Mycroft/John/Sherlock, because this fandom needs it.
Title: A Little Social Game
Pairing: Mycroft/John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Utterly shameless manipulation, dub-con, and as should be obvious from the pairing, incest.
Word Count: 7700 words
A/N: Written for this prompt on The BBC Sherlock Kinkmeme: Sibling bickering, rivalry, jealousy, and John getting double teamed.
John trudged up the stairs after work with Sherlock's dry cleaning draped over one arm, a plastic grocery sack strangling his other wrist and wondered how the hell his life had come to this.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the groceries were actually dinner, or at least something that could be turned into a snack, but no, they were odd things like two different types of flea powder, laundry starch, and eight separate tins of shoe polish. In his wallet was Sherlock's debit card. Around his wrist was a watch that Sherlock had given him, to replace the one that fell into the Thames last month. On his back was the jumper that Sherlock bought him after his favorite was ruined with blood. Little bribes, little impositions. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
When did I become Sherlock's wife? he thought to himself.
Resigned he reached the landing and opened the door.
Honey, "I'm home," he called out, then turned around to close the door behind him. His mind was full of all the things in his arms and where the hell he should put all this crap and the realization that the flat was a lot warmer than was customary. In other words, he wasn't really paying attention.
"Yes, I can see," said Sherlock.
"Good afternoon, John," said Mycroft.
Oh… boy. John froze, back to the living room. He pressed his lips together and let his head fall gently forward until his brow touched the door. Was he up for being in the middle of one of their fights today? No. Not really.
"Oh, did you catch that implied bit, Sherlock?" said Mycroft. "How sweet."
"As I said, he's well prepared," Sherlock murmured back with a trace of satisfaction.
Mycroft let out a little laugh of glee. "I'm really looking forward to this. I haven't been this eager in quite a long time, actually."
"Glad to oblige," Sherlock replied in a dry way that suggested that he was anything but.
It was like code, the way they talked. Their minds moved so fast that they needed only to allude at things for the other to catch on. They rarely thought to dumb it down so that he had a clue what was going on. Which wouldn't have been so bad if they didn't both insist that he join these oblique conversations, as though his opinion in some way mattered to either of them.
John sighed, lifted his head off the door, and decided the sane course of action was to ignore them. He hung up his coat and put Sherlock's Tesco sack on the kitchen table. He hesitated a moment with the dry cleaning, then decided that he really didn't want to be seen by Mycroft hanging clothes in Sherlock's closet. Instead he left the bag draped over one of the kitchen chairs.
By that time he was sweating. He hooked a finger under the collar of his jumper. "Why is the heat turned up so high?" he asked, interrupting the chatter.
Both turned to look at him.
Dear. God. Normally neither brother bothered with more than a second or two of eye contact. Which was a relief, because both could garner more information in a momentary glance than most people could in an hour's stare. Anything beyond the most fluttery appraisal constituted a virtual interrogation. They were both interrogating him now.
"It's an experiment," said Sherlock.
"More like an exercise," Mycroft quibbled. "Experiment suggests that the result would be in doubt."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Ah," said John. "I see." Actually, perhaps the sane thing to do would be to get the hell out of there until they were through with whatever it was they were doing. At least it would be more comfortable. "Well, I'm - going to Tesco's," he said abruptly.
"You've just been," said Sherlock.
"I forgot something."
"No, you haven't," countered Mycroft, with a smug smile. "Please stay. I don't like to feel I've put you out of your own home."
There was something about the way Mycoft asked for things that made it really, really hard to say no. Perhaps it was the way his voice went so buttery, or the gentle way his eyes seemed to take you in and plead, or maybe the sincerity of his tone, the reasonableness of his words. John didn't know, but he got the distinct feeling that walking out the door after such a request would be the height of rudeness.
"Okay. But may I please turn down the heat a bit?"
"Take off you jumper," suggested Sherlock. "No need to be formal around us." Sherlock opened his shirt all the way and left his bare, pale chest exposed. John tried his best not to gape at the uncharacteristic behavior.
"Indeed, we are all family," said Mycroft. And to prove it, he then began rolling his shirt sleeves up. For the first time John noticed Mycroft's jacket, waistcoat folded carefully across an end table. His tie draped across the two almost artfully. It struck John that this is the most undressed he'd ever seen Mycroft.
"Alright," John pulled his jumper up and shrugged his way out of it. As he pulled his arms out of the sleeves he looked up and noticed that both the Holmeses were studying him as though his every movement were the most fascinating thing they'd ever seen.
"What?" he barked.
"Ah," murmured Mycroft with appreciation. "Indeed. That method."
Sherlock had an odd smile about his lips. "I think it's a sure bet."
"No seriously," said John. "What? You two are looking at me like I'm stripping for your entertainment." They were, too. That was the kicker. He looked down at his very unsexy work shirt and tried to imagine what it was that the two could possibly find so interesting.
The two looked at each other with barely suppressed smiles.
"Very well," said John a bit huffily. "I'm going up to my room now."
"No, do stay and visit," said Sherlock immediately. "Please. Don't leave me alone with Mycroft." Sherlock rarely said please. Those eyes of his seemed to speak reams. God, but Sherlock could act when it pleased him. In his own way, Sherlock was just as difficult to say no to as his brother. More so, really.
John sighed with resignation. "I don't suppose the two of you want tea."
"Perhaps iced?" suggested Mycroft, as though this was the most delightful suggestion ever. "If you know how to make it."
"Thank you," said Sherlock.
"Yes, I know." John sighed and went to the kitchen. Soon he had a pot at full boil. He tossed two bags into the water and set the timer for four minutes, then wiped his brow on a dish cloth. The discussion had continued behind his back devolving, per usual, into something of an argument.
"I'm having doubts," said Sherlock.
"Don't be selfish. And don't look so petulant either."
"I just fail to see why we need to alter our arrangement. It's worked just fine in the past with you being the sole provider."
"Out of charity, but now you are simply holding out. You know I've had my eye on this one for months. You owe me."
"You have your eye on everyone, Mycroft."
"And now you're being obtuse," Mycroft tutted. "In any case we've already begun, it's rather untimely to try and renege."
Somehow, who knows how, they both seemed to realize he was paying attention to them. He could feel their eyes on his back and felt uncomfortably like he was in the scope of snipers. His hair prickled up on the back of his neck and he fought the urge to duck down behind the table.
"John," called Sherlock, warmly. "Why don't you come back to the sofa, the tea will take a few minutes."
Sweat trickled down John's back.
"Doesn't he seem hot?" remarked Mycroft. "Oh dear, please do open your shirt. Trust that I won't be scandalized a bit."
John tightened his lips, took a deep soothing breath through his nose, then turned around and faced them with a patently false smile. They were both watching him, Sherlock curiously, Mycroft with mild amusement.
"Why is the heat up so high?"
"It's a ritual," said Sherlock, very deliberately turning away from him to stare at some random thing in the room.
"A bit of a bonding thing we two have," agreed Mycroft, turning that amused look on his brother.
John frowned. "What, you mean like one of those Native American sweat lodge things or something."
Sherlock looked vague but Mycroft leaped on it. "Very much so." Then to Sherlock: "Quite perceptive this one."
Sherlock grunted.
"It's a little thing we came up with, almost 20 years ago, isn't that right?"
"17 years," said Sherlock, "Don't exaggerate."
"Sherlock was having a bit of difficulty adjusting to Oxford, what with being sixteen and all. As an act of benevolence - on the school, not Sherlock - I removed him from the dorms and found the two of us a quite pleasant flat to share. It wasn't all that different from the arrangement you two have."
John nodded. This was actually interesting. Sherlock treated his past like some huge embarrassment and rarely mentioned it. What little John knew of it came from Mycroft's occasional reminiscing.
"Well, you know my brother," Mycroft went on. "He doesn't look it, but he's terribly needy. Social skills of an ox."
Sherlock shot him daggers with his eyes.
"In any case, we developed a few fun little activities to pass the time and become closer. Mostly games of the intellectual sort, Sherlock really has no equal outside of myself, nor I outside of him. But a few were of a more social nature, including the little game we have going right now."
Sherlock's eyes widened. Clear warning there.
"Social game?" John asked.
"It's a guessing game. It requires a guest. Sherlock and I observe this person, and we come to our conclusions, then share them. Whoever is closest, wins."
Sherlock's lip tweaked up on one side, but John only barely noticed. The sudden intense scrutiny made sense.
"Ah," he said nodding. "And that's why you need me. You are going to guess about me. Well it seems Sherlock should have a clear advantage. I mean, we do live together."
"Oh, but see he's never posed the right questions," said Mycroft.
"What do I need to do," asked John.
"Nothing," said Sherlock. "Just be yourself."
"We are simply passively observing right now," Mycroft agreed blithely.
Something seemed a bit off. "Won't telling me what you are doing spoil your data?" John asked. The reaction from both of them was instantaneous and baffling.
"See!" said Mycroft to Sherlock, his eyes going wide with delight. "Lovely!"
"I won't deny its part of his appeal," admitted Sherlock, actually grinning for once.
John covered his face with his hand. He had no idea what he'd just done that so won their approval. Was it what he'd said? Was it what he didn't say? Something else entirely, like body language. Smell? He felt the burn of frustration grow in his belly. This was why he hated getting between Sherlock and his brother. Exactly this.
