he can't win against them.
He stares and stares at Sherlock's back, until all he sees are the blunt lines of a faceless idol.
It's Sherlock Holmes we're talking about, John thinks bitterly. Of course that's what happened. You fucking moron.
He wants to scream at Sherlock to turn and face him, to stop being such a coward; instead he turns to Mycroft and asks in a hoarse voice, "You said something about 'lyrical flights'..." His left hand tightens to a fist. "That story you told me, was it bollocks?"
If Mycroft says it was all part of the manipulation, God help him, he will beat both of the bastards to a pulp.
"Oh, it is true, all of it," Mycroft assures him. "But that is beside the point. You should ask yourself, rather, why Sherlock wanted you to know about it."
“Why...? Oh, right, because your fucking each other up in the head instead of just plain fucking, that’s so compelling that I wouldn’t be able to help myself from wanting in on it?”
"Because it would make you care. You are a knight in a shining armor, John. You would be tempted to join us if only to find a way to save us from ourselves."
"Right. And you've told me all this because... what, you want to drive me away screaming? You're trying to mess up Sherlock's plan, is that it?"
"Oh, no, quite the contrary," Mycroft denies earnestly. "Sherlock is very fond of you, and as I said, I can't refuse him anything. Not to mention that I find you quite interesting and attractive myself."
John lets out a short bark of disbelief.
"So you actually think that, after telling me square in the face that I've been mindfucked right, left and centre, I will still come running into your open arms and jump into your bed? Fucking hell. You really take me for an idiot, don't you?"
"You are far from stupid, John, and you know you could have run away earlier in the game. Of course you might still say no at this point, especially now that I've revealed everything, but admit it: you were already halfway there. Why not cross the remaining distance? Now you have all the keys in hand and there's nothing left to hide. This is both of us, Sherlock and I, in plain sight."
To emphasize his point, he presents his open hands to John, fingers splayed, in a gesture of peace.
Beside him, Sherlock stone-like form is suddenly animate, arms and legs sprouting from it; Sherlock is uncurling his body like some sort of strange insect trying to get out of his cocoon. Then he's on all fours on the sofa, crawling towards his brother with a mad smirk on his mad face.
"You're a pervert, Mycroft," he says when he reaches him, spider-like hands clinging to Mycroft's suit, scurrying under the lapels. "You knew and yet you still went along with it."
Mycroft is unfazed by Sherlock's accusation, and doesn't try to stop him from unbuttoning his waistcoat either.
"Why, I was admirative, Sherlock, and I wouldn't bring myself to stop such a masterly move from coming to completion. Minimum risks, maximum profit, you brought us right where you wanted us and even let us handle the talking. Well played, brother mine. Well played."
"You know, that is precisely why I wouldn't play chess with you," Sherlock grumbles as he sinks his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck to kiss it. "You'd let me win just to watch me play."
Mycroft places a hand on the side of Sherlock's face, two fingers on his jawline, a thumb underneath his chin, and tilts it up so their lips meet in a kiss. It starts out slow. Mycroft appears to be the one taking his time, sucking lazily on his brother's tongue while Sherlock's whole body seems to be vibrating with need.
Sherlock behaves, though; he who never listens, never obeys, is held back and controlled by the three fingers resting on his jaw. It goes on like this for a while, at Mycroft's languorous pace and for as long as it pleases him, but the intensity is turned up a notch when, with no warning, Mycroft moves his other hand and his fingers tangle in Sherlock's curls and yank. Sherlock gasps, half from surprise and half from arousal, as his neck bends and his head jerks back suddenly.
Mycroft shifts on the sofa, moving up on the cushions on one knee while maintaining Sherlock's head in an awkward position. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind: he's panting, eyes slightly glazed as he's looking up at his brother's face. The fingers alongside his jaw have now moved to his throat, thumb running over and over Sherlock's Adam's apple, dogging it even as it bobs when Sherlock swallows.
Eventually, Mycroft leans in and brings their lips together again. This time the angle of the kiss is deepened by Mycroft's dominating position and Sherlock seems to have no choice but to accept the thrusts of his brother's tongue in his mouth, with small, muffled whining sounds escaping his throat, like a needy animal -- sounds that don't resemble him at all.
John is beyond furious. Or feels he should be, particularly when Mycroft lets go of Sherlock, who turns to John with heavy-lidded eyes and a very red mouth and beckons, "Come here, John."
And anger is certainly part of the turmoil of emotions he's experiencing right now, along with shock, humiliation, outrage, but he's aware that it's not the reason why his breath has quickened and his blood is boiling.
He doesn't want to feel aroused. He doesn't want Sherlock's apparent helplessness under Mycroft's hands to be a turn-on. It's sick. This is just another game for them, and he's had enough of being toyed with.
He stands up and marches towards the sofa. He's still not sure of what he will do once he's reached them. His hands are balled into fists at his sides and there is still a good chance that one of them is destined to land on Sherlock's jaw. Judging from his expression, Sherlock knows it. Probably wants it, too, the perverted prick, from the way he looks up at John, in fact, just like he looked at Mycroft earlier: with eagerness, and adoration.
He wants us both.
Fuck. Despair seizes his throat and any trace of tension leaves his arms and hands. Despite everything that's happened, everything they've said, everything John knows now, he still loves that man. There's nothing he can do about it. Punching the fucker in the face, as much as he'd deserve it, won't help.
"John," Mycroft calls softly.
His expression is sympathetic.
"As a soldier, you should know when to call defeat. And there is no dishonour in bowing before such an opponent."
So John does just that. He bows his head, and kisses Sherlock.
There is no urgency like the first time; the brush of their lips is sweet, tentative. The very tip of Sherlock's tongue ghosts over John's teeth, not making any demands, just reminding John that he can take more if he feels so inclined. John responds and lets his tongue slides over Sherlock's; he startles when it elicits from Sherlock the same muffled, needy animal whine as earlier on.
He wants us both.
John realises that he's put a hand on Mycroft's thigh to keep his balance while he was kissing Sherlock. One look at Mycroft tells him that he doesn't mind at all. Mycroft's face is very close, and it feels natural to lean forward and kiss it in turn.
John expects Mycroft to be as domineering with him as he is with Sherlock, but even though he's definitely not as submissive as his brother, he seems content with letting John take the lead.
"I think," John begins, licking his lips. He takes a look at Sherlock who has been watching them, unblinking. "I think this might actually work."
Sherlock is quick to react.
"Bedroom?" He proposes, and gets up.
"Let's," Mycroft agrees.
"We're very, very damaged, aren't we?" John sighs, resigned, as he follows them.
"That's what makes it interesting," Sherlock calls back from the bedroom.
"Oh, and can you take the box with you, John?" Mycroft turns to ask pleasantly.
John stops right in his tracks. The box. He's completely forgotten about it. What the hell could be in there that Mycroft would need in the bedroom? John has accepted the fact that he's been thoroughly played by Sherlock, which was shocking and humiliating enough, he just doesn't want any more twists and surprises.
His wariness doesn't escape Mycroft, who explains, "No, no, don't worry, John, it's not for you: it's for Sherlock."
Well, that is not reassuring either.
*****
It's an ambush. They are all over John as soon as he sets foot in the bedroom, carrying the bloody box with him. They can't possibly have had the time to choreograph it, and yet they move with common purpose and perfect timing. Mycroft takes the box from him and puts it on top of the nightstand while Sherlock kisses him and starts unbuttoning his shirt, then Mycroft comes back and takes over, his mouth immediately on John's as soon as Sherlock's leaves to close around John's earlobe. Mycroft doesn't stop kissing him while he's deftly unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers; he's barely finished when Sherlock tugs at them to make them come off and slips his tongue inside John's ear without missing a beat, taking John's attention away from Mycroft's hands that have seized the opportunity to snake past the undone fly to cup his cock through his underwear and give it a firm rub.
It's only when John suddenly feels a cold, wet, lubricated -- when did that happen? -- finger slipping inside the cleft of his arse that he calls for a time out.
"Stop," he gasps, coming up for air, "wait, wait, both of you, stop. Too much, too fast."