"Well I don't suppose it occurred to either one of you to ask if I wanted to be part of this experiment - exercise. Whatever it is."
"Do you object?" asked Mycroft. John didn't believe for a moment he was nearly as surprised as his voice suggested. "I admit it was a bit of a presumption on our part, but seeing as you are always so willing to participate in Sherlock's adventures, this seemed not outside of your comfort zone. I know you enjoy Sherlock's company and I do hope that I'm not unpleasant to be around."
Unpleasant - no. Utterly terrifying, yes.
"I won't eat you," Mycroft reassured him with an expression that suggested he'd love to do just that.
John considered. While it was creepy being examined, it really wasn't actually all that unusual with this lot. Mycroft and Sherlock were constantly sizing him up; Mycroft through his stalkerish obsession with the CCTV system, Sherlock simply because that was his schtick, nothing personal. This "game" sounded like nothing more than a more overt version of their ordinary behavior.
And now both of them were boring their gazes into him, clearly willing him to say "yes" and cooperate. John wavered. It was beyond good manners, but on the other hand, neither meant him any harm. His will crumbled.
"Oh, very well," he said, a little more bitterly than he intended.
Sherlock suddenly stood up and tossed off his shirt completely. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin. "That's better," he mentioned as he stretched and sat back down. John felt momentarily envious of his lack of inhibition, and a more than a little interested in the slim, muscular physique now revealed. A drop of sweat slid down one of Sherlock's pects and followed the rounded muscle to a fold in his slim belly.
Suddenly, John looked away, because that last observation led to places that a man's mind should never, ever go in front of a Holmes.
Too late. Mycroft was smiling indulgently and when John glanced back, Sherlock looked indisputably smug.
"Oh, for God's sake, you two!" John blushed. That little strip tease had been deliberate. Were they testing how straight he was? Weren't the girlfriends proof enough?
"Don't be embarrassed," said Mycroft. "We are all friends here. I assure you I don't judge."
Yes, you do, you liar, you do all the time. John opened his mouth, then snapped it shut with a sudden decision. He wasn't volunteering anymore information to this experiment. Not willingly. He was going to imitate a piece of furniture until they grew bored of him and moved onto some other game.
For some reason that seemed to evoke even more approving looks. John steadfastly ignored them.
The room grew quiet, except for a few knowing glances passed back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft, no one "said" anything. The Holmes brothers continued to stare at John. He stared back. When a drop of sweat slid down the inside of his shirt, causing an itch, both their eyes twitched to his chest even before he reached up to rub the feeling out.
"You can take off your shirt, too," suggested Sherlock. "It's far more comfortable."
"Or," suggested Mycroft and left it at that. Sherlock's smile twitched a hair wider. John decided that he didn't need to know what that other option was.
The timer bell went off and John leapt up like a jackrabbit. "The tea!"
With immense relief he turned off the stove and used a spoon to fetch the bags out of the steamy water. He reached for tumblers, found three mismatched ones of about the same volume, and filled them with ice from the freezer.
"How sweet do people like it?" he asked.
"Mycroft likes his very sweet, go ahead and pour half a cup of sugar in. I prefer mine unsweetened." The voice was right behind him, and John jumped a little to see Sherlock had gotten up and was standing less than a foot away. He looked down and saw Sherlock's bare feet on the ground, toes slightly splayed as if he were rocked forward. Looking back up John's eyes froze on Sherlock's naked smooth chest. Oh, boy. John averted his eyes as quickly as he could and tried to douse the sudden warm prickle in his belly.
Being aroused, even slightly, around Sherlock was dangerous. It didn't matter how well your crotch was hidden by clothes and the cabinets, he could ferret the information out-- and was Sherlock sniffing him right now?
"Cheat-ting!" Mycroft called mildly from his seat.
"I haven't glued your buttocks to the cushions," Sherlock called back. "That you choose to handicap yourself out of laziness is hardly my problem."
John poured the tea into the glasses and listened to the ice cubes hiss and snap. After swirling in as much sugar in Mycroft's glass as he thought the tea would hold, he took that drink and his own back into the living room, leaving Sherlock's behind since he could damn well take the extra step and pick it up himself.
The moment John's hands were both occupied, and his back was turned, Sherlock slipped right behind him, reaching around with both hands and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Wait a moment!" said John, he stepped quickly forward, out of Sherlock's grip, and turned suddenly, sloshing tea over both his hands. "What on Earth!"
"I was simply trying to make you more comfortable," said Sherlock, contritely. "Since you were so reluctant to do so yourself."
As though that made it the height of reasonableness.
"Oh, I think I see the problem," said Mycroft. "He's embarrassed because you have company. Listen, I really don't mind at all John. Here, I'll take off my own and then we all three can be shirtless, like a bunch of football fans on game night."
"No, no wait -" said John, "That's…" Mycroft undid the buttons of his shirt with alarming speed and John was stuck holding the drinks in his hands and gaping. It was like watching a circus trick. With utmost precision, Mycroft folded his shirt and laid it primly on the rest of his clothes.
Sherlock always complained about Mycroft being fat, but to John's surprise he wasn't. Overweight, yes, a bit, but hardly more than the average Londoner these days. He had much bigger bones than Sherlock, and a layer of chub that gave him a … for lack of a better word… squeezable softness, but there was some definite muscle definition going on under that layer. He was actually quite handsome … for a man.
"Isn't it annoying," Sherlock said dryly. "He never exercises. He falls off his diet every other day. If he just put a little time in at the gym and showed some minor restraint in his gluttonous appetite he could be very attractive. And yet, despite being only slightly more active than a sloth -"
"--I can still out bench press you," Mycroft smiled. "And by the way, thank you, John. Your regard is quite flattering."
There were so many things John could say to that, excuses, denials, but it was all pointless. Instead John held out Mycroft's tea. "Here."
He went back to sitting on the couch, drinking his tea and wishing that he'd sweetened it a bit more. He waited for them to resume their cryptic conversation. But instead they continued to look at him, not with approval, but with outright expectation. As though he'd promised them something and then forgotten. He looked down and saw his shirt, unbuttoned at the top. When he looked up Mycroft was smiling in his most encouraging way and Sherlock was attempting to bore a hole through him by the power of his stare alone.
"Oh. Very well!" he snapped. He put his own tea down and unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it to the side. "There. We are all shirtless. Happy?"
"Quite," said Sherlock.
"Indeed," said Mycroft.
They didn't high five each other, but John recognized that look of mutual triumph and knew he'd been quite royally had. "Now wait a second. Was this whole thing a trick to get me to go shirtless? Is that your social game? A joke on me?"
"Not at all," said Sherlock.
"Nothing so plebian," agreed Mycroft.
He didn't buy it. Something in John snapped. "Very well, you got me! Congratulations. Game over. I'm going to my room." He stood up, ignored both their protestations, and stomped off.
As he feared, the heat had risen up the narrow stairs like a chimney. John's attic room was nearly unbearably sweltering. Wiping his face on the back of his arm he pulled open the stiff sashes of both his windows to let some of the cooler London air in. Street noises filled the room and with them the mildest of breezes. Part of him longed to hang out the window and cool off (both body and mind) but the decent, upright part of him knew that he would be far too visible from the street.
He did the next best thing, closed and locked his door, doffed his shoes and trousers, and threw himself on the bed in just his pants. He listened for the argument he knew would be erupting down stairs. Strangely, they seemed quiet.
A moment later he heard his door handle rattle. Oh for Christ's sake.
"Don't come in!" he called.
The door opened, despite being locked. He sat up, grabbing the blanket for modesty as Sherlock, still holding his lock picking tools, barged straight in.
"I want to apologize," he said, pacing the length of the room until he reached the windows, then spinning around to plant his back against the wall in what could only be called a flare for the dramatic. "Mycroft and I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. That wasn't the point at all."
Before John could think to answer -- before Sherlock was even finished talking -- Mycroft entered the room as well. John grabbed his blanket and lifted higher.
"Yes," the older Holmes said, on the heels of Sherlock's words. "I do hope I haven't upset you. That wasn't my intention at all. I do care about you John, a good deal, and I hope our game has not led to a low opinion of me."
They both stared expectantly. John looked from one to the other. "OUT OF MY ROOM!" he ordered.
Neither brother budged. "Is it because you are angry with me?" asked Sherlock. "I've turned off the heat, the temperature should return to normal soon."
"No, of course not," said Mycroft answering for John. "It's because he's embarrassed to be caught in his pants."
"No, it's not because you've caught me in my pants, it's because this is my room!. A little privacy? Do you two even know what that means?"
"Oh dear," murmured Mycroft. "Look what you've done Sherlock, you've put him in a sour mood."
"I did?" objected Sherlock. "What makes me more to blame?"
"Look at him, he's exhausted from work, and still recovering from injuries as well, and you had him all over town doing your chores. Do you ever think to give him anything in return? It's no wonder he's short tempered. Look how crooked his spine is! John, be a dear and stand up for me."
John stood up all right, but it wasn't for Mycroft to examine his spine. To show he wasn't embarrassed about the pants thing, either, he let the blanket drop. This was his room, he had every right to be in pants if he chose. He walked straight over to Mycoft and put his finger to the tuft of hair in the middle of his chest.