"You've had threesomes before," Sherlock declares out of the blue, in a low rumble next to his ear. "Mainly involving you and two members of the opposite sex, only once with a woman and another man, most probably a friend, someone you trust... Murray, then. But you never touched each other during and never talked about it again afterwards, mainly because Murray is a repressed homosexual and you think you are being considerate with him, how dull and petit-bourgeois of you. So, no experience in same-sex intercourse except the fellatio that I failed to perform on you yesterday, and although we've made sure that by now you've accepted it intellectually, you still have to overcome the taboo of incest ingrained in your psyche by centuries of social conformism. Psychosomatic morals, if you will. Am I missing anything?"
"Yeah, yeah, as always, good deduction, thank you for telling me what I'm thinking," John retorts irritably. He’s had enough with Sherlock being able to get inside his head whenever he feels like it.
"Manners, Sherlock," Mycroft berates. "It's rather bad form to deduce one's partner's sexual proclivities when one has a finger in their behind."
Of course the finger had to be Sherlock's, impatient bastard; he must have secured the lubricant as soon as he got into the bedroom.
"I apologise, John, on his behalf and my own," Mycroft continues. "You are right, there is no need to rush it. Sherlock, cuffs."
For one panicked second, John thinks that Sherlock has gotten hold of handcuffs too and that they are going to restrain him, but Sherlock lets go of John only to present his own wrists to his brother. John realises with relief that Mycroft was talking about Sherlock's shirt cuffs when the older Holmes undoes the fiddly buttons with ease.
"No reason to be nervous." After the cuffs, Mycroft takes care of the buttons on the front of Sherlock's shirt with efficiency. "We won't do anything that you're not comfortable with."
"Don't make me laugh, you two were born to do things that I'm uncomfortable with," John shoots back without thinking, transfixed as he is by the gradual revelation of Sherlock's chest. From where he is, he can see one nipple, coral pink, peeking shyly from under the edge of his shirt. His lips and fingers itch.
His retort has provoked a genuine smile with Mycroft, a particular spark of humour in his eyes that doesn't appear very often.
"True enough. Allow me to rephrase then: we can accustom you to certain ideas until you feel comfortable with them."
Sherlock's shirt falls from his shoulders with a mere brush of Mycroft's fingers and a subtle play of muscles on Sherlock's back, rolling under his pale skin, shifting a bone here, bringing out a blue vein there, organic tell-tales that Sherlock's perfection is, after all, human.
"I'm sure you can," John says weakly.
"The matter of experience is a non-issue, I already entrust his safety to you, and to your medical degree, of course. At any rate, I believe there is accumulated tension between you and my brother that we need to resolve, before moving along to more, shall we say, exotic configurations." Mycroft's movements slow, and the sound of the zipper on Sherlock's trousers seems to drag on forever. "You'll agree with me when I say that your shagging my brother is long overdue."
Sherlock steps out of his crumpled trouser legs and stands naked in front of them, visibly enjoying the attention if the smug look on his face and his half-hardness are anything to go by. Mycroft, as ever, is right. Anger and arousal are still at war within John, and as it happens, the cause is also the solution.
"I can prepare him for you, if you'd prefer," Mycroft says as he places a proprietary hand on the most magnificent arse John has ever seen, and starts kneading one buttock firmly. Sherlock sighs with contentment, and lets his head fall on his brother's shoulder, although he's looking at John from the corner of his eye. Mycroft turns his head to kiss the corner of Sherlock's jaw, his neck, his collarbone; Sherlock responds by rubbing his cheek against Mycroft's temple, cheekbone, ear. This surprising display of tenderness reminds John of big cats: nature's most perfected killing machines turned sweet and affectionate in the space of a moment. They part with a quick kiss on the lips, and Sherlock goes to sprawl on the bed while Mycroft, back to his efficient attitude, is removing his own clothes.
"Have a seat, John," he suggests when he's tackling the buttons on the stiff collar strangling his neck. "You may join us whenever you feel inspired."
'Have a seat, John' were the exact first words Mycroft told him when he met him in person. Funny how John feels more inclined to obey them now, as he zips his trousers back on and goes to make himself comfortable in the chair by Sherlock's wardrobe, opposite the bed. By then, Mycroft is naked too, clothes folded neatly on top of the small chest under the window, an amusing contrast to Sherlock's own clothes strewn across the floor. But even in nudity, the Holmeses appear to be polar opposites. As much as Sherlock's body looks like it belongs on a pedestal at the Louvre, Mycroft's is touchingly damaged, very real and somehow relatable. His flesh is sagging in some places; probably the result of too many harsh diets and unbridled relapses. His skin looks thin, paper thin, dotted all over by freckles, and smooth, with scarce body hair, except for the tuft of light ginger hair at the base of his penis, which stands erect.
Any other man with those body features standing naked in front of another may have looked diminished, vulnerable, but Mycroft holds himself straight, shoulders back, legs solid and his presence is powerful, almost too much to bear. Whatever his eyes find when they search John's expression must meet his approval, because he gives an almost imperceptible nod before turning to join his brother on the bed.
There is a bit of shifting and re-arranging until they find the right position: both half-reclining, with Sherlock's back pressed against Mycroft's chest, Sherlock's legs wide apart with his feet planted on the mattress to give John a better view, which John appreciates indeed when Mycroft's fingers, shiny with lubricant, spread Sherlock's arse cheeks to fuck his hole open. They push in easily after a bit of play, and soon have Sherlock moving his hips like a whore and shamelessly begging for more although Mycroft is already up to three fingers inside him. The sight of the first knuckle of a fourth going in convinces John to stand up and walk over to them.
"John, John, please," Sherlock chants deliriously. "Kiss me, please, kiss me."
Sherlock's lips are made to be kissed, John decides, and it's never a hardship to grant this request. He's on auto-pilot now, brain shut off, and hasn't got a clue about what to do next. Sherlock makes the decision for him and takes his hand to place it on his body. Oh, yes. Touch Sherlock. What a good idea. Warm soft flesh yielding under the press of his palm, a shiver, the bump of a hardening nipple under the pads of his fingers, squeeze, a long moan against his lips. Next thing he knows his wandering hand curls around Sherlock's hot, sticky shaft. It's the first time John has ever touched another man's prick, and there is something oddly satisfying, oddly liberating about feeling its firmness, its length, sliding inside his fist all the way down to Sherlock's body and then back up where it ends with a perfectly round glans. John feels he could go on forever like this, but Mycroft interrupts by nudging his shoulder with the bottle of lubricant. John hesitates; taking the time to undress and slick himself would mean stop touching Sherlock for a minute, stop kissing him, which is unbearable, but there is, on the other hand, the pressing matter of his own erection which aches to be buried inside Sherlock, and that just can't be handled in any reckless way. So John opts for the sensible thing to do and takes the lubricant.
Then he's naked too, and lining his slicked cock up for penetration, right between Mycroft's fingers that are holding Sherlock's arse cheeks apart. He's sweating, god, so much, from exhaustion and nerves, and a drop of sweat falls from his brow to Sherlock's tightened sac, rolls down the curve of a testicle. Sherlock makes an impatient noise and John suddenly feels a fluttering against the tip of his cock, as if Sherlock's hole is trying to suck more of it in by sheer force of muscle since Mycroft's grip doesn't allow any movement for the rest of his body. The sensation has John's eyes roll back in his head and makes him forget himself for a minute: he slides halfway in a tad too quick, which expels a gush of air from Sherlock's lungs, followed by a half-pained grunt.
"Sor-," John breathes, and chokes when Mycroft suddenly seizes Sherlock by the hips to push him down on John's cock the rest of the way.
"How is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks silkily, licking the outer shell of his brother's ear, just once. Since, for the first time of his life, Sherlock is unable to answer, Mycroft interprets, "Big, isn't it, even for you. Having a mouthful is one thing, but down there where you're so tight, even though I've prepared you so well, you're having trouble adapting to it, aren't you, you're stretched so much it hurts and you love it, how you love it, dear brother, to be taken so completely, to exist for the sole purpose of being fucked so thoroughly..."
"Oh God."
John doesn't know what effect Mycroft's words are having on Sherlock, but they're working pretty damn well on him, and provoke him into moving his hips. The way Mycroft says 'fucked' is both elegant and wrong, so much so that John wants to hear it again. Sherlock still doesn't say anything, nothing that's not moans and gibberish, anyway. He looks lost in sensation, his body a mess of fluids and reddened skin, the very picture of debauchery. He's quivering around John, alive and scorching hot, and John thrusts and thrusts, until...
"Stop," Mycroft commands.
Having had a whole history in the army of obeying without thinking, John stills a little too brusquely on an outward stroke, and his cock ends up dislodged from its snug sheath entirely. A sob of frustration escapes him when the realisation of his mistake sets in. He was so close, so fucking close...
"Turn around, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Hands and knees. Let me see your face."
They rearrange themselves quickly so Sherlock is on all fours above Mycroft, face to face with him. John doesn't waste time to push into Sherlock again. This time he goes in more easily, deeper, and Sherlock arches with a soft sigh, turning his spine into an infinite bow of white. The change of angle is doing wonders for him too, John muses, breath cut short by this sight, and by the look on Mycroft's face, which is one of dark lust. He suddenly feels Sherlock squirming beneath him, and two points of pressure on either side of the root of his prick: they're Mycroft's fingers, pressed against the place where John's and Sherlock's bodies join, and his palm is gently massaging Sherlock's balls.
He's feeling me fucking his brother, John thinks. He's... holding us both in his hand.
His thrusts resume, desperate, erratic. He tries to keep a semblance of self-control, tries to slow down, in vain: the thought of Mycroft there, right between them, participating more intimately than just watching is enough to bring him on the brink again.
"Close?" Mycroft asks Sherlock in a whisper, echoing John's thoughts.
Sherlock is only able to nod.
"Do you want more?"
This time Mycroft doesn't wait for Sherlock's answer and John feels one finger sliding alongside his cock and joining him in the penetration. It wrenches a strangled sort of cry from Sherlock and suddenly he's coming violently, his limbs shaking and his inner muscles spasming aroung John's cock and Mycroft's finger. It barely takes a second thrust for John to climax too, his whole body buzzing, electric, from the rush of pleasure.
"Kiss me," Sherlock begs John again, when they both collapse on the bed beside Mycroft, their limbs turned to cotton. John's never seen him this pliant, this languid before: it's like all his sharpness and angles have softened at once and John very much wants to kiss him, so he does.
Lying on their side, they share sweet, soft kisses, just lips. It feels very nice, drained of sexual tension, but still sensuous, because Sherlock's lips are so very plump and John just can't get enough of them. It goes on for an indefinite amount of time, until a grunt over Sherlock's shoulder calls John's attention. Belatedly, John becomes aware of Sherlock's body jerking against him, and realises that Mycroft has penetrated Sherlock in turn and has been fucking him almost soundlessly as they were kissing. Sherlock is so loose-limbed that he barely offers any resistance and his body shakes with each thrust. It doesn't seem to bother Sherlock, though, that he's being used this way: he remains happily boneless and relaxed even though Mycroft isn't being particularly gentle. John notices Mycroft's fingers whitening on Sherlock's hip before Sherlock decides John isn't paying enough attention to him and locks lips with him again, with a bit of tongue this time, effectively distracting John from his concern about Mycroft's roughness. Then Sherlock breaks the kiss and whispers softly, with something like wonder in his voice, "There. He's there."
Catching his meaning, John raises on one elbow to look over Sherlock's shoulder and doesn't miss anything of how Mycroft is coming undone, of the unguarded bliss on his face, of how he is truly revealed for just one moment. John looks back at Sherlock and sees him smiling up at him. He, too, looks so painfully beautiful that John just has to kiss him again.
They bask in the afterglow for a while, just lying content on the bed in a heap of tangled limbs, and John is slowly drifting from half-dozing to full sleep until Mycroft's voice suddenly snaps him out of his drowsiness.
"Can you pass me the box, please, John? It's right beside you, on the nightstand."
Ah. The box again. And again, he's forgotten about it. But now seems to be the moment of letting loose whatever devil lies inside it. Curiosity wins over his apprehension and he hands the box over to Mycroft after a few maneuvers, complicated and painful for the state he's in. Is it some kind of weird sex toy? It can't be drugs. Mycroft would never indulge Sherlock on this particular sin. But then again John hadn't taken full measure of how twisted the brothers really were until very recently. If it turns out to be drugs, John is out. As a doctor, and the brother of an alcoholic, and Sherlock's friend, he can't abide...
"A piece of cake?" John says, incredulous, when the lid comes off.
"I told you," Mycroft says. "Sherlock has certain needs, and I cater to them."
"Nothing to do with that, don't listen to him," Sherlock tells John. "When we started sleeping together, guilt made him get horribly fat. Now he watches his weight very carefully and gets off on watching me eat after sex instead. Ladurée?"
"You know Ladurée isn't up to standards anymore," Mycroft tuts.
"Pierre Hermé, then."
"His latest entremet creation. Arrived from Paris this morning."
"This morning," John repeats tonelessly. Then adds, "You fucking bastard."
"Now, John..."
"Don't 'now John' me. You had already calculated the outcome of this, hadn't you. You were counting on the fact that I would say yes, no, in fact you already knew I would, you knew even before I contacted you. Cake means done deal, a code Sherlock understands, and you put your prediction right under my nose, as if you two arseholes hadn't already fucked enough with my head. Unbelievable. Why am I even surprised? And I don't even have the strength to be suitably angry and kick you in the balls right now. Jesus."
"You're being paranoid, John," Sherlock scoffs, the bastard. "Neither Mycroft nor I could predict that you would say yes. No one in the world could. We certainly made arrangements to obtain favorable circumstances, yes, but the outcome was never definite. You're underestimating yourself if you think you're that predictable, even to us. I wouldn't have wanted you in my bed if you were so boring."
"Why the cake then," John asks, calming down a little, "if you were not sure you would succeed?"
Mycroft chuckles.
"I figured that in the eventuality of a refusal from you, at least the cake would have made a decent peace offering."
John should have known. They're never where you expect them to be, especially when you think you've figured them out. In fact, he should have known this is not the real world anymore: he's now part of their crazily fucked-up parallel universe, where no normal rules apply, and where a piece of cake from Paris is a suitable apology gift to someone who refuses to take part in an incestuous threesome. Of course.
"Mmh, I suppose no one among us has regained enough motor functions to go and fetch a fork?"
John groans and tries very hard not to hit Mycroft with a pillow. He doesn't have the strength to, anyway.
"My fingers will have to do, then. Shame about the sophisticated layering," Mycroft laments.
He scoops up a bit of copper-coloured cream on top of the entremet with his nail, rippling its smooth and shiny surface, and pushes it between Sherlock's lips.
"Caramel glaçage," Sherlock announces, after a deep moan of pleasure.
With three fingers, Mycroft manages to catch more layers and demolishes the cake further more. All three fingers end up in Sherlock's mouth, which closes around them and sucks them in dutifully.
"Almond moelleux, bitter chocolate ganache. Salted butter caramel cream."
Sherlock manages to make his listing of ingredients as sexy as his deductions, which is saying a lot. As far as John is concerned.
"And, oh. Oohh." No one should be allowed to make such lascivious noises when eating cake. And John's prick should know better than to think John is twenty again. "Mango gelée. Divine."
Mycroft continues to hand-feed Sherlock as John is trying to ignore his growing erection, although the sight and sounds of Sherlock sucking on Mycroft's fingers are making the endeavour next to impossible. They can't go again anyway, John reflects, Sherlock must be sore, and Mycroft...
"Hold that thought, John," Mycroft says without looking at him, his eyes still fixed on his brother. "Sherlock may be too worn out for another round at the time being, but I'm not one to let a perfectly good erection go to waste. In fact, I think I'd like you very much to fuck me."
There's that way of saying 'fuck' again. Between that and Sherlock's indecent affair with the cake, it's difficult to think straight.
"I thought you preferred to top."
"Not quite. I said I enjoyed dominating Sherlock, which is an entirely different matter. So." He takes the last piece of the entremet and presents it as an offering in front of Sherlock's mouth, then turns his head to stare right into John's eyes. "Would you?"
John can't help but laugh, open-mouthed, at how decadent his life has become, with a bed full of Holmeses, and cake.
Beta & Britpick: many, many thanks to kamexkame and lotherington, I wouldn't have managed without your help and your mad beta skillz, thank you both so much. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom/Pairing: BBC's Sherlock, Mycroft/John/Sherlock, also contains my personal OTP concerning Mycroft (but it's a secret)
Warnings: incest, threesome, mindfuck, dub con
Summary: More or less inspired from this old prompt on the kinkmeme.