"O-U-T," he tapped his finger with each letter. It was this or give the man a big shove down the stairs, and with Mycroft's government connections, that would be a rather bad idea.
Mycroft looked down at the offending finger as if it were something he'd never encountered before. "I forgive you your manners," he said. "If I were in as much pain as you, I'd be grouchy, too."
"My manners!"
"Sorry, John," said Sherlock. "Mycroft can be ever so imposing. Doesn't know his personal limits. Of course, it's entirely up to you if you want to remain with an uncomfortably kinked back."
"I -" How did this come to be about his back? "There's nothing at all wrong with my spine!"
In addressing Sherlock, John had turned away from Mycroft. In that moment, Mycroft reached around from behind and hooked his arms under John's armpits. Before John could react, Mycroft applied a violent, twisting, sideways force. His back protested and he feared for a split second that Mycroft was going to break him in half. Then a series of loud pops rang out and he felt an enormous release of pressure.
Mycroft released him. "There, isn't that much better, John?"
John tested his back carefully by stretching. It felt better. Tons better in fact.
"You should have asked," chided Sherlock.
"My mistake," replied Mycroft. "John, I couldn't help but notice that you are badly knotted up with tension. As an apology and perhaps a way to show Sherlock how to better take care of the man who does his shopping, I would like to give you a massage. I assure you, I'm extremely talented at it."
"He is," said Sherlock. "Fantastically so. He would have done the world a big service if he'd become a masseuse instead of getting involved in politics."
"I find the two disciplines are remarkably similar."
John felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. "I…" On one hand he was mad at Mycroft, on the other, his back felt much better. The relief was nearly euphoric. A massage was tempting. On the other, other hand, he didn't trust either Holmes brother right now.
"Lie down on your stomach on the bed," said Mycroft, lacing his hands together and stretching expressively.
"Now hold on!" protested John. "I haven't said 'yes' yet!"
"Oh, don't be such a stereotype," Sherlock groused, leaning backwards and looking over his shoulder out the window. "Let him do his thing. You need it and he'll be insufferable until you do."
"A stereotype?" said John. "Me?"
"Doctors," explained Mycroft. "Always neglecting themselves. It's a control thing, really. After all it's not very God-like to admit weakness. Now up you go. I promise it won't hurt a bit and you will feel much better when I'm finished."
John breathed in a huge breath, held it. Then raised his hands over his head. They weren't going to leave. He might as well go along with whatever it was they wanted. And if he got a nice massage out of it, so much better for him, he supposed.
Mycroft had him lie belly down with his head facing the wall and true to both their words, his hands were magic. It was uncanny how he knew just where to rub, how much pressure, when to press down and when to let up. Very early in, his hands had acquired some oil. John almost thought to ask where, but was too undone by the sheer sensuous pleasure of his touch. He didn't care. Mycroft could do that forever and he'd be absolutely fine.
"Really, Sherlock," said Mycroft, mildly. "You are the one who should be doing this. You use him as your beast of burden; the least you could do is offer a massage when you see him all tightened up from the labour. A bit of quid pro quo for all that he does so thanklessly for you."
"I would have if he'd ever suggested he wanted such a thing," said Sherlock from somewhere near his head.
"Of course, he hasn't. He's far too stoic to admit to wanting anything so intimate. With his type you have to insist before they give in to what they need."
"Very well, I will give him massages as needed," said Sherlock.
John found the idea of Sherlock giving him a massage somewhat disturbing. The only times he'd seen Sherlock getting physical with a body, it had been rather violent and painful looking.
"I…" John started to say, but Mycroft shut him up by rubbing a spot oh, just, so. John forgot his words and went back to melting into the mattress.
Then suddenly there weren't two hands on him but four. Sherlock's hands were more callused. They were also rougher, putting a tiny bit more pressure than was strictly speaking pleasurable.
"Little overeager, there," commented Mycroft.
"You'll never get out the knots if you keep sweet talking the muscles. They yield to force," and the next press hurt. John's hands tightened into fists and he bit back a grunt of pain. The pressure released and John went limp. "See, there, it's been tamed."
"I was getting to that," said Mycroft. "In time."
They worked on his back some more, moving lower. Then, with abrupt suddenness someone, John suspected Mycroft, grabbed the waistband of his pants and tugged them lower. He tightened up. "Hey there!"
"Just getting this spot," said Mycroft, "No need for alarm." He then went on to wipe the protests out of John's mind by getting several muscles that were unbelievably tight.
By this time John was practically high. The massages he'd gotten back at the VA had not only been more perfunctory and a great deal more painful, in the end they were rather disappointing, leaving him in much the same shape as he'd been in before. This was an entirely different animal. John found it difficult to care what the Holmes brothers were doing so long as it continued to feel this good.
In the process of working out John's gluts Mycroft eased the pants down by degrees until they were completely around his thighs. They lay there for about a minute before Sherlock's rougher hands pulled them all the way off. John's mind had gone so far off on vacation it didn't occur to him that he was now naked.
That is not until Mycroft asked him to flip over.
"What?" John asked. "Wait, where did my -"
Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over. John grabbed his crotch out of modesty. "Oh, tut. It's nothing we haven’t seen before," Sherlock assured.
John blinked and looked up at his flatmate. Sherlock had that little look of pleasure on his face that he got when he'd discovered a clue. "Well you haven't seen mine before."
Sherlock walked around Mycroft, reached down, and pulled John's hands away. He stared rather clinically at what he saw. "And now I have. It's not hideously deformed. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Very subtle, Sherlock," chastised Mycroft.
Then Mycroft started working on his chest and John stopped thinking again. Sherlock apparently decided to make up for baring him by working on the nearest hand. John found himself looking over and watching. Sherlock sat by the head of the bed, the hand in his lap, working steadily by feel while looking at John.
"How - ha - how?" John asked. How did we get to this? he couldn't get his thoughts together enough to say.
"Shhh." Sherlock's eyes were steady and green and the way he worked John's hand was mesmerizing not only to his sense of touch, but also to his vision. Sherlock kneaded the palm with his thumbs, drawing it up closer to his face as if he needed to see better, when in fact, he wasn't looking at all. He was watching John, just gazing steadily into his eyes, and there was something kind of breathtaking about it how beautiful his face looked with that expression on it.
Sherlock raised the hand just a bit more and planted a tiny, chaste little kiss on the thumb.
John sniffed in a huge breath. Did that happen? Did that really happen? His blood suddenly felt on fire and for a moment he was too entranced by relaxation and pleasure for his self-preservation to kick in.
Sherlock smiled, a devilish sort of smile, then brought the hand back up and slowly put the thumb in his mouth. And oh there was no mistaking that.
And suddenly John was very tense again, but in a very different way. He shuddered. "W-what?"
What was Sherlock doing? What was he doing with his tongue, so hot, so wet over the pad of his thumb, a slight suck that was far too suggestive, and this was in no way standard practice for a massage.
John's mind reeled. He was drowning. The normal part of him that cared about consequences had been lulled to sleep by the long massage. The part of him that worried about propriety had been stomped out even earlier by the Holmeses repeated trespasses. And that left the decadent id, who was far too interested in this feeling to try and stop it.
He was getting hard.
"Mycroft!" he said, suddenly realizing (how could he have forgotten with those hands, those magical hands) that he and Sherlock weren't alone. Mycroft had to notice. He looked down, in time to seen Mycroft take his hardening cock in his hand, and then after a momentary wolfish grin, place it gently in his mouth.
Oh god. Oh… this was better than the massage. John whimpered and squeezed Sherlock's hand. Mycroft was astonishing. How did he know? How could he possibly know how to do that? How could he know just how slow, how firm, how to do that thing with the tongue? And more over how did he know when to stop? How did he know how to push it just so far, but not over the edge?
Oh god it was two on one and he was utterly helpless. Panic welled up in him. It felt good, so good, so very, very wrong. He writhed, and even that was slower and more luxurious than usual. It was like his body was asleep, lost in the sensations it was receiving.
Sherlock climbed further onto the bed and was holding both his shoulders down. Pinning him. "Shhh," he said. "Let him do this. You want it. We want it."
We thought John. Sherlock was actually helping Mycroft molest him. And then Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, and John's attention was divided between his mouth and his groin in a way that left no room for reason.
John's hands came up, sought and found Sherlock's chest. It was marvelously smooth and hard, like warm. He touched the belly, reveled in it, then his fingers met the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and it all seemed utterly unfair.
Sherlock noticed the resentful look on his face and smiled. He repositioned himself briefly out of John's reach and unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and shrugged his way out of the rest of his clothing. His cock bobbed up. It was hard and rather alarmingly large. Not the biggest he'd ever seen but definitely getting up there. John's mouth watered at the thought of it.
Sherlock grinned and shuffled on his knees into position over John's head, thighs to either side of his face, and then he pressed the tip down until brushed against John's mouth. John opened up and sucked with terrible neediness.
Mycroft, perhaps jealous of the attention he wasn't getting, decided just at that moment to alter the game going on below. John felt his thighs being parted and without Mycroft ever quite letting his cock leave his mouth, he repositioned himself so that one of his hands could slide between the cheeks. A finger, slick with whatever massage oil they'd been using began gently rubbing the ring of his anus. John moaned; lust spiked with terror.