Comments: Initially I wanted to write a short PWP, and... well, look where it got me. Also, since I started writing it before January, it's all very season 1, I'm afraid.
Word count: 8 554 w., which is ridiculous, what the fuck, really
Before sitting down, Mycroft places a rectangle-shaped Japanese lacquered box at the centre of the coffee table. It is an object of exquisite taste, glossy black wood with a bright red rim and a delicate painted pattern of golden leaves on one corner of its lid. The blatant simplicity and restraint of its design attest without a doubt of its invaluable price.
To John, it's as if Mycroft has just laid down a block of wired C4 in front of them. Which, given the nature of the heart-to-heart that is about to follow, would be as good a way as any to escape from a tedious situation.
John raises his eyebrows inquisitively at him but Mycroft keeps silent. It's only then that John notices he's chosen to sit at a respectable distance from Sherlock, who is perched on the other end of the sofa. At first John thinks that maybe they are trying not to put him ill at ease, then thinks better of it. Really? Knowing what he knows? Surely they are past preserving his sense of propriety by now.
When he visits, John ponders, Mycroft usually sits in an armchair (in fact, the one John has come to think of as his), to be in perfect control of the space he occupies, of his posture, to dominate his surroundings; it is a not-so-symbolic throne to the megalomaniac sod that he is.
On the sofa, though, even with his calm air and his legs crossed, he looks a bit out of place, not as much in control. That is, until you take into account Sherlock's position. Then you realise that the image created is rather harmonious, balanced, and representing a particular dynamic: the Holmeses against the rest of the world. Against John.
*****
It was late. John had been fighting sleep for the better part of the night, for no particular reason, just nerves; too much coffee, or maybe he wanted to delay the moment where he would have to face his subconscious, or a combination of both. He didn't remember the reason he went downstairs. For a glass of water, or a stop at the loo, it didn't matter, what he really wanted was to bump into Sherlock on the way, Sherlock who would most definitely be awake at that ungodly hour of the night, Sherlock who could bring him peace of mind simply by being his usual overwhelming self, so that John forgot about his limp, his nightmares, his flawed being.
Sherlock was awake all right, with light and noises coming out of the half-open door to his bedroom. Faint light, and faint noises, a duo of hushed voices, which drew John closer to peek unashamedly; a late-night visitor surely meant a new case, something mysterious and exciting. He just wanted to see what the client looked like, maybe catch a hint of what the case would be about.
It didn't even occur to him that he was being indiscreet. He couldn't keep a secret from Sherlock, not even his computer password, the man knew everything about him, and Sherlock didn't keep secrets at all; he just left people in the dark when it suited him, but never avoided direct questions. Indiscretion simply had no currency at 221B Baker Street.
He could have enumerated a number of scenarios as to why Sherlock would have someone in his room in the middle of the night, the client one being the most plausible.
But he would have never, ever imagined that what he would actually see would be Sherlock sprawled out naked on his bed being fucked vigorously by a man.
He stood transfixed near the threshold of Sherlock's bedroom, watching as his world crumbled to pieces and desperately tried to reassemble itself to the image of what was happening in front of him.
His irrational, stupid first thought when he regained a semblance of wits was, Whatever happened to 'married to my work'?
Then, almost a non sequitur, What a bloody narcissist.
The first thing noticeable about the man towering over Sherlock's reclined form, with Sherlock's legs hooked around his waist, was that he was very tall. And very pale. That he had a svelte, elegant silhouette, long graceful limbs, the lot. It strangely made sense, that Sherlock would be married to his work and would only be unfaithful to be shagged senseless by someone who looked like him, John thought as he found himself in an unexpected state of irritation and yet utterly unable to detach his eyes from the scene.
The dirty yellow light coming from the lamp on Sherlock's nightstand played on the stranger's moving back and revealed a constellation of freckles all across his shoulders, a surprisingly fragile image, considering the beastly roughness with which the man drove into Sherlock's body. The snapping movement of his hips was accelerating, so were his low grunts, and the helpless noises coming from Sherlock; both of them were in all evidence close to orgasm, when Sherlock broke the building rhythm and pleaded, "My face, Mycroft, on my face."
John jerked so violently in surprise that he had to take a step back to regain his balance, which provoked a small creak in the floorboard.
Surely he had misheard the name.
He prayed he had misheard the name.
And that the creaking noise he'd provoked hadn't betrayed his presence.
He looked again at Sherlock and his lover to see if he had been found out, but they had been too busy to notice: they had rearranged themselves so that the man was straddling Sherlock's chest, his right hand moving rapidly in front of him judging from the movement of his forearm, and Sherlock's hands were clutching greedily at the back of the man's thighs. It didn't take long for the man to orgasm, as his body stiffened and both he and Sherlock emitted a loud, simultaneous sigh. After a small pause, the man turned the upper part of his body to reach back and stroke Sherlock's cock, which stood hard and neglected. John had the presence of mind to retreat further back into the unlit corridor so he wouldn't be seen; nevertheless he managed to catch a glimpse of the man's unmistakable profile, and heard his familiar voice, "That look has always suited you, brother mine. Now, tell me. Do you want to come?"
At that, silent as a ghost, John went back to his room.
He understood. No, really, it was fine, it was all fine, he understood. It went without saying that Sherlock had the right to do whatever he wanted with his love life, John had nothing to do with it, wasn't entitled to judge... had no place in it.
So, consciously and deliberately, John proceeded to let go of his hopes of ever having Sherlock Holmes love him back.
John could have lived with that. He was good at denying himself and burying feelings (that came back to bite him in the arse when he finally went to bed, but that was his problem, wasn't it?). He could have made it work, for the sake of... everyone.
Until Sherlock went and did what he does best: fuck everything up.
*****
"Right," says John, breaking the silence. "I guess I just... First, I need to understand. How...?"
"Under different circumstances," Mycroft starts with his ever reasonable tone, "I would have told you that it didn't concern you in any way, John, and that you would do well to leave the matter alone. But considering the situation," he casts a sideways glance at Sherlock who huffs and lets his torso drop on the seat cushions while his legs are dangling off the armrest, "I suppose you've earned the right to know. Let us say for a start that Sherlock has... certain needs, and I cater to them."
"Oh, yes, how selfless of you, Mycroft. You should be given an award," Sherlock murmurs languidly, eyes closed. He is lying still on the sofa with his hands resting on his chest, looking every bit like a recumbent statue, until he suddenly turns his head and opens his eyes on John.
"Do continue," he says. "Pretend I'm not here. I'm bored with this conversation already."
Then he closes his eyes again, obliterating Mycroft's and John's presence at once.
"Okay... so what do you get out of this?" John asks Mycroft, decided not to be thrown off.
"Well, you could say that I enjoy dominating Sherlock sexually. You, of all people, know how infuriating he can be sometimes. I think it rather helps... levelling things up. Now Sherlock, on the other hand, is utterly unable to maintain what you would call a normal relationship with anybody, but still has urges that he cannot fulfill on his own. We came to an arrangement of sorts."
Mycroft's right hand moves slowly towards Sherlock's head and his fingers trace the edge of Sherlock's ear, round and round; a caress that could be affectionate or just distracted, compulsive, like tracing the rim of a wine glass. Sherlock hasn't moved a muscle; his face is a mask.
Fine, John shouldn't have asked that question. But there is at least one very important thing he needs to know. He steels himself, finding in him the calm which precedes the squeeze of the trigger and asks, in his most quiet voice, "When did this all start? At what age? You two are seven years apart, is that correct?"
"Goodness me, John, are you implying that I would..."
"Answer the question."
There is a pause, and an exchange of stares; John's doesn't falter. In one fleeting moment, he thinks he recognizes in Mycroft's eyes the same look he sees in Sherlock's when the detective is reminded, from time to time, that John isn't just a silly little doctor with a limp: he is also a trained killer.
Sharp interest.
Challenge.
Hunger.
A slow grin stretches Mycroft's lips as he finally gives John his answer, "I was thirty."
"He's not lying," Sherlock confirms, eyes still closed and keeping the same position. "Mycroft is many things, John, but he's not a child molester. Although the circumstances in which the first time it happened were more than questionable, so there certainly was some sort of blur around the issue of consent..."