He should protest, he knew. He was straight, or at least he'd always thought he was -- now he was largely confused. He should say something and call this off here before it went further. Give himself time to think and be rational. But did he want it to stop? Would they even let him go at this point?
"Would it be futile?" he asked. It was the longest string of words to come out of his mouth since the massage had begun.
"Entirely," Sherlock replied. "Shhh. Don't think about it."
Fancy Sherlock insisting he not think. And then he couldn't anymore, because Mycroft had breached him, a clever finger finding his prostate with practiced ease. One turned into two. There was an ache that fought with the pleasure Mycroft's mouth. Or perhaps added to it. John was surprised at how quickly Mycroft could get a third finger in him.
"He's ready," Mycroft said, releasing his cock.
Sherlock grabbed his arms and helped him sit up, then shuffled in next to him with a quick kiss. John, feverish with lust, rolled onto his knees and leaned forward, trying recapture that kiss. Sherlock shuffled his way under John's body and hooked his legs over the back of John's thighs, letting him know exactly what he wanted.
Mycroft leaned past John to pour some oil into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock used it quickly to prepare both himself and John.
"Condom!" said John. "We need condoms!"
"We are all clean," said Sherlock.
"We had you tested yesterday," said Mycroft.
They did -- how?. How could they possible have stolen a blood sample from him without his noticing?
Mycroft was urging him forward, pressing and positioning him so that it was not only clear what he should be doing and that hesitation wasn't going to be tolerated. Sherlock guided his cock to the proper spot and then together the brothers pushed him into place.
Oh god. It was tight, but not too tight. It was perfect and John felt curiously helpless even thought he was topping. Mycroft pushed his buttocks firmly, forcing him all the way in. Sherlock simultaneously flexed upwards then wound his hands around his back to hold him in position.
Then he felt a new firmness at his back and he knew exactly what was happening. He couldn't move. Between the two of them, he was completely pinned. His sphincter put up a slight protest, but soon that resistance was gone and Mycroft had seated himself inside John as deeply as John was inside of Sherlock.
They paused just a moment to let John adjust.
Then they moved, slowly, a rocking gentle movement that was sweet and pleasurable and addictive. They moved together with the precision only practice could give. John quickly stopped trying to dictate anything. He was caught between Mycroft's thrusts and Sherlock's flexing, held by their arms. Any deviation was met with unassailable resistance. They took him at an inexorable pace and he knew his pleasure was on their terms, he would come on their schedule.
At least he could do this: He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed his head and held it there so that Sherlock could ravage his mouth far more than he'd originally intended.
Then Mycroft seemed to pick up speed, banging into John as if to demand his attention. John stopped kissing Sherlock and reached back to give his hip an apologetic stroke. But clearly Mycroft had reached some sort of crisis and he didn't slow down. The relentless pressure on his prostate began to hitch John up towards orgasm, but before that could happen, he heard a soft groan near his ear. Mycroft came inside of him.
There was a slight relief when he pulled out, and a slight disappointment that that part was over. John sighed, mourning the loss.
"Don't stop, John." Mycroft used his hand to press him forward. Then, shuffling just a bit to the side, he reached around and began stroking Sherlock. John's eyes widened at the unabashed incest. Sherlock simply looked blissful. "Don't slow down. Ride him, John, take him faster. He's almost there. Don't slow down."
John followed the command thrusting harder and faster, allowed finally to have some control in all this. The pleasure skyrocketed up at the sight of Mycroft jacking Sherlock off. The speed at which that man could move. His hand jerking up and down far faster than John could possibly fuck Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes screwed shut and his mouth twisted and then he gasped out a little cry and erupted in Mycroft's hand.
And that was it for John. That sight, that little sound, the intense pleasure from the fucking. Orgasm hit him like a solid thing. Waves of shock and pleasure overwhelmed him, leaving his mind ragged and satiated and horrified. He couldn't stop the scream.
Finally, what seemed like forever and perhaps quite not long enough, the final spike of orgasm faded. His heart beat terrifically fast and his body started to ache from being stretched and penetrated and chafed and bruised - there were bruises on his arms, he saw. Testament of how much force the two had used and just how full of endorphins he'd been not to feel them being made. He was holding Sherlock's hips, his glutes burning from the exercise of thrusting. And suddenly it all seemed very real to him.
Sherlock looked at up at him with an expression of insufferable smugness, and John knew if he turned around Mycroft's expression would be much the same.
He'd been had. He'd been beyond had. He'd been utterly taken.
John struggled free of Sherlock's grip, rolling onto his back, his side pressed against the wall. It was almost a surprise that they let him.
"You lied," he said looking over at Mycroft who was relaxing at the foot of his bed looking, as expected, utterly satisfied with himself. "You said you wouldn't eat me. You said that this was a game where you'd just observe and compare notes. Rubbish. This was about getting me, a straight man, to sleep with the two of you. You bastards double teamed me."
"And you had the best orgasm of your life," said Mycroft.
He had. Goddamn it.
"And I think you overestimate your straightness," murmured Sherlock. "Those kisses you gave me didn't seem that forced." That was true as well.
John thought he might cry. It was all too much. Too unexpected. He'd gone down a road he'd never even considered and now there was no way back. And it was a game. Nothing but a goddamn social game for these two.
"Are you happy? Did you get the data you wanted? Did you figure out what takes me completely apart? Because you have. I'm undone. I don't know what to even think about it."
"Then don't think about it," said Mycroft, reaching out a hand to caress his thigh. "You did fantastically."
"Which of you won?" asked John, jabbing into that emotional wound with utter masochism. "You, Sherlock, because I kissed you and proved I'm not totally straight? Or you, Mycroft, because I not only let you top me, I loved it?"
"We all did," said Sherlock reaching over to grab his hand. "It's a cooperative game, not a competitive one. The name of the game is seduction. We seduced you. You succumbed to our seduction, and we all had an absolutely fantastic fuck. I have no idea why you are so angry about it now."
John laughed; there was a trace of hysteria in it. "Seduction? Was that your idea of seduction? 'John, let me apologize for my utterly outrageous behavior by giving you a good solid rogering', 'John, you aren't hideously deformed, fuck me?'"
They were gathering him up between them again, suddenly he wasn't against the wall anymore, Sherlock had rolled him into an embrace. And then Mycroft had fitted himself at his back and rolled him back that way. Kissing his face, petting his hair. Attempting to sooth his rage with physical touch.
He leaned over and kissed Mycroft with force and enthusiasm, trying to own Mycroft's mouth as much as Mycroft had owned his entire soul. It's the least the man could give him.
"You both are total bastards, you know," he said breaking away. "That was beyond unfair, you cruel son's of bitches. It's just a game for you. One you aren't planning on repeating - you can't. What would be the point, I'm on to you. Cat's out of the bag."
"The game is over," said Mycroft, petting his face gently. "That's true. But this isn't. The ice has been broken. I, for one, fully intend on having you again. Many, many times."
The spring inside John's belly broke. He let out a gusty sigh that turned into a laugh. Why did he feel so relieved at those words? He was crazy. Absolutely mad.
John realized with a start that he'd been grieving, not because the two of them had shamelessly manipulated him out of his clothes and more virginities than he really cared to think of at that moment. He'd been grieving because he didn't think it would happen again. And how could it? Where was the fun in conquering the already conquered.
Mycroft's words rang back in his mind. An exercise, experiment suggests that the result would be in doubt. His seduction hadn't even been considered much of a challenge in the first place.
"There would be no point in treating this as a game," said Sherlock. "But that doesn't mean we can't have sex again, John. In fact I want it. I've wanted it for along time."
"Then why didn't you ask for it?" John asked. "Why did you wait until Mycroft came along and turned this whole thing into a 'let's tag-team John' party."
Mycroft sighed. "It's my fault I suppose. When Sherlock was sixteen, emancipated, and naturally hormonal, he asked if he could join me and my current lover, as he found no success finding lovers of his own. Out of pity, I allowed him. And we played the seduction game for the first time. The result was so enjoyable for both of us that it became something of a habit. Lately, with Sherlock so estranged, its one of the few ways left that we still bond."
"Then he only has sex…"
"In threesomes, with me. I'm sure a psychologist would have a lot to say about that. Though I tried to teach him, Sherlock never did learn to approach lovers on his own."
"Why bother. You always provided," Sherlock murmured with a shrug.
"Until I held out. Because Sherlock wanted you, John, but he didn't want to share you. Thankfully Sherlock was able to overcome his possessive jealousy when I suggested I might seduce you by myself and leave him out."
"So," said John, feeling out the situation. "This is going to happen again. Me between the two of you. Just like that."
"Oh," said Mycroft. "We might mix it up a bit. I do enjoy passive sodomy a great deal."
"Of course you do," muttered Sherlock. "Because you are lazy and like to lie on your back."
"-- I only let Sherlock have that position because he tends to be a rather energetic top and for your maiden voyage it seemed prudent to leave you in gentler hands."
"You are both simply awful," murmured John, and he thought about what it might feel like to fuck Mycroft and run his hands over the older man's body. He wondered what it would be like to be taken by Sherlock. His body shuddered.
"You know," said Mycroft. "I did clear my schedule completely today."
"I'm not tired," said Sherlock.
"Oh god," said John. But he didn't say no.
Pairing: Mycroft/John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Utterly shameless manipulation, dub-con, and as should be obvious from the pairing, incest.
Word Count: 7700 words
A/N: Written for this prompt on The BBC Sherlock Kinkmeme: Sibling bickering, rivalry, jealousy, and John getting double teamed.
John trudged up the stairs after work with Sherlock's dry cleaning draped over one arm, a plastic grocery sack strangling his other wrist and wondered how the hell his life had come to this.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the groceries were actually dinner, or at least something that could be turned into a snack, but no, they were odd things like two different types of flea powder, laundry starch, and eight separate tins of shoe polish. In his wallet was Sherlock's debit card. Around his wrist was a watch that Sherlock had given him, to replace the one that fell into the Thames last month. On his back was the jumper that Sherlock bought him after his favorite was ruined with blood. Little bribes, little impositions. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
When did I become Sherlock's wife? he thought to himself.
Resigned he reached the landing and opened the door.
Honey, "I'm home," he called out, then turned around to close the door behind him. His mind was full of all the things in his arms and where the hell he should put all this crap and the realization that the flat was a lot warmer than was customary. In other words, he wasn't really paying attention.
"Yes, I can see," said Sherlock.
"Good afternoon, John," said Mycroft.
Oh… boy. John froze, back to the living room. He pressed his lips together and let his head fall gently forward until his brow touched the door. Was he up for being in the middle of one of their fights today? No. Not really.
"Oh, did you catch that implied bit, Sherlock?" said Mycroft. "How sweet."
"As I said, he's well prepared," Sherlock murmured back with a trace of satisfaction.
Mycroft let out a little laugh of glee. "I'm really looking forward to this. I haven't been this eager in quite a long time, actually."
"Glad to oblige," Sherlock replied in a dry way that suggested that he was anything but.
It was like code, the way they talked. Their minds moved so fast that they needed only to allude at things for the other to catch on. They rarely thought to dumb it down so that he had a clue what was going on. Which wouldn't have been so bad if they didn't both insist that he join these oblique conversations, as though his opinion in some way mattered to either of them.
John sighed, lifted his head off the door, and decided the sane course of action was to ignore them. He hung up his coat and put Sherlock's Tesco sack on the kitchen table. He hesitated a moment with the dry cleaning, then decided that he really didn't want to be seen by Mycroft hanging clothes in Sherlock's closet. Instead he left the bag draped over one of the kitchen chairs.
By that time he was sweating. He hooked a finger under the collar of his jumper. "Why is the heat turned up so high?" he asked, interrupting the chatter.
Both turned to look at him.
Dear. God. Normally neither brother bothered with more than a second or two of eye contact. Which was a relief, because both could garner more information in a momentary glance than most people could in an hour's stare. Anything beyond the most fluttery appraisal constituted a virtual interrogation. They were both interrogating him now.
"It's an experiment," said Sherlock.
"More like an exercise," Mycroft quibbled. "Experiment suggests that the result would be in doubt."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Ah," said John. "I see." Actually, perhaps the sane thing to do would be to get the hell out of there until they were through with whatever it was they were doing. At least it would be more comfortable. "Well, I'm - going to Tesco's," he said abruptly.
"You've just been," said Sherlock.
"I forgot something."
"No, you haven't," countered Mycroft, with a smug smile. "Please stay. I don't like to feel I've put you out of your own home."
There was something about the way Mycoft asked for things that made it really, really hard to say no. Perhaps it was the way his voice went so buttery, or the gentle way his eyes seemed to take you in and plead, or maybe the sincerity of his tone, the reasonableness of his words. John didn't know, but he got the distinct feeling that walking out the door after such a request would be the height of rudeness.
"Okay. But may I please turn down the heat a bit?"
"Take off you jumper," suggested Sherlock. "No need to be formal around us." Sherlock opened his shirt all the way and left his bare, pale chest exposed. John tried his best not to gape at the uncharacteristic behavior.
"Indeed, we are all family," said Mycroft. And to prove it, he then began rolling his shirt sleeves up. For the first time John noticed Mycroft's jacket, waistcoat folded carefully across an end table. His tie draped across the two almost artfully. It struck John that this is the most undressed he'd ever seen Mycroft.
"Alright," John pulled his jumper up and shrugged his way out of it. As he pulled his arms out of the sleeves he looked up and noticed that both the Holmeses were studying him as though his every movement were the most fascinating thing they'd ever seen.
"What?" he barked.
"Ah," murmured Mycroft with appreciation. "Indeed. That method."
Sherlock had an odd smile about his lips. "I think it's a sure bet."
"No seriously," said John. "What? You two are looking at me like I'm stripping for your entertainment." They were, too. That was the kicker. He looked down at his very unsexy work shirt and tried to imagine what it was that the two could possibly find so interesting.
The two looked at each other with barely suppressed smiles.
"Very well," said John a bit huffily. "I'm going up to my room now."
"No, do stay and visit," said Sherlock immediately. "Please. Don't leave me alone with Mycroft." Sherlock rarely said please. Those eyes of his seemed to speak reams. God, but Sherlock could act when it pleased him. In his own way, Sherlock was just as difficult to say no to as his brother. More so, really.
John sighed with resignation. "I don't suppose the two of you want tea."
"Perhaps iced?" suggested Mycroft, as though this was the most delightful suggestion ever. "If you know how to make it."
"Thank you," said Sherlock.
"Yes, I know." John sighed and went to the kitchen. Soon he had a pot at full boil. He tossed two bags into the water and set the timer for four minutes, then wiped his brow on a dish cloth. The discussion had continued behind his back devolving, per usual, into something of an argument.
"I'm having doubts," said Sherlock.
"Don't be selfish. And don't look so petulant either."
"I just fail to see why we need to alter our arrangement. It's worked just fine in the past with you being the sole provider."
"Out of charity, but now you are simply holding out. You know I've had my eye on this one for months. You owe me."
"You have your eye on everyone, Mycroft."
"And now you're being obtuse," Mycroft tutted. "In any case we've already begun, it's rather untimely to try and renege."
Somehow, who knows how, they both seemed to realize he was paying attention to them. He could feel their eyes on his back and felt uncomfortably like he was in the scope of snipers. His hair prickled up on the back of his neck and he fought the urge to duck down behind the table.
"John," called Sherlock, warmly. "Why don't you come back to the sofa, the tea will take a few minutes."
Sweat trickled down John's back.
"Doesn't he seem hot?" remarked Mycroft. "Oh dear, please do open your shirt. Trust that I won't be scandalized a bit."
John tightened his lips, took a deep soothing breath through his nose, then turned around and faced them with a patently false smile. They were both watching him, Sherlock curiously, Mycroft with mild amusement.
"Why is the heat up so high?"
"It's a ritual," said Sherlock, very deliberately turning away from him to stare at some random thing in the room.
"A bit of a bonding thing we two have," agreed Mycroft, turning that amused look on his brother.
John frowned. "What, you mean like one of those Native American sweat lodge things or something."
Sherlock looked vague but Mycroft leaped on it. "Very much so." Then to Sherlock: "Quite perceptive this one."
Sherlock grunted.
"It's a little thing we came up with, almost 20 years ago, isn't that right?"
"17 years," said Sherlock, "Don't exaggerate."
"Sherlock was having a bit of difficulty adjusting to Oxford, what with being sixteen and all. As an act of benevolence - on the school, not Sherlock - I removed him from the dorms and found the two of us a quite pleasant flat to share. It wasn't all that different from the arrangement you two have."
John nodded. This was actually interesting. Sherlock treated his past like some huge embarrassment and rarely mentioned it. What little John knew of it came from Mycroft's occasional reminiscing.
"Well, you know my brother," Mycroft went on. "He doesn't look it, but he's terribly needy. Social skills of an ox."
Sherlock shot him daggers with his eyes.
"In any case, we developed a few fun little activities to pass the time and become closer. Mostly games of the intellectual sort, Sherlock really has no equal outside of myself, nor I outside of him. But a few were of a more social nature, including the little game we have going right now."
Sherlock's eyes widened. Clear warning there.
"Social game?" John asked.
"It's a guessing game. It requires a guest. Sherlock and I observe this person, and we come to our conclusions, then share them. Whoever is closest, wins."
Sherlock's lip tweaked up on one side, but John only barely noticed. The sudden intense scrutiny made sense.
"Ah," he said nodding. "And that's why you need me. You are going to guess about me. Well it seems Sherlock should have a clear advantage. I mean, we do live together."
"Oh, but see he's never posed the right questions," said Mycroft.
"What do I need to do," asked John.
"Nothing," said Sherlock. "Just be yourself."
"We are simply passively observing right now," Mycroft agreed blithely.
Something seemed a bit off. "Won't telling me what you are doing spoil your data?" John asked. The reaction from both of them was instantaneous and baffling.
"See!" said Mycroft to Sherlock, his eyes going wide with delight. "Lovely!"
"I won't deny its part of his appeal," admitted Sherlock, actually grinning for once.
John covered his face with his hand. He had no idea what he'd just done that so won their approval. Was it what he'd said? Was it what he didn't say? Something else entirely, like body language. Smell? He felt the burn of frustration grow in his belly. This was why he hated getting between Sherlock and his brother. Exactly this.