"I thought you refused to take part in the conversation, Sherlock," Mycroft retorts dryly. His hand has stopped caressing Sherlock's ear.
It's Sherlock's turn to grin.
"What's that supposed to mean?" John asks.
A sigh from Mycroft. He may be faking it, but it seems that this part is genuinely painful to get out of his chest.
"When Sherlock was twenty-three, I took it upon me to rid him of his nasty little habit with drugs. I made him accompany me to one of our family houses in the South of France and there I kept him locked in for the summer. It goes without saying that he did not take it well."
"It was hell, pure hell," Sherlock says in a monotonous voice. "The temperature was so hot, there was no escaping it, my blood was boiling. Of all the places that you could have taken me, Mycroft! The crickets were the worst. All that noise... it was constant, too. How could you even stand it? To this day, I still think that you were trying to make me go mad."
"At some point during the first week," Mycroft continues without taking Sherlock's intervention into account, "I had to physically stop him from hurting himself. We fought."
"And then the brotherly tussle turned into fucking," Sherlock cuts in. His eyes suddenly fly open to look into John's, and there is no languor there: they are as sharp as razors. "There you go, John, you see? My brother didn't rape me when I was a child, but he still took advantage of me when I was at my weakest; I was barely coherent at all. Oh, I enjoyed it, he's very good, you know. But would I have said no, had I been able to? I guess we'll never have the answer to that question."
Mycroft's expression is closed. He is not trying to make excuses, isn't even looking at John as he continues his confession, "After that, it was Sherlock who came to me for sex, many times during the summer."
"It helped drown out the sound of the crickets. One need replacing another. Successful behaviour conditioning, wasn't it?"
"I never refused him. I regretted what I did, but it was too late."
"He owed me," Sherlocks finishes. "Still does."
John is equal parts fascinated and horrified. He has no words. It's worse, so much worse than he could have ever imagined. They are much more warped than he would have ever thought, he sees it clearly now, completely fucked in the head; Mycroft with his guilt, Sherlock exploiting it, both of them aware of it all, and still playing each other's weaknesses in their crazy power games.
"I..." John starts. He takes a few deep breaths, tries to gather his thoughts. "This... this is so incredibly wrong. I don't... Where do I fit in this? You could have gone on like this without me. I didn't want anything to do with it, but you've made it my problem too, now, haven't you?"
It's almost insulting how unapologetic Sherlock looks.
*****
It started like something out of John's most cliché fantasies: end of case, a chase, victory over evil, going home laughing breathlessly, adrenaline still swimming in their veins, a kiss... The fact that in reality it was Sherlock who initiated it made it all the more astounding.
Except that the timing was wrong, and John couldn't get the image from a few nights ago out of his head, of Mycroft looming over Sherlock; he could still hear...
Sherlock's nails scratched at John's nape as he deepened the kiss and pulled John closer, as if he were literally trying to get under John's skin. Which he just might succeed in achieving. John felt he was being eaten alive.
Suddenly he couldn't remember why it was wrong, why he should put a stop this.
They broke the kiss on the verge of asphyxiation, and even then Sherlock's lips were not leaving John's body, kissing every bit of exposed skin they could find. And when there weren't any more, Sherlock's trembling fingers took over and provided: digging, pulling, scratching with febrility, tearing at John's clothes. It was as if Sherlock couldn't get enough of him, which was driving the object of his attentions mad with lust. Then he dropped to his knees and John was a goner: at the first lick of Sherlock's tongue on his stiff prick, he whimpered, loudly, couldn't stop himself. His whole body shook violently when his shaft was engulfed to the root in Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock grabbed John's hands and directed them to the top of his head, but John didn't do anything more than rest them lightly on his curls, barely touching at all, more like shyly hovering. Realising he couldn't break John's resolve to be polite even in the middle of sex, Sherlock pulled his head back and let John's cock slip out of his mouth, falling past his bottom lip, landing on his chin. He stroked it with his face, making it slide across one cheek, then the other. John hissed when the head bumped against a sharp, sharp cheekbone, which made Sherlock smile.
"Come on, John," Sherlock murmured, wheedling, staring up at John with hooded eyes. His tongue darted to lick at John's cock again. "Fuck my mouth."
My face, Mycroft, on my face.
The memory of a few nights ago came back to John, full force, and nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. His mind went blank from shock, to the point that he almost didn't catch what Sherlock, visibly growing frustrated with his reluctance, added next.
"It's fine, I can take it. I let Mycroft do it all the time."
John couldn't help his reaction: he recoiled in horror.
"John...?"
His heart sank at the sight of Sherlock's confused expression. Not good. Not good at all.
He took a deep breath, and a resolution. No ignoring it, no backing away now. He couldn't pretend it wasn't his business anymore.
"I'll call your brother. We need to talk."
****
And here they are. The two Holmeses on the sofa, John in his chair, a mysterious Japanese box between them, and a horrible, horrible mess that John doesn't even know how to begin to set straight. At any rate, he believes there are now decisions to be made.
"So I'll ask again, how does it work? How do we separate this? Do we put in place a, uh... time share? Does somebody have to back down, and if so..."
Mycroft starts chuckling, cutting John mid-sentence. It's so rude and out of character that John can't do anything but stare. No reaction from Sherlock, who's chosen to ignore them again.
"Pardon me, John", Mycroft says when he's controlled his mirth, "but it seems you've misread the situation entirely."
"Have I?" John retorts coldly.
"You shouldn't have let the lyrical flights about the 'sound of the crickets' distract you, the important part was not our terribly touching tale of incest. Have you not paid attention to what I said at the beginning of our conversation? Sherlock is incapable of having a normal relationship, of any kind. That was true before the two of us got involved sexually, and it is still true now. It did not stop him from wanting you, though; which was why he had to, as you yourself said, 'make it your problem'. He had to implicate you in this."
John blinks. Looks at Sherlock, who is absorbed with gazing at a precise point of the carpet, probably at a subatomic level, considering the intensity he's putting into it. However, John can tell he's been attentive. John's eyes dart back to Mycroft, who lightly tilts his head to the side as he stares back, as if waiting for him to get the joke. Well, no, John doesn't get it, quick dismissal of their traumatising story aside, Mycroft has done nothing but state the obvious. How could a Holmes ever state the obvious?
"Yes, I know," John says slowly, not sure that they're having the same conversation. "And he succeeded pretty well with that, but I don't really see what you're getting at..."
"Sherlock?" Mycroft prompts, but Sherlock suddenly curls up on himself and turns his back to the room. A clear "fuck off". Mycroft rolls his eyes at the attitude, but he's still left with the tedious explaining to do. He sighs and brushes imaginary dust from the top of his knee before he speaks.
"Allow me to be more direct, then, since my brother can't be bothered to do it himself: he wants us both, not in separate relationships, not on a time share, but at the same time. To that effect, he's been manipulating us, from what you saw that night in his bedroom to his presumably ill-timed, ah, forgive me the expression, 'slip of the tongue' when he seduced you. All of which brings us here, to this room."
John's first reflex is to snicker. Only expectant silence, complete with raised eyebrows, meets his reaction of dismay.
"That's... How can you manipulate someone with a plan based on coincidences and sheer dumb luck? I'm pretty sure my catching you in the middle of it couldn't possibly be predict-..." John trails off. He's not so certain anymore. Mycroft looks as confident and calm as ever, and Sherlock is still facing the back of the sofa, not confirming nor denying anything.
"A good manipulator is merely someone who knows how to increase the odds," Mycroft states. "It was a spectacular coincidence indeed, that you happened to have caught us in the middle of the act; it has certainly served to leave you a... lasting impression, and made the whole process go a lot quicker.
"But let's consider the other possible scenarios, where the timing wouldn't be as good... A night of insomnia is a predictable phenomenon for an observer such as my brother, John, especially when the subject is someone like you. I'm a predictable factor too, since I'm unable to say no to him.
"As long as you were awake and I was in his room, it was highly probable you would catch up on something in the end: me coming in or out of the room, strange noises, a dishevelled appearance... Especially when the bedroom door is left ajar and the light is on each and every time.
"It's not that subtle, really. Sherlock would have recreated his little mise-en-scene as many times as required for you to put two and two together and realise the true nature of our relationship. And as soon as he'd had you baited, the rest was a mere matter of good acting skills... surely I don't need to remind you how good an actor he is."