"Well I don't suppose it occurred to either one of you to ask if I wanted to be part of this experiment - exercise. Whatever it is."
"Do you object?" asked Mycroft. John didn't believe for a moment he was nearly as surprised as his voice suggested. "I admit it was a bit of a presumption on our part, but seeing as you are always so willing to participate in Sherlock's adventures, this seemed not outside of your comfort zone. I know you enjoy Sherlock's company and I do hope that I'm not unpleasant to be around."
Unpleasant - no. Utterly terrifying, yes.
"I won't eat you," Mycroft reassured him with an expression that suggested he'd love to do just that.
John considered. While it was creepy being examined, it really wasn't actually all that unusual with this lot. Mycroft and Sherlock were constantly sizing him up; Mycroft through his stalkerish obsession with the CCTV system, Sherlock simply because that was his schtick, nothing personal. This "game" sounded like nothing more than a more overt version of their ordinary behavior.
And now both of them were boring their gazes into him, clearly willing him to say "yes" and cooperate. John wavered. It was beyond good manners, but on the other hand, neither meant him any harm. His will crumbled.
"Oh, very well," he said, a little more bitterly than he intended.
Sherlock suddenly stood up and tossed off his shirt completely. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin. "That's better," he mentioned as he stretched and sat back down. John felt momentarily envious of his lack of inhibition, and a more than a little interested in the slim, muscular physique now revealed. A drop of sweat slid down one of Sherlock's pects and followed the rounded muscle to a fold in his slim belly.
Suddenly, John looked away, because that last observation led to places that a man's mind should never, ever go in front of a Holmes.
Too late. Mycroft was smiling indulgently and when John glanced back, Sherlock looked indisputably smug.
"Oh, for God's sake, you two!" John blushed. That little strip tease had been deliberate. Were they testing how straight he was? Weren't the girlfriends proof enough?
"Don't be embarrassed," said Mycroft. "We are all friends here. I assure you I don't judge."
Yes, you do, you liar, you do all the time. John opened his mouth, then snapped it shut with a sudden decision. He wasn't volunteering anymore information to this experiment. Not willingly. He was going to imitate a piece of furniture until they grew bored of him and moved onto some other game.
For some reason that seemed to evoke even more approving looks. John steadfastly ignored them.
The room grew quiet, except for a few knowing glances passed back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft, no one "said" anything. The Holmes brothers continued to stare at John. He stared back. When a drop of sweat slid down the inside of his shirt, causing an itch, both their eyes twitched to his chest even before he reached up to rub the feeling out.
"You can take off your shirt, too," suggested Sherlock. "It's far more comfortable."
"Or," suggested Mycroft and left it at that. Sherlock's smile twitched a hair wider. John decided that he didn't need to know what that other option was.
The timer bell went off and John leapt up like a jackrabbit. "The tea!"
With immense relief he turned off the stove and used a spoon to fetch the bags out of the steamy water. He reached for tumblers, found three mismatched ones of about the same volume, and filled them with ice from the freezer.
"How sweet do people like it?" he asked.
"Mycroft likes his very sweet, go ahead and pour half a cup of sugar in. I prefer mine unsweetened." The voice was right behind him, and John jumped a little to see Sherlock had gotten up and was standing less than a foot away. He looked down and saw Sherlock's bare feet on the ground, toes slightly splayed as if he were rocked forward. Looking back up John's eyes froze on Sherlock's naked smooth chest. Oh, boy. John averted his eyes as quickly as he could and tried to douse the sudden warm prickle in his belly.
Being aroused, even slightly, around Sherlock was dangerous. It didn't matter how well your crotch was hidden by clothes and the cabinets, he could ferret the information out-- and was Sherlock sniffing him right now?
"Cheat-ting!" Mycroft called mildly from his seat.
"I haven't glued your buttocks to the cushions," Sherlock called back. "That you choose to handicap yourself out of laziness is hardly my problem."
John poured the tea into the glasses and listened to the ice cubes hiss and snap. After swirling in as much sugar in Mycroft's glass as he thought the tea would hold, he took that drink and his own back into the living room, leaving Sherlock's behind since he could damn well take the extra step and pick it up himself.
The moment John's hands were both occupied, and his back was turned, Sherlock slipped right behind him, reaching around with both hands and began unbuttoning his shirt.
"Wait a moment!" said John, he stepped quickly forward, out of Sherlock's grip, and turned suddenly, sloshing tea over both his hands. "What on Earth!"
"I was simply trying to make you more comfortable," said Sherlock, contritely. "Since you were so reluctant to do so yourself."
As though that made it the height of reasonableness.
"Oh, I think I see the problem," said Mycroft. "He's embarrassed because you have company. Listen, I really don't mind at all John. Here, I'll take off my own and then we all three can be shirtless, like a bunch of football fans on game night."
"No, no wait -" said John, "That's…" Mycroft undid the buttons of his shirt with alarming speed and John was stuck holding the drinks in his hands and gaping. It was like watching a circus trick. With utmost precision, Mycroft folded his shirt and laid it primly on the rest of his clothes.
Sherlock always complained about Mycroft being fat, but to John's surprise he wasn't. Overweight, yes, a bit, but hardly more than the average Londoner these days. He had much bigger bones than Sherlock, and a layer of chub that gave him a … for lack of a better word… squeezable softness, but there was some definite muscle definition going on under that layer. He was actually quite handsome … for a man.
"Isn't it annoying," Sherlock said dryly. "He never exercises. He falls off his diet every other day. If he just put a little time in at the gym and showed some minor restraint in his gluttonous appetite he could be very attractive. And yet, despite being only slightly more active than a sloth -"
"--I can still out bench press you," Mycroft smiled. "And by the way, thank you, John. Your regard is quite flattering."
There were so many things John could say to that, excuses, denials, but it was all pointless. Instead John held out Mycroft's tea. "Here."
He went back to sitting on the couch, drinking his tea and wishing that he'd sweetened it a bit more. He waited for them to resume their cryptic conversation. But instead they continued to look at him, not with approval, but with outright expectation. As though he'd promised them something and then forgotten. He looked down and saw his shirt, unbuttoned at the top. When he looked up Mycroft was smiling in his most encouraging way and Sherlock was attempting to bore a hole through him by the power of his stare alone.
"Oh. Very well!" he snapped. He put his own tea down and unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it to the side. "There. We are all shirtless. Happy?"
"Quite," said Sherlock.
"Indeed," said Mycroft.
They didn't high five each other, but John recognized that look of mutual triumph and knew he'd been quite royally had. "Now wait a second. Was this whole thing a trick to get me to go shirtless? Is that your social game? A joke on me?"
"Not at all," said Sherlock.
"Nothing so plebian," agreed Mycroft.
He didn't buy it. Something in John snapped. "Very well, you got me! Congratulations. Game over. I'm going to my room." He stood up, ignored both their protestations, and stomped off.
As he feared, the heat had risen up the narrow stairs like a chimney. John's attic room was nearly unbearably sweltering. Wiping his face on the back of his arm he pulled open the stiff sashes of both his windows to let some of the cooler London air in. Street noises filled the room and with them the mildest of breezes. Part of him longed to hang out the window and cool off (both body and mind) but the decent, upright part of him knew that he would be far too visible from the street.
He did the next best thing, closed and locked his door, doffed his shoes and trousers, and threw himself on the bed in just his pants. He listened for the argument he knew would be erupting down stairs. Strangely, they seemed quiet.
A moment later he heard his door handle rattle. Oh for Christ's sake.
"Don't come in!" he called.
The door opened, despite being locked. He sat up, grabbing the blanket for modesty as Sherlock, still holding his lock picking tools, barged straight in.
"I want to apologize," he said, pacing the length of the room until he reached the windows, then spinning around to plant his back against the wall in what could only be called a flare for the dramatic. "Mycroft and I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. That wasn't the point at all."
Before John could think to answer -- before Sherlock was even finished talking -- Mycroft entered the room as well. John grabbed his blanket and lifted higher.
"Yes," the older Holmes said, on the heels of Sherlock's words. "I do hope I haven't upset you. That wasn't my intention at all. I do care about you John, a good deal, and I hope our game has not led to a low opinion of me."
They both stared expectantly. John looked from one to the other. "OUT OF MY ROOM!" he ordered.
Neither brother budged. "Is it because you are angry with me?" asked Sherlock. "I've turned off the heat, the temperature should return to normal soon."
"No, of course not," said Mycroft answering for John. "It's because he's embarrassed to be caught in his pants."
"No, it's not because you've caught me in my pants, it's because this is my room!. A little privacy? Do you two even know what that means?"
"Oh dear," murmured Mycroft. "Look what you've done Sherlock, you've put him in a sour mood."
"I did?" objected Sherlock. "What makes me more to blame?"
"Look at him, he's exhausted from work, and still recovering from injuries as well, and you had him all over town doing your chores. Do you ever think to give him anything in return? It's no wonder he's short tempered. Look how crooked his spine is! John, be a dear and stand up for me."
John stood up all right, but it wasn't for Mycroft to examine his spine. To show he wasn't embarrassed about the pants thing, either, he let the blanket drop. This was his room, he had every right to be in pants if he chose. He walked straight over to Mycoft and put his finger to the tuft of hair in the middle of his chest.