John's insides have turned to ice. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Mycroft's explanation is sounding more and more like the truth. Part of him still won't believe it, but he knows it can't win against logic, especially if it's a Holmes who's serving it to him. He knows he can't win against them.
He stares and stares at Sherlock's back, until all he sees are the blunt lines of a faceless idol.
It's Sherlock Holmes we're talking about, John thinks bitterly. Of course that's what happened. You fucking moron.
He wants to scream at Sherlock to turn and face him, to stop being such a coward; instead he turns to Mycroft and asks in a hoarse voice, "You said something about 'lyrical flights'..." His left hand tightens to a fist. "That story you told me, was it bollocks?"
If Mycroft says it was all part of the manipulation, God help him, he will beat both of the bastards to a pulp.
"Oh, it is true, all of it," Mycroft assures him. "But that is beside the point. You should ask yourself, rather, why Sherlock wanted you to know about it."
“Why...? Oh, right, because your fucking each other up in the head instead of just plain fucking, that’s so compelling that I wouldn’t be able to help myself from wanting in on it?”
"Because it would make you care. You are a knight in a shining armor, John. You would be tempted to join us if only to find a way to save us from ourselves."
"Right. And you've told me all this because... what, you want to drive me away screaming? You're trying to mess up Sherlock's plan, is that it?"
"Oh, no, quite the contrary," Mycroft denies earnestly. "Sherlock is very fond of you, and as I said, I can't refuse him anything. Not to mention that I find you quite interesting and attractive myself."
John lets out a short bark of disbelief.
"So you actually think that, after telling me square in the face that I've been mindfucked right, left and centre, I will still come running into your open arms and jump into your bed? Fucking hell. You really take me for an idiot, don't you?"
"You are far from stupid, John, and you know you could have run away earlier in the game. Of course you might still say no at this point, especially now that I've revealed everything, but admit it: you were already halfway there. Why not cross the remaining distance? Now you have all the keys in hand and there's nothing left to hide. This is both of us, Sherlock and I, in plain sight."
To emphasize his point, he presents his open hands to John, fingers splayed, in a gesture of peace.
Beside him, Sherlock stone-like form is suddenly animate, arms and legs sprouting from it; Sherlock is uncurling his body like some sort of strange insect trying to get out of his cocoon. Then he's on all fours on the sofa, crawling towards his brother with a mad smirk on his mad face.
"You're a pervert, Mycroft," he says when he reaches him, spider-like hands clinging to Mycroft's suit, scurrying under the lapels. "You knew and yet you still went along with it."
Mycroft is unfazed by Sherlock's accusation, and doesn't try to stop him from unbuttoning his waistcoat either.
"Why, I was admirative, Sherlock, and I wouldn't bring myself to stop such a masterly move from coming to completion. Minimum risks, maximum profit, you brought us right where you wanted us and even let us handle the talking. Well played, brother mine. Well played."
"You know, that is precisely why I wouldn't play chess with you," Sherlock grumbles as he sinks his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck to kiss it. "You'd let me win just to watch me play."
Mycroft places a hand on the side of Sherlock's face, two fingers on his jawline, a thumb underneath his chin, and tilts it up so their lips meet in a kiss. It starts out slow. Mycroft appears to be the one taking his time, sucking lazily on his brother's tongue while Sherlock's whole body seems to be vibrating with need.
Sherlock behaves, though; he who never listens, never obeys, is held back and controlled by the three fingers resting on his jaw. It goes on like this for a while, at Mycroft's languorous pace and for as long as it pleases him, but the intensity is turned up a notch when, with no warning, Mycroft moves his other hand and his fingers tangle in Sherlock's curls and yank. Sherlock gasps, half from surprise and half from arousal, as his neck bends and his head jerks back suddenly.
Mycroft shifts on the sofa, moving up on the cushions on one knee while maintaining Sherlock's head in an awkward position. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind: he's panting, eyes slightly glazed as he's looking up at his brother's face. The fingers alongside his jaw have now moved to his throat, thumb running over and over Sherlock's Adam's apple, dogging it even as it bobs when Sherlock swallows.
Eventually, Mycroft leans in and brings their lips together again. This time the angle of the kiss is deepened by Mycroft's dominating position and Sherlock seems to have no choice but to accept the thrusts of his brother's tongue in his mouth, with small, muffled whining sounds escaping his throat, like a needy animal -- sounds that don't resemble him at all.
John is beyond furious. Or feels he should be, particularly when Mycroft lets go of Sherlock, who turns to John with heavy-lidded eyes and a very red mouth and beckons, "Come here, John."
And anger is certainly part of the turmoil of emotions he's experiencing right now, along with shock, humiliation, outrage, but he's aware that it's not the reason why his breath has quickened and his blood is boiling.
He doesn't want to feel aroused. He doesn't want Sherlock's apparent helplessness under Mycroft's hands to be a turn-on. It's sick. This is just another game for them, and he's had enough of being toyed with.
He stands up and marches towards the sofa. He's still not sure of what he will do once he's reached them. His hands are balled into fists at his sides and there is still a good chance that one of them is destined to land on Sherlock's jaw. Judging from his expression, Sherlock knows it. Probably wants it, too, the perverted prick, from the way he looks up at John, in fact, just like he looked at Mycroft earlier: with eagerness, and adoration.
He wants us both.
Fuck. Despair seizes his throat and any trace of tension leaves his arms and hands. Despite everything that's happened, everything they've said, everything John knows now, he still loves that man. There's nothing he can do about it. Punching the fucker in the face, as much as he'd deserve it, won't help.
"John," Mycroft calls softly.
His expression is sympathetic.
"As a soldier, you should know when to call defeat. And there is no dishonour in bowing before such an opponent."
So John does just that. He bows his head, and kisses Sherlock.
There is no urgency like the first time; the brush of their lips is sweet, tentative. The very tip of Sherlock's tongue ghosts over John's teeth, not making any demands, just reminding John that he can take more if he feels so inclined. John responds and lets his tongue slides over Sherlock's; he startles when it elicits from Sherlock the same muffled, needy animal whine as earlier on.
He wants us both.
John realises that he's put a hand on Mycroft's thigh to keep his balance while he was kissing Sherlock. One look at Mycroft tells him that he doesn't mind at all. Mycroft's face is very close, and it feels natural to lean forward and kiss it in turn.
John expects Mycroft to be as domineering with him as he is with Sherlock, but even though he's definitely not as submissive as his brother, he seems content with letting John take the lead.
"I think," John begins, licking his lips. He takes a look at Sherlock who has been watching them, unblinking. "I think this might actually work."
Sherlock is quick to react.
"Bedroom?" He proposes, and gets up.
"Let's," Mycroft agrees.
"We're very, very damaged, aren't we?" John sighs, resigned, as he follows them.
"That's what makes it interesting," Sherlock calls back from the bedroom.
"Oh, and can you take the box with you, John?" Mycroft turns to ask pleasantly.
John stops right in his tracks. The box. He's completely forgotten about it. What the hell could be in there that Mycroft would need in the bedroom? John has accepted the fact that he's been thoroughly played by Sherlock, which was shocking and humiliating enough, he just doesn't want any more twists and surprises.
His wariness doesn't escape Mycroft, who explains, "No, no, don't worry, John, it's not for you: it's for Sherlock."
Well, that is not reassuring either.
*****
It's an ambush. They are all over John as soon as he sets foot in the bedroom, carrying the bloody box with him. They can't possibly have had the time to choreograph it, and yet they move with common purpose and perfect timing. Mycroft takes the box from him and puts it on top of the nightstand while Sherlock kisses him and starts unbuttoning his shirt, then Mycroft comes back and takes over, his mouth immediately on John's as soon as Sherlock's leaves to close around John's earlobe. Mycroft doesn't stop kissing him while he's deftly unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers; he's barely finished when Sherlock tugs at them to make them come off and slips his tongue inside John's ear without missing a beat, taking John's attention away from Mycroft's hands that have seized the opportunity to snake past the undone fly to cup his cock through his underwear and give it a firm rub.
It's only when John suddenly feels a cold, wet, lubricated -- when did that happen? -- finger slipping inside the cleft of his arse that he calls for a time out.
"Stop," he gasps, coming up for air, "wait, wait, both of you, stop. Too much, too fast."
"You've had threesomes before," Sherlock declares out of the blue, in a low rumble next to his ear. "Mainly involving you and two members of the opposite sex, only once with a woman and another man, most probably a friend, someone you trust... Murray, then. But you never touched each other during and never talked about it again afterwards, mainly because Murray is a repressed homosexual and you think you are being considerate with him, how dull and petit-bourgeois of you. So, no experience in same-sex intercourse except the fellatio that I failed to perform on you yesterday, and although we've made sure that by now you've accepted it intellectually, you still have to overcome the taboo of incest ingrained in your psyche by centuries of social conformism. Psychosomatic morals, if you will. Am I missing anything?"
"Yeah, yeah, as always, good deduction, thank you for telling me what I'm thinking," John retorts irritably. He’s had enough with Sherlock being able to get inside his head whenever he feels like it.
"Manners, Sherlock," Mycroft berates. "It's rather bad form to deduce one's partner's sexual proclivities when one has a finger in their behind."
Of course the finger had to be Sherlock's, impatient bastard; he must have secured the lubricant as soon as he got into the bedroom.
"I apologise, John, on his behalf and my own," Mycroft continues. "You are right, there is no need to rush it. Sherlock, cuffs."
For one panicked second, John thinks that Sherlock has gotten hold of handcuffs too and that they are going to restrain him, but Sherlock lets go of John only to present his own wrists to his brother. John realises with relief that Mycroft was talking about Sherlock's shirt cuffs when the older Holmes undoes the fiddly buttons with ease.
"No reason to be nervous." After the cuffs, Mycroft takes care of the buttons on the front of Sherlock's shirt with efficiency. "We won't do anything that you're not comfortable with."
"Don't make me laugh, you two were born to do things that I'm uncomfortable with," John shoots back without thinking, transfixed as he is by the gradual revelation of Sherlock's chest. From where he is, he can see one nipple, coral pink, peeking shyly from under the edge of his shirt. His lips and fingers itch.
His retort has provoked a genuine smile with Mycroft, a particular spark of humour in his eyes that doesn't appear very often.
"True enough. Allow me to rephrase then: we can accustom you to certain ideas until you feel comfortable with them."
Sherlock's shirt falls from his shoulders with a mere brush of Mycroft's fingers and a subtle play of muscles on Sherlock's back, rolling under his pale skin, shifting a bone here, bringing out a blue vein there, organic tell-tales that Sherlock's perfection is, after all, human.
"I'm sure you can," John says weakly.
"The matter of experience is a non-issue, I already entrust his safety to you, and to your medical degree, of course. At any rate, I believe there is accumulated tension between you and my brother that we need to resolve, before moving along to more, shall we say, exotic configurations." Mycroft's movements slow, and the sound of the zipper on Sherlock's trousers seems to drag on forever. "You'll agree with me when I say that your shagging my brother is long overdue."
Sherlock steps out of his crumpled trouser legs and stands naked in front of them, visibly enjoying the attention if the smug look on his face and his half-hardness are anything to go by. Mycroft, as ever, is right. Anger and arousal are still at war within John, and as it happens, the cause is also the solution.
"I can prepare him for you, if you'd prefer," Mycroft says as he places a proprietary hand on the most magnificent arse John has ever seen, and starts kneading one buttock firmly. Sherlock sighs with contentment, and lets his head fall on his brother's shoulder, although he's looking at John from the corner of his eye. Mycroft turns his head to kiss the corner of Sherlock's jaw, his neck, his collarbone; Sherlock responds by rubbing his cheek against Mycroft's temple, cheekbone, ear. This surprising display of tenderness reminds John of big cats: nature's most perfected killing machines turned sweet and affectionate in the space of a moment. They part with a quick kiss on the lips, and Sherlock goes to sprawl on the bed while Mycroft, back to his efficient attitude, is removing his own clothes.
"Have a seat, John," he suggests when he's tackling the buttons on the stiff collar strangling his neck. "You may join us whenever you feel inspired."
'Have a seat, John' were the exact first words Mycroft told him when he met him in person. Funny how John feels more inclined to obey them now, as he zips his trousers back on and goes to make himself comfortable in the chair by Sherlock's wardrobe, opposite the bed. By then, Mycroft is naked too, clothes folded neatly on top of the small chest under the window, an amusing contrast to Sherlock's own clothes strewn across the floor. But even in nudity, the Holmeses appear to be polar opposites. As much as Sherlock's body looks like it belongs on a pedestal at the Louvre, Mycroft's is touchingly damaged, very real and somehow relatable. His flesh is sagging in some places; probably the result of too many harsh diets and unbridled relapses. His skin looks thin, paper thin, dotted all over by freckles, and smooth, with scarce body hair, except for the tuft of light ginger hair at the base of his penis, which stands erect.
Any other man with those body features standing naked in front of another may have looked diminished, vulnerable, but Mycroft holds himself straight, shoulders back, legs solid and his presence is powerful, almost too much to bear. Whatever his eyes find when they search John's expression must meet his approval, because he gives an almost imperceptible nod before turning to join his brother on the bed.
There is a bit of shifting and re-arranging until they find the right position: both half-reclining, with Sherlock's back pressed against Mycroft's chest, Sherlock's legs wide apart with his feet planted on the mattress to give John a better view, which John appreciates indeed when Mycroft's fingers, shiny with lubricant, spread Sherlock's arse cheeks to fuck his hole open. They push in easily after a bit of play, and soon have Sherlock moving his hips like a whore and shamelessly begging for more although Mycroft is already up to three fingers inside him. The sight of the first knuckle of a fourth going in convinces John to stand up and walk over to them.
"John, John, please," Sherlock chants deliriously. "Kiss me, please, kiss me."
Sherlock's lips are made to be kissed, John decides, and it's never a hardship to grant this request. He's on auto-pilot now, brain shut off, and hasn't got a clue about what to do next. Sherlock makes the decision for him and takes his hand to place it on his body. Oh, yes. Touch Sherlock. What a good idea. Warm soft flesh yielding under the press of his palm, a shiver, the bump of a hardening nipple under the pads of his fingers, squeeze, a long moan against his lips. Next thing he knows his wandering hand curls around Sherlock's hot, sticky shaft. It's the first time John has ever touched another man's prick, and there is something oddly satisfying, oddly liberating about feeling its firmness, its length, sliding inside his fist all the way down to Sherlock's body and then back up where it ends with a perfectly round glans. John feels he could go on forever like this, but Mycroft interrupts by nudging his shoulder with the bottle of lubricant. John hesitates; taking the time to undress and slick himself would mean stop touching Sherlock for a minute, stop kissing him, which is unbearable, but there is, on the other hand, the pressing matter of his own erection which aches to be buried inside Sherlock, and that just can't be handled in any reckless way. So John opts for the sensible thing to do and takes the lubricant.
Then he's naked too, and lining his slicked cock up for penetration, right between Mycroft's fingers that are holding Sherlock's arse cheeks apart. He's sweating, god, so much, from exhaustion and nerves, and a drop of sweat falls from his brow to Sherlock's tightened sac, rolls down the curve of a testicle. Sherlock makes an impatient noise and John suddenly feels a fluttering against the tip of his cock, as if Sherlock's hole is trying to suck more of it in by sheer force of muscle since Mycroft's grip doesn't allow any movement for the rest of his body. The sensation has John's eyes roll back in his head and makes him forget himself for a minute: he slides halfway in a tad too quick, which expels a gush of air from Sherlock's lungs, followed by a half-pained grunt.
"Sor-," John breathes, and chokes when Mycroft suddenly seizes Sherlock by the hips to push him down on John's cock the rest of the way.
"How is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks silkily, licking the outer shell of his brother's ear, just once. Since, for the first time of his life, Sherlock is unable to answer, Mycroft interprets, "Big, isn't it, even for you. Having a mouthful is one thing, but down there where you're so tight, even though I've prepared you so well, you're having trouble adapting to it, aren't you, you're stretched so much it hurts and you love it, how you love it, dear brother, to be taken so completely, to exist for the sole purpose of being fucked so thoroughly..."
"Oh God."