"O-U-T," he tapped his finger with each letter. It was this or give the man a big shove down the stairs, and with Mycroft's government connections, that would be a rather bad idea.
Mycroft looked down at the offending finger as if it were something he'd never encountered before. "I forgive you your manners," he said. "If I were in as much pain as you, I'd be grouchy, too."
"My manners!"
"Sorry, John," said Sherlock. "Mycroft can be ever so imposing. Doesn't know his personal limits. Of course, it's entirely up to you if you want to remain with an uncomfortably kinked back."
"I -" How did this come to be about his back? "There's nothing at all wrong with my spine!"
In addressing Sherlock, John had turned away from Mycroft. In that moment, Mycroft reached around from behind and hooked his arms under John's armpits. Before John could react, Mycroft applied a violent, twisting, sideways force. His back protested and he feared for a split second that Mycroft was going to break him in half. Then a series of loud pops rang out and he felt an enormous release of pressure.
Mycroft released him. "There, isn't that much better, John?"
John tested his back carefully by stretching. It felt better. Tons better in fact.
"You should have asked," chided Sherlock.
"My mistake," replied Mycroft. "John, I couldn't help but notice that you are badly knotted up with tension. As an apology and perhaps a way to show Sherlock how to better take care of the man who does his shopping, I would like to give you a massage. I assure you, I'm extremely talented at it."
"He is," said Sherlock. "Fantastically so. He would have done the world a big service if he'd become a masseuse instead of getting involved in politics."
"I find the two disciplines are remarkably similar."
John felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. "I…" On one hand he was mad at Mycroft, on the other, his back felt much better. The relief was nearly euphoric. A massage was tempting. On the other, other hand, he didn't trust either Holmes brother right now.
"Lie down on your stomach on the bed," said Mycroft, lacing his hands together and stretching expressively.
"Now hold on!" protested John. "I haven't said 'yes' yet!"
"Oh, don't be such a stereotype," Sherlock groused, leaning backwards and looking over his shoulder out the window. "Let him do his thing. You need it and he'll be insufferable until you do."
"A stereotype?" said John. "Me?"
"Doctors," explained Mycroft. "Always neglecting themselves. It's a control thing, really. After all it's not very God-like to admit weakness. Now up you go. I promise it won't hurt a bit and you will feel much better when I'm finished."
John breathed in a huge breath, held it. Then raised his hands over his head. They weren't going to leave. He might as well go along with whatever it was they wanted. And if he got a nice massage out of it, so much better for him, he supposed.
Mycroft had him lie belly down with his head facing the wall and true to both their words, his hands were magic. It was uncanny how he knew just where to rub, how much pressure, when to press down and when to let up. Very early in, his hands had acquired some oil. John almost thought to ask where, but was too undone by the sheer sensuous pleasure of his touch. He didn't care. Mycroft could do that forever and he'd be absolutely fine.
"Really, Sherlock," said Mycroft, mildly. "You are the one who should be doing this. You use him as your beast of burden; the least you could do is offer a massage when you see him all tightened up from the labour. A bit of quid pro quo for all that he does so thanklessly for you."
"I would have if he'd ever suggested he wanted such a thing," said Sherlock from somewhere near his head.
"Of course, he hasn't. He's far too stoic to admit to wanting anything so intimate. With his type you have to insist before they give in to what they need."
"Very well, I will give him massages as needed," said Sherlock.
John found the idea of Sherlock giving him a massage somewhat disturbing. The only times he'd seen Sherlock getting physical with a body, it had been rather violent and painful looking.
"I…" John started to say, but Mycroft shut him up by rubbing a spot oh, just, so. John forgot his words and went back to melting into the mattress.
Then suddenly there weren't two hands on him but four. Sherlock's hands were more callused. They were also rougher, putting a tiny bit more pressure than was strictly speaking pleasurable.
"Little overeager, there," commented Mycroft.
"You'll never get out the knots if you keep sweet talking the muscles. They yield to force," and the next press hurt. John's hands tightened into fists and he bit back a grunt of pain. The pressure released and John went limp. "See, there, it's been tamed."
"I was getting to that," said Mycroft. "In time."
They worked on his back some more, moving lower. Then, with abrupt suddenness someone, John suspected Mycroft, grabbed the waistband of his pants and tugged them lower. He tightened up. "Hey there!"
"Just getting this spot," said Mycroft, "No need for alarm." He then went on to wipe the protests out of John's mind by getting several muscles that were unbelievably tight.
By this time John was practically high. The massages he'd gotten back at the VA had not only been more perfunctory and a great deal more painful, in the end they were rather disappointing, leaving him in much the same shape as he'd been in before. This was an entirely different animal. John found it difficult to care what the Holmes brothers were doing so long as it continued to feel this good.
In the process of working out John's gluts Mycroft eased the pants down by degrees until they were completely around his thighs. They lay there for about a minute before Sherlock's rougher hands pulled them all the way off. John's mind had gone so far off on vacation it didn't occur to him that he was now naked.
That is not until Mycroft asked him to flip over.
"What?" John asked. "Wait, where did my -"
Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over. John grabbed his crotch out of modesty. "Oh, tut. It's nothing we haven’t seen before," Sherlock assured.
John blinked and looked up at his flatmate. Sherlock had that little look of pleasure on his face that he got when he'd discovered a clue. "Well you haven't seen mine before."
Sherlock walked around Mycroft, reached down, and pulled John's hands away. He stared rather clinically at what he saw. "And now I have. It's not hideously deformed. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Very subtle, Sherlock," chastised Mycroft.
Then Mycroft started working on his chest and John stopped thinking again. Sherlock apparently decided to make up for baring him by working on the nearest hand. John found himself looking over and watching. Sherlock sat by the head of the bed, the hand in his lap, working steadily by feel while looking at John.
"How - ha - how?" John asked. How did we get to this? he couldn't get his thoughts together enough to say.
"Shhh." Sherlock's eyes were steady and green and the way he worked John's hand was mesmerizing not only to his sense of touch, but also to his vision. Sherlock kneaded the palm with his thumbs, drawing it up closer to his face as if he needed to see better, when in fact, he wasn't looking at all. He was watching John, just gazing steadily into his eyes, and there was something kind of breathtaking about it how beautiful his face looked with that expression on it.
Sherlock raised the hand just a bit more and planted a tiny, chaste little kiss on the thumb.
John sniffed in a huge breath. Did that happen? Did that really happen? His blood suddenly felt on fire and for a moment he was too entranced by relaxation and pleasure for his self-preservation to kick in.
Sherlock smiled, a devilish sort of smile, then brought the hand back up and slowly put the thumb in his mouth. And oh there was no mistaking that.
And suddenly John was very tense again, but in a very different way. He shuddered. "W-what?"
What was Sherlock doing? What was he doing with his tongue, so hot, so wet over the pad of his thumb, a slight suck that was far too suggestive, and this was in no way standard practice for a massage.
John's mind reeled. He was drowning. The normal part of him that cared about consequences had been lulled to sleep by the long massage. The part of him that worried about propriety had been stomped out even earlier by the Holmeses repeated trespasses. And that left the decadent id, who was far too interested in this feeling to try and stop it.
He was getting hard.
"Mycroft!" he said, suddenly realizing (how could he have forgotten with those hands, those magical hands) that he and Sherlock weren't alone. Mycroft had to notice. He looked down, in time to seen Mycroft take his hardening cock in his hand, and then after a momentary wolfish grin, place it gently in his mouth.
Oh god. Oh… this was better than the massage. John whimpered and squeezed Sherlock's hand. Mycroft was astonishing. How did he know? How could he possibly know how to do that? How could he know just how slow, how firm, how to do that thing with the tongue? And more over how did he know when to stop? How did he know how to push it just so far, but not over the edge?
Oh god it was two on one and he was utterly helpless. Panic welled up in him. It felt good, so good, so very, very wrong. He writhed, and even that was slower and more luxurious than usual. It was like his body was asleep, lost in the sensations it was receiving.
Sherlock climbed further onto the bed and was holding both his shoulders down. Pinning him. "Shhh," he said. "Let him do this. You want it. We want it."
We thought John. Sherlock was actually helping Mycroft molest him. And then Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, and John's attention was divided between his mouth and his groin in a way that left no room for reason.
John's hands came up, sought and found Sherlock's chest. It was marvelously smooth and hard, like warm. He touched the belly, reveled in it, then his fingers met the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and it all seemed utterly unfair.
Sherlock noticed the resentful look on his face and smiled. He repositioned himself briefly out of John's reach and unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and shrugged his way out of the rest of his clothing. His cock bobbed up. It was hard and rather alarmingly large. Not the biggest he'd ever seen but definitely getting up there. John's mouth watered at the thought of it.
Sherlock grinned and shuffled on his knees into position over John's head, thighs to either side of his face, and then he pressed the tip down until brushed against John's mouth. John opened up and sucked with terrible neediness.
Mycroft, perhaps jealous of the attention he wasn't getting, decided just at that moment to alter the game going on below. John felt his thighs being parted and without Mycroft ever quite letting his cock leave his mouth, he repositioned himself so that one of his hands could slide between the cheeks. A finger, slick with whatever massage oil they'd been using began gently rubbing the ring of his anus. John moaned; lust spiked with terror.