John doesn't know what effect Mycroft's words are having on Sherlock, but they're working pretty damn well on him, and provoke him into moving his hips. The way Mycroft says 'fucked' is both elegant and wrong, so much so that John wants to hear it again. Sherlock still doesn't say anything, nothing that's not moans and gibberish, anyway. He looks lost in sensation, his body a mess of fluids and reddened skin, the very picture of debauchery. He's quivering around John, alive and scorching hot, and John thrusts and thrusts, until...
"Stop," Mycroft commands.
Having had a whole history in the army of obeying without thinking, John stills a little too brusquely on an outward stroke, and his cock ends up dislodged from its snug sheath entirely. A sob of frustration escapes him when the realisation of his mistake sets in. He was so close, so fucking close...
"Turn around, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Hands and knees. Let me see your face."
They rearrange themselves quickly so Sherlock is on all fours above Mycroft, face to face with him. John doesn't waste time to push into Sherlock again. This time he goes in more easily, deeper, and Sherlock arches with a soft sigh, turning his spine into an infinite bow of white. The change of angle is doing wonders for him too, John muses, breath cut short by this sight, and by the look on Mycroft's face, which is one of dark lust. He suddenly feels Sherlock squirming beneath him, and two points of pressure on either side of the root of his prick: they're Mycroft's fingers, pressed against the place where John's and Sherlock's bodies join, and his palm is gently massaging Sherlock's balls.
He's feeling me fucking his brother, John thinks. He's... holding us both in his hand.
His thrusts resume, desperate, erratic. He tries to keep a semblance of self-control, tries to slow down, in vain: the thought of Mycroft there, right between them, participating more intimately than just watching is enough to bring him on the brink again.
"Close?" Mycroft asks Sherlock in a whisper, echoing John's thoughts.
Sherlock is only able to nod.
"Do you want more?"
This time Mycroft doesn't wait for Sherlock's answer and John feels one finger sliding alongside his cock and joining him in the penetration. It wrenches a strangled sort of cry from Sherlock and suddenly he's coming violently, his limbs shaking and his inner muscles spasming aroung John's cock and Mycroft's finger. It barely takes a second thrust for John to climax too, his whole body buzzing, electric, from the rush of pleasure.
"Kiss me," Sherlock begs John again, when they both collapse on the bed beside Mycroft, their limbs turned to cotton. John's never seen him this pliant, this languid before: it's like all his sharpness and angles have softened at once and John very much wants to kiss him, so he does.
Lying on their side, they share sweet, soft kisses, just lips. It feels very nice, drained of sexual tension, but still sensuous, because Sherlock's lips are so very plump and John just can't get enough of them. It goes on for an indefinite amount of time, until a grunt over Sherlock's shoulder calls John's attention. Belatedly, John becomes aware of Sherlock's body jerking against him, and realises that Mycroft has penetrated Sherlock in turn and has been fucking him almost soundlessly as they were kissing. Sherlock is so loose-limbed that he barely offers any resistance and his body shakes with each thrust. It doesn't seem to bother Sherlock, though, that he's being used this way: he remains happily boneless and relaxed even though Mycroft isn't being particularly gentle. John notices Mycroft's fingers whitening on Sherlock's hip before Sherlock decides John isn't paying enough attention to him and locks lips with him again, with a bit of tongue this time, effectively distracting John from his concern about Mycroft's roughness. Then Sherlock breaks the kiss and whispers softly, with something like wonder in his voice, "There. He's there."
Catching his meaning, John raises on one elbow to look over Sherlock's shoulder and doesn't miss anything of how Mycroft is coming undone, of the unguarded bliss on his face, of how he is truly revealed for just one moment. John looks back at Sherlock and sees him smiling up at him. He, too, looks so painfully beautiful that John just has to kiss him again.
They bask in the afterglow for a while, just lying content on the bed in a heap of tangled limbs, and John is slowly drifting from half-dozing to full sleep until Mycroft's voice suddenly snaps him out of his drowsiness.
"Can you pass me the box, please, John? It's right beside you, on the nightstand."
Ah. The box again. And again, he's forgotten about it. But now seems to be the moment of letting loose whatever devil lies inside it. Curiosity wins over his apprehension and he hands the box over to Mycroft after a few maneuvers, complicated and painful for the state he's in. Is it some kind of weird sex toy? It can't be drugs. Mycroft would never indulge Sherlock on this particular sin. But then again John hadn't taken full measure of how twisted the brothers really were until very recently. If it turns out to be drugs, John is out. As a doctor, and the brother of an alcoholic, and Sherlock's friend, he can't abide...
"A piece of cake?" John says, incredulous, when the lid comes off.
"I told you," Mycroft says. "Sherlock has certain needs, and I cater to them."
"Nothing to do with that, don't listen to him," Sherlock tells John. "When we started sleeping together, guilt made him get horribly fat. Now he watches his weight very carefully and gets off on watching me eat after sex instead. Ladurée?"
"You know Ladurée isn't up to standards anymore," Mycroft tuts.
"Pierre Hermé, then."
"His latest entremet creation. Arrived from Paris this morning."
"This morning," John repeats tonelessly. Then adds, "You fucking bastard."
"Now, John..."
"Don't 'now John' me. You had already calculated the outcome of this, hadn't you. You were counting on the fact that I would say yes, no, in fact you already knew I would, you knew even before I contacted you. Cake means done deal, a code Sherlock understands, and you put your prediction right under my nose, as if you two arseholes hadn't already fucked enough with my head. Unbelievable. Why am I even surprised? And I don't even have the strength to be suitably angry and kick you in the balls right now. Jesus."
"You're being paranoid, John," Sherlock scoffs, the bastard. "Neither Mycroft nor I could predict that you would say yes. No one in the world could. We certainly made arrangements to obtain favorable circumstances, yes, but the outcome was never definite. You're underestimating yourself if you think you're that predictable, even to us. I wouldn't have wanted you in my bed if you were so boring."
"Why the cake then," John asks, calming down a little, "if you were not sure you would succeed?"
Mycroft chuckles.
"I figured that in the eventuality of a refusal from you, at least the cake would have made a decent peace offering."
John should have known. They're never where you expect them to be, especially when you think you've figured them out. In fact, he should have known this is not the real world anymore: he's now part of their crazily fucked-up parallel universe, where no normal rules apply, and where a piece of cake from Paris is a suitable apology gift to someone who refuses to take part in an incestuous threesome. Of course.
"Mmh, I suppose no one among us has regained enough motor functions to go and fetch a fork?"
John groans and tries very hard not to hit Mycroft with a pillow. He doesn't have the strength to, anyway.
"My fingers will have to do, then. Shame about the sophisticated layering," Mycroft laments.
He scoops up a bit of copper-coloured cream on top of the entremet with his nail, rippling its smooth and shiny surface, and pushes it between Sherlock's lips.
"Caramel glaçage," Sherlock announces, after a deep moan of pleasure.
With three fingers, Mycroft manages to catch more layers and demolishes the cake further more. All three fingers end up in Sherlock's mouth, which closes around them and sucks them in dutifully.
"Almond moelleux, bitter chocolate ganache. Salted butter caramel cream."
Sherlock manages to make his listing of ingredients as sexy as his deductions, which is saying a lot. As far as John is concerned.
"And, oh. Oohh." No one should be allowed to make such lascivious noises when eating cake. And John's prick should know better than to think John is twenty again. "Mango gelée. Divine."
Mycroft continues to hand-feed Sherlock as John is trying to ignore his growing erection, although the sight and sounds of Sherlock sucking on Mycroft's fingers are making the endeavour next to impossible. They can't go again anyway, John reflects, Sherlock must be sore, and Mycroft...
"Hold that thought, John," Mycroft says without looking at him, his eyes still fixed on his brother. "Sherlock may be too worn out for another round at the time being, but I'm not one to let a perfectly good erection go to waste. In fact, I think I'd like you very much to fuck me."
There's that way of saying 'fuck' again. Between that and Sherlock's indecent affair with the cake, it's difficult to think straight.
"I thought you preferred to top."
"Not quite. I said I enjoyed dominating Sherlock, which is an entirely different matter. So." He takes the last piece of the entremet and presents it as an offering in front of Sherlock's mouth, then turns his head to stare right into John's eyes. "Would you?"
John can't help but laugh, open-mouthed, at how decadent his life has become, with a bed full of Holmeses, and cake.