He should protest, he knew. He was straight, or at least he'd always thought he was -- now he was largely confused. He should say something and call this off here before it went further. Give himself time to think and be rational. But did he want it to stop? Would they even let him go at this point?
"Would it be futile?" he asked. It was the longest string of words to come out of his mouth since the massage had begun.
"Entirely," Sherlock replied. "Shhh. Don't think about it."
Fancy Sherlock insisting he not think. And then he couldn't anymore, because Mycroft had breached him, a clever finger finding his prostate with practiced ease. One turned into two. There was an ache that fought with the pleasure Mycroft's mouth. Or perhaps added to it. John was surprised at how quickly Mycroft could get a third finger in him.
"He's ready," Mycroft said, releasing his cock.
Sherlock grabbed his arms and helped him sit up, then shuffled in next to him with a quick kiss. John, feverish with lust, rolled onto his knees and leaned forward, trying recapture that kiss. Sherlock shuffled his way under John's body and hooked his legs over the back of John's thighs, letting him know exactly what he wanted.
Mycroft leaned past John to pour some oil into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock used it quickly to prepare both himself and John.
"Condom!" said John. "We need condoms!"
"We are all clean," said Sherlock.
"We had you tested yesterday," said Mycroft.
They did -- how?. How could they possible have stolen a blood sample from him without his noticing?
Mycroft was urging him forward, pressing and positioning him so that it was not only clear what he should be doing and that hesitation wasn't going to be tolerated. Sherlock guided his cock to the proper spot and then together the brothers pushed him into place.
Oh god. It was tight, but not too tight. It was perfect and John felt curiously helpless even thought he was topping. Mycroft pushed his buttocks firmly, forcing him all the way in. Sherlock simultaneously flexed upwards then wound his hands around his back to hold him in position.
Then he felt a new firmness at his back and he knew exactly what was happening. He couldn't move. Between the two of them, he was completely pinned. His sphincter put up a slight protest, but soon that resistance was gone and Mycroft had seated himself inside John as deeply as John was inside of Sherlock.
They paused just a moment to let John adjust.
Then they moved, slowly, a rocking gentle movement that was sweet and pleasurable and addictive. They moved together with the precision only practice could give. John quickly stopped trying to dictate anything. He was caught between Mycroft's thrusts and Sherlock's flexing, held by their arms. Any deviation was met with unassailable resistance. They took him at an inexorable pace and he knew his pleasure was on their terms, he would come on their schedule.
At least he could do this: He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed his head and held it there so that Sherlock could ravage his mouth far more than he'd originally intended.
Then Mycroft seemed to pick up speed, banging into John as if to demand his attention. John stopped kissing Sherlock and reached back to give his hip an apologetic stroke. But clearly Mycroft had reached some sort of crisis and he didn't slow down. The relentless pressure on his prostate began to hitch John up towards orgasm, but before that could happen, he heard a soft groan near his ear. Mycroft came inside of him.
There was a slight relief when he pulled out, and a slight disappointment that that part was over. John sighed, mourning the loss.
"Don't stop, John." Mycroft used his hand to press him forward. Then, shuffling just a bit to the side, he reached around and began stroking Sherlock. John's eyes widened at the unabashed incest. Sherlock simply looked blissful. "Don't slow down. Ride him, John, take him faster. He's almost there. Don't slow down."
John followed the command thrusting harder and faster, allowed finally to have some control in all this. The pleasure skyrocketed up at the sight of Mycroft jacking Sherlock off. The speed at which that man could move. His hand jerking up and down far faster than John could possibly fuck Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes screwed shut and his mouth twisted and then he gasped out a little cry and erupted in Mycroft's hand.
And that was it for John. That sight, that little sound, the intense pleasure from the fucking. Orgasm hit him like a solid thing. Waves of shock and pleasure overwhelmed him, leaving his mind ragged and satiated and horrified. He couldn't stop the scream.
Finally, what seemed like forever and perhaps quite not long enough, the final spike of orgasm faded. His heart beat terrifically fast and his body started to ache from being stretched and penetrated and chafed and bruised - there were bruises on his arms, he saw. Testament of how much force the two had used and just how full of endorphins he'd been not to feel them being made. He was holding Sherlock's hips, his glutes burning from the exercise of thrusting. And suddenly it all seemed very real to him.
Sherlock looked at up at him with an expression of insufferable smugness, and John knew if he turned around Mycroft's expression would be much the same.
He'd been had. He'd been beyond had. He'd been utterly taken.
John struggled free of Sherlock's grip, rolling onto his back, his side pressed against the wall. It was almost a surprise that they let him.
"You lied," he said looking over at Mycroft who was relaxing at the foot of his bed looking, as expected, utterly satisfied with himself. "You said you wouldn't eat me. You said that this was a game where you'd just observe and compare notes. Rubbish. This was about getting me, a straight man, to sleep with the two of you. You bastards double teamed me."
"And you had the best orgasm of your life," said Mycroft.
He had. Goddamn it.
"And I think you overestimate your straightness," murmured Sherlock. "Those kisses you gave me didn't seem that forced." That was true as well.
John thought he might cry. It was all too much. Too unexpected. He'd gone down a road he'd never even considered and now there was no way back. And it was a game. Nothing but a goddamn social game for these two.
"Are you happy? Did you get the data you wanted? Did you figure out what takes me completely apart? Because you have. I'm undone. I don't know what to even think about it."
"Then don't think about it," said Mycroft, reaching out a hand to caress his thigh. "You did fantastically."
"Which of you won?" asked John, jabbing into that emotional wound with utter masochism. "You, Sherlock, because I kissed you and proved I'm not totally straight? Or you, Mycroft, because I not only let you top me, I loved it?"
"We all did," said Sherlock reaching over to grab his hand. "It's a cooperative game, not a competitive one. The name of the game is seduction. We seduced you. You succumbed to our seduction, and we all had an absolutely fantastic fuck. I have no idea why you are so angry about it now."
John laughed; there was a trace of hysteria in it. "Seduction? Was that your idea of seduction? 'John, let me apologize for my utterly outrageous behavior by giving you a good solid rogering', 'John, you aren't hideously deformed, fuck me?'"
They were gathering him up between them again, suddenly he wasn't against the wall anymore, Sherlock had rolled him into an embrace. And then Mycroft had fitted himself at his back and rolled him back that way. Kissing his face, petting his hair. Attempting to sooth his rage with physical touch.
He leaned over and kissed Mycroft with force and enthusiasm, trying to own Mycroft's mouth as much as Mycroft had owned his entire soul. It's the least the man could give him.
"You both are total bastards, you know," he said breaking away. "That was beyond unfair, you cruel son's of bitches. It's just a game for you. One you aren't planning on repeating - you can't. What would be the point, I'm on to you. Cat's out of the bag."
"The game is over," said Mycroft, petting his face gently. "That's true. But this isn't. The ice has been broken. I, for one, fully intend on having you again. Many, many times."
The spring inside John's belly broke. He let out a gusty sigh that turned into a laugh. Why did he feel so relieved at those words? He was crazy. Absolutely mad.
John realized with a start that he'd been grieving, not because the two of them had shamelessly manipulated him out of his clothes and more virginities than he really cared to think of at that moment. He'd been grieving because he didn't think it would happen again. And how could it? Where was the fun in conquering the already conquered.
Mycroft's words rang back in his mind. An exercise, experiment suggests that the result would be in doubt. His seduction hadn't even been considered much of a challenge in the first place.
"There would be no point in treating this as a game," said Sherlock. "But that doesn't mean we can't have sex again, John. In fact I want it. I've wanted it for along time."
"Then why didn't you ask for it?" John asked. "Why did you wait until Mycroft came along and turned this whole thing into a 'let's tag-team John' party."
Mycroft sighed. "It's my fault I suppose. When Sherlock was sixteen, emancipated, and naturally hormonal, he asked if he could join me and my current lover, as he found no success finding lovers of his own. Out of pity, I allowed him. And we played the seduction game for the first time. The result was so enjoyable for both of us that it became something of a habit. Lately, with Sherlock so estranged, its one of the few ways left that we still bond."
"Then he only has sex…"
"In threesomes, with me. I'm sure a psychologist would have a lot to say about that. Though I tried to teach him, Sherlock never did learn to approach lovers on his own."
"Why bother. You always provided," Sherlock murmured with a shrug.
"Until I held out. Because Sherlock wanted you, John, but he didn't want to share you. Thankfully Sherlock was able to overcome his possessive jealousy when I suggested I might seduce you by myself and leave him out."
"So," said John, feeling out the situation. "This is going to happen again. Me between the two of you. Just like that."
"Oh," said Mycroft. "We might mix it up a bit. I do enjoy passive sodomy a great deal."
"Of course you do," muttered Sherlock. "Because you are lazy and like to lie on your back."
"-- I only let Sherlock have that position because he tends to be a rather energetic top and for your maiden voyage it seemed prudent to leave you in gentler hands."
"You are both simply awful," murmured John, and he thought about what it might feel like to fuck Mycroft and run his hands over the older man's body. He wondered what it would be like to be taken by Sherlock. His body shuddered.
"You know," said Mycroft. "I did clear my schedule completely today."
"I'm not tired," said Sherlock.
"Oh god," said John. But he didn't say no